Page 118 of Carrick
“I can’t. Not yet.”
Her head turned sharply.
“Why?”
“Because we don’t know where he is. And if I call while he’s on the move, or while he’s near someone or something that can trace that signal?—”
“You said it couldn’t be traced.”
“I saidIcouldn’t be traced. That phone? That depends onhim.On how careful he is. On whether he followed every instruction I gave him. On whether he’s not already panicking and using a gas station charger in a public lot.”
She shook her head, eyes sharp with something between fear and defiance. “You’re afraid we’ve already lost him. You think he’s dead.”
It wasn’t an accusation—but the panic in her voice, the quiet dread threading through each syllable, nearly broke me. She was naming the thing I hadn’t wanted to say aloud. The thing I didn’t dare speak into the room.
“No.”
“But you think he could be.”
I didn’t answer.
Because anything I said would either be a lie—or worse, a hollow comfort she’d see through instantly.
She turned to face me fully then, her eyes glassy but hard, defiant in their shine. Her voice dropped low, barely more than a breath. “I made him a promise.”
Her arms crossed tighter, hands gripping her elbows like she was trying to hold the memory in place.
“I was eight the first time I lost him. And I swore—on my life—I’d never let that happen again. I told him I’d always find him. That I’d always be there.”
I closed my eyes. Because she wasn’t just remembering. She was pleading.
“I can’t do it again, Carrick,” she whispered. “I can’t lose him without knowing. Without at least trying.”
When I looked at her, it wasn’t the tears that wrecked me—it was everything she refused to let fall. The fire in her chest wasn’t just fear. It was love. The brutal kind. The kind that makes you claw through hell, bleeding and blind, just for a chance to hold on.
“You know I know what that feels like,” I said quietly. “To not be enough. To be the one people give up on. You know more about that than anyone else in this house. You don’t forget that kind of abandonment. And you don’t ever want to be the one who delivers it.”
Her mouth parted, breath catching.
“I get what you’re trying to do,” I said softly, keeping my voice level. “You want to keep the promise. You want to know he’s breathing. But if we call him now, and he’s somewhere unsafe... we could be the reason he stops breathing.”
Her eyes burned into mine. “I’d rather risk it than wait here in silence.”
“You don’t mean that,” I countered, not unkindly—just the quiet truth.
Her chin trembled, and her voice cracked like glass under pressure. “Don’t tell me what I mean.”
I took a step forward, slow and careful, until I was close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin—anger and anguish braided together like a fuse about to blow. Her whole body was tense, vibrating with the effort it took to stay calm.
“I’m not trying to hurt you, Bell,” I said, my voice low. “I’m trying to protect you. And him.”
Her expression twisted, raw and sharp.
“You think I don’t want to protect him?” Her hands curled into fists at her sides, knuckles white. “You think I haven’tbeenprotecting him?” Her voice cracked—familiar, raw, and deeper than the anger.
“I’ve been the only one looking out for him since I waseight. Since the system ripped him away and called it a clerical error. Since I was old enough to read court documents I wasn’t supposed to see… Since I tracked down the first foster parent who backhanded him across the face and didn’t think anyonewould give a damn, and taught them what happens when a kid in the system gets big enough to fight back.”
The words hit me hard. I flinched—not because she accused me, but because she didn’t. She was yelling, but notatme. Her voice had become a vessel for something bigger, something older. She was shouting at the world. At the system that never once showed up when it counted. At every invisible scar the past had carved into her. At the fear that had camped out inside her chest for years and made a home there.
