Page 5 of Blackwood

After bedtime, with Mr. Piggles tucked under my arm, I hear them outside on the back patio.

“You didn’t eat much,” Daddy says softly.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Mama whispers.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

“Something’s not right, Henry. The fatigue. The chest pain. I feel like I’m slipping. Like I’m here, but barely. Like I’m screaming underwater, but no one can hear me.”

Daddy’s voice shakes. “You’re just tired. That’s all.”

“What if I’m not here when she needs me? What if he finds her and I’m not strong enough to stop it? What if I’ve already failed her?”

“I don’t care what it takes,” Daddy says, voice low and lethal. “Hospitals, specialists, even goddamn voodoo. I’ll chase everymiracle this world has to offer. I’ll knock on the devil’s door if I must and make his ass listen.”

His voice cracks. “And him? That bastard doesn’t get near her. Not now. Not ever. I don’t care if I have to burn every system to the ground. You and Bella are my whole life, Elise. My breath. My purpose. If the universe wants a fight—”

He leans closer.

“I’ll give it one it’ll never fucking forget.”

“Henry,” Mama whispers. “Watch your mouth.”

He exhales. “Sorry, baby.”

Chapter 3

BELLA – Age 10

Fayetteville, Arkansas

The autumn dance recital is a few days away. My name is printed in glitter on the program, right next toSoloist.That should mean everything. But it doesn’t, not right now.

Rehearsals are supposed to be my world. All full of music, laughter, and counting to eight. But I keep turning toward the door mid-spin, hoping I’ll see Mama watching. Hoping she’ll clap and call me her little star. Half-hoping. Half-dreading what it means when she isn’t here.

Deep down, I know it. Mama is fading.

The mornings are quieter. No more humming over pancakes. No more playful spins between the fridge and the sink. She still smiles. Still kisses my forehead. Still packs lunches with sticky notes that say things like,Keep your heart in the music, Sugar Bear.Her hugs are longer now, almost like she’s afraid to let me go.

“Want me to braid it for you tonight?” she asked softly the other night.

I nodded and sat between her knees, just like I had a hundred times before. Her fingers moved through my hair slower than usual. She paused halfway through.

“Mama?” I asked.

“I’m okay, sweetheart,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

But she wasn’t okay.

She isn’t okay.

Daddy has stopped stomping around in his work boots like the floor might shatter beneath him. Aunt Claire and Uncle Jack show up without calling, their smiles tight. They are over all the time now. It’s like they’re trying to hold the world together with good intentions and fraying hope.

And one night, through the wall of my bedroom, I heard Mama cry. Not loud. Not the kind you let someone hear. The kind that leaks out quiet and raw. The kind you try to keep hidden, but can’t.

The day I found clumps of her hair in the bathroom trash, something inside me shattered. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to. I just crawled into bed with her and curled up close, wrapping my fingers around hers like I could somehow hold her in place.

We fell asleep like that.