Page 104 of Absolution

“Please be safe, Dad,” Iris whispers.

“Always,” I say, kissing the top of her head.

I stand up and pull Mom into a hug. “You two gonna be okay?”

She exhales. “We’ll behave.”

“Good,” I say, kissing her forehead.

At the door, instead of his usual passive-aggressive huff, my father holds up a set of keys. They dangle in the air.

“I rented a vehicle this morning,” he says. “Because of the weather. It’ll be safer than your car.”

I take the keys without a word, too stunned to argue. Downstairs, I press the fob and the headlights blink, a silver Ford Expedition, sturdy and high enough to handle waterlogged roads.

I slide in, adjust the seat, and before heading toward Kerrville, I make one stop.

At the nearest supply store, I grab every case of bottled water I can carry. Then thermal blankets. Raincoats. Flashlights. Umbrellas. Protein bars. A huge first aid kit. I don’t glance at the total. I just swipe my card.

An employee, barely sixteen, helps me load the back of the SUV. He squints at me through the downpour.

“You heading to the flooded area?”

I nod, checking the tarp over the supplies.

“They said a lot of people got washed away,” he says.

“I know.”

His voice is quiet. “I hope you find who you're looking for.”

I meet his eyes for a second. “Me too, buddy,” I say. “Me too.”

Then I shut the door and drive off into the rain.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Kyle

By the time I pull into the gravel lot outside the Kerr County Community Hall, the sky is still grey but the worst of the rain has let up. The parking area’s a mess with mud puddles, deep tire ruts, and cars caked in dirt halfway up the doors.

I park and grab my raincoat from the passenger seat, pulling it on as I step into the wind. The building is bigger than I expected, flat-roofed and square, with a long wheelchair ramp curling around one side. A hand-painted banner hangs above the entrance: ‘Emergency Operations Hub.’

Inside, the air smells like wet wood and strong coffee. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The main hall is a flurry of motion, volunteers and first responders everywhere, talking in clipped voices, hunched over phones or maps. There’s a hum of tension in the air, like everyone’s waiting for the next call.

Cots line the far wall. A few people, evacuees, probably sit wrapped in blankets, kids curled against their sides. Toward the centre of the room, folding tables are crowded with laptops, walkie-talkies, chargers. Handwritten signs hang from the ceiling: Medical, Rescue Assignments, Donations Intake, Missing Persons.

I walk up to a table marked Coordination, where a man in a soaked fire department jacket is talking into a radio.

“Hi,” I say. My voice comes out rough. “I’m looking for someone. Jackie Greyson. She was staying near Echo Reach, near the river.”

The man glances up, eyes tired. “You family?”

“She’s my wife.” I hesitate. “My ex-wife. I have our kids.”

He nods and sets the radio down. “You’re not the first one looking for someone in that area. What’s the exact location?”

I pull out my phone and hand over the address Monica Pine texted me. He reads it, then whistles softly.

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