Page 53 of When the Storm Breaks
Her voice is barely a whisper. “I was trying to fix it.”
“Why do you do that?” I ask, quieter now. “Why do you feel like you have to fix everything yourself?”
She shrinks back into her seat, fingers picking at the seams of hersleeves.
“I just needed help getting home.”
Her voice is quieter now. Almost apologetic.
But I need more.
I lean in a little closer.
“Why were you all the way out here? Alone?” The frustration claws out of my throat. “For how long, Calla? Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
She hesitates, eyes darting away, refusing to meet mine.
Everything in her is wound so damn tight. Her whole body is stiff, like she’s holding herself together by the sheer force of will.
I see it—the way she’s fighting the urge to pull away, to retreat into herself, to shut me out completely. And the fact that she’s trying so hard to deflect only makes it worse.
I know I’m pushing her.
But I can’t stop.
My voice drops low. Stern.
“I swear, I’ll leave this car parked here all night if you don’t tell me why I had to drive thirty minutes out of town to come get you.”
I lift my hand and cup her face, my thumb brushing the edge of her jaw as I tilt her toward me.
“What. Were. You. Doing?”
She opens her mouth to speak, but the words catch in her throat.
She swallows hard, blinking too fast—like she’s trying to push them back down.
But they rip free.
“My best friend is dead.”
She spits it out, voice ragged, like forcing the words into the airphysically hurts her. It probably does.
A long exhale leaves my chest. My mind’s already moving a mile a minute.
“That was her boyfriend’s house,” she continues.
A dry laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. Unbelievable. A dozen worst-case scenarios flash through my head, each one worse than the last.
But before I can say a word, she’s already shaking her head.
“No.” Her voice is bolder now, more certain. “They didn’t have a good relationship.” The words come out fast, like she’s afraid if she doesn’t get them out, they’ll disappear. “I was… worried, I guess. Not looking into him. But I stopped by recently, and he was just… weird.”
I watch her, waiting, knowing there’s more she hasn’t said yet. She’s holding back—I can feel it. But I wait, letting her give me whatever she’s ready to hand over.
To my surprise, she keeps going.
“I wanted to come back when he wasn’t there…” Her voice sinks so low I barely catch it. She tips her head back against the seat, eyes lifting to the ceiling like she’s trying to find the right words—or maybe the strength to say them. “I think he might have something to do with it.”
