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If the man who’d pulled that trigger ...
If the man who’d kissed me like I was a fire he wanted to burn in ...
If he was staring at a cold jail cell right now thinking about me, too.
God help me.
I hoped he was.
Two hours later, I stood outside the Mount Pleasant Police Department with my arms crossed and my Bible pressed tight to my chest like a shield. The shock blanket was long gone, traded for a denim jacket that still smelled like lavender dryer sheets. I hadn’t even brushed my hair again, just pulled it back in a low knot, damp and messy.
It was just past midnight.
The parking lot was quiet, save for the low hum of fluorescents and the occasional shuffle of someone leaving the station. Inside, I could see the front desk through the glass doors, and beyond that, a hallway I didn’t want to walk down alone.
Then I saw headlights cut through the dark.
A familiar gray Ford pulled into the lot and rolled to a slow stop. My daddy—Jamie Calhoun—stepped out wearing his Sunday suit, even though it was Friday night and well past decent hours. He always wore a suit when he thought someone needed reminding he was a man of God.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just crossed the space between us in three long strides and wrapped me in a firm hug. His hand cupped the back of my head, holding me like I was still five years old and scared of the thunder.
“I’m okay,” I whispered into his chest, but it didn’t sound convincing.
He stepped back, his sharp blue eyes sweeping over me like he was checking for damage the EMTs might’ve missed. Eyes just like mine. “You ready to go in?”
I nodded. “They’re expecting me.”
He held the door for me, and we walked into the station together. A young officer behind the desk recognized me and stood. “Miss Calhoun. Right this way.”
Daddy stayed close as they led us through a corridor and into a small conference room. A deputy I didn’t know sat behind a laptop, and Deputy Mendez leaned against the wall with a manila folder in her hands.
“Miss Calhoun,” she said gently. “We appreciate you coming.”
I sat. Daddy stood behind me, arms crossed, jaw tight. I could feel his judgment, his fear, his protection—all of it pressing down like the weight of a sermon you weren’t ready to hear.
“Just tell us what happened, in your own words,” the other deputy prompted.
So, I did.
I told them about the commotion at the door. The way the man broke in. The screaming. The children. The women. The gun.
How he shoved me into the courtyard.
How he cornered us all.
How he would’ve killed someone—I was certain of it.
And then I told them about the shot. Not just what happened, but what I saw in that moment. The angry man’s rage. His unpredictability.
“He wasn’t going to stop,” I said. “Not unless someone stopped him first.”
The deputy typed something, but Mendez didn’t move. Just watched me closely.
I kept going, voice trembling at the edges but louder now. “You don’t understand. I saw the look in his eyes. He wasn’t bluffing. He was going to kill someone. His wife. Maybe their child. Maybe all of us.”
“And the shooter?” the deputy asked.
I hesitated. “I heard Deputy Mendez call him Dane. I don’t know if that’s his first name or last. But he saved us. I don’t care what his record says. I don’t care if he’s not police or military or anything in between. What I know is, if he hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”