Page 29 of Absolution (Infidelty #3)

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.

“Yeah, that ridge took a hit. Wasn’t fully evacuated before the waters rose. We had boats out there at dawn. Can’t guarantee anything yet, but we’ve been pulling people in all day. Sit tight. I’ll get someone to check if she’s come through here.”

I nod stiffly, and start to turn away, then stop.

Sitting around won’t help.

I cross the room to the ‘Volunteer Check-In’ sign, where a woman with a clipboard directs me to a table near the back. A guy in a reflective vest and sweat-soaked shirt is bent over paperwork. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a day.

“We’ve got more than enough people in the field,”

he says when I ask if I can help.

“What we really need is support here. Families are still calling in, looking for people. Half the evacuees came in without ID. We don’t even know who we have.”

I straighten.

“What do you need me to do?”

He grabs a notebook from the table and hands it to me. There are barely a dozen names scribbled on it.

“We’re trying to build a master list. Everyone in this shelter, we need names, any info they’ve given. Start with this. Once you’ve added the rest, I need someone to get on the radio and pass the list to the centre up in Fredericksburg. They're tracking medical intakes.”

I take the notebook, flipping through the pages, already thinking about how I’ll organize it. I glance over my shoulder, families huddled in blankets, kids holding onto stuffed animals, people sitting by themselves, eyes vacant.

They’re waiting to be claimed.

“Got it,” I say.

He nods, grateful.

“Good man. Thank you.”

I pull a pen from the table and head for the first cot. It’s not how I thought today would go. But it’s something.

I move from cot to cot, notebook in hand.

Some give their names quietly, like they’re still in shock. Whole families huddled together, parents with kids wrapped in donated blankets. A few seniors nod politely and spell out their last names, adding where they were rescued from. I jot it all down.

Then come the kids. A pair of siblings, maybe seven and ten, sitting side by side on a mat near the corner. No adults with them. The older one says her name is Leila, and that her grandma was with them but didn’t make it to the truck. I write it down, careful with the spelling.

A boy no older than five clutches a soaked teddy bear. He doesn’t talk, just stares past me. A volunteer leans in and tells me they found him alone on the side of the road near Junction. No name. I scribbl.

“Unknown minor, male, approx. age 5, found near Junction.”

Each line I write feels heavier than the last.

Some people ask if I’ve seen their loved ones. I shake my head, gently. Tell them the names are being passed to other shelters, that they’ll contact us if anyone matches. I wish I could offer more.

By the time I finish the room, the page is full. I walk back to the man in the vest and hand it over.

“Good,”

he says, flipping through it.

“Now let’s get it over the radio.”

And just like that, I’m back on my feet again. Not just waiting. Doing something. Anything.

We head to the back where a portable radio sits on a fold-up table beside an open binder of frequency codes. He points to the right channel and I sit down, list in hand, reading the names one by one. On the other end, a voice repeats each name back and confirms if there’s a match in their centre. Most are no. A few ge.

“possible matches, stand by.”

I jot those down in the margin, just in case.

When I’m done, I return the notebook to the man in the vest, Doug, I learn later and ask what else they need. He hands me a plastic bin filled with basic first aid.

“See who needs something. Blisters, cuts, meds. Be gentle, but ask.”

So, I do. I wrap someone’s swollen ankle. Fetch water for an elderly woman who can’t stand. Hold a flashlight while a volunteer checks on a kid’s breathing. It’s chaotic in small, quiet ways. Nobody’s screaming. But the exhaustion is thick in the air.

Around midnight, I make my way to the landline by the admin desk. The volunteer there looks up and nods.

“We’re letting people call out if it’s important. Try to keep it under two minutes.”

I nod, dialling home from memory. My mom picks up. Relief floods her voice when she hears mine.

“I’m fine,”

I say.

“Still no word. But I’m safe, and I’m helping out here. How are the kids?”

“They’re okay,”

she says.

“Scared, but holding on. Iris kept asking when you’ll call.”

“Tell her I’ll call again in the morning. As soon as I know anything.”

I hang up, shoulders slumping. Back to work.

I sort donated supplies next. Organize what little we have, including what I brought. There’s only a few blankets, flashlights, and other stuff left. Every now and then, someone comes through the door, dripping and cold. I stop what I’m doing and write down their name, where they were rescued from, who they’re looking for.

Each time the door opens, my heart leaps. Each time, it’s not her.

But I keep going. Moving. Helping. Because doing nothing would destroy me.

By 6 a.m., I’m running on coffee, adrenaline, and prayer. The list of unaccounted names grows longer. So does the ache behind my eyes. But I don’t stop. I can’t.

Then Doug finds me. His hand lands heavy on my shoulder. My stomach knots before he even says a word.

“Can we talk?”

he says, voice low.

We step out into the corridor, away from the cots and crying and noise. He looks down at the paper in his hands before he speaks.

“The address you gave… the cabin?”

I nod, jaw clenched.

“It was destroyed. Completely. Parts of it were found washed half a mile downstream. They recovered a body.”

He hesitates.

“Male. No sign of anyone else. Not yet.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Doug’s called away by someone shouting his name, but I don’t move. I stay there in the dark, my back against the wall. I slide down until I’m sitting on the cold tile, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.

She’s gone.

I had finally accepted she’d never be mine again. That she had chosen someone else. I thought that was the worst of it.

But this?

I never expected this.

The sob that escapes my throat is silent, strangled. I bite down hard, trying to keep it in, but it tears out of me anyway. I press my fist to my mouth, trying to keep from falling apart.

She can’t be gone. Not like this.

Wiping my tears with the back of my hand, I force myself to stand. Get back to work. That’s all I can do.

They found Charlie.

If she’d been there, really been there, she would’ve been with him. So maybe… maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she saw the storm rolling in and left. Maybe she tried to call, maybe she’s trying right now and just can’t get through. That has to be it. She’s out there, waiting for a signal. Waiting for help.

I throw myself back into the work. Collecting names. Cross-checking updates coming in from other centres. I make coffee for the volunteers, pass out blankets to the shivering ones who just came in. I do anything, everything, to keep my hands busy and my mind from spiralling.

I don’t let myself sit down.

Because if I stop, even for a second, I’ll have to think. I’ll have to call my kids and tell them I don’t know where their mother is. I’ll have to say the words I’m not ready to speak.

So, I keep moving.

I’m carrying in a couple cartons from the back room when Doug steps into my path.

“Hey, I’ll take that,”

he says gently, reaching for the boxes.

“We’ve got a few more evacuees. Why don’t you go sign them in?”

Before I can walk off, his hand lands on my shoulder, solid and steady.

“Don’t lose hope.”

I nod, giving a small smile that doesn’t quite reach, and walk toward the front hall where the new group is being led inside.

They look shaken. Mud-streaked. Exhausted. A man in a soaked baseball cap carries a little girl wrapped in someone’s coat. Another woman clutches a plastic bag against her chest like it’s the only thing she owns.

No one speaks as I step forward, pen in hand. I swallow hard and meet their eyes, one by one.

“Let’s get you all signed in.”

And I do, one by one until…

“And your name?”

I say, my voice scratchy from hours of use.

There’s a pause. Silence.

And when I look up…

The pen slips from my fingers and clatters to the table. I hunch over, my shoulders shaking before I even realize what’s happening.

Then I’m moving. Around the table. Across the floor.

And suddenly, I’m holding her. This tiny, soaked woman with trembling lips and red-rimmed eyes.

I crush her against me. I don’t care who’s watching.

My breath stutters as the tears come fast and hard. I bury my face in her neck.

“God,”

I whisper, again and again.

“Thank you, God.”