Page 7 of Blackwood

“I don’t need calm, Claire. I need fucking answers! What am I supposed to tell Bella?”

Their voices echo down the hallway tangled with grief, panic, and rage. I stay curled beside Mama. And even though her hand still moves through my hair, even though I’m still holding on, I can’t stop the tears from falling.

Chapter 4

BELLA – Age 10

Fayetteville, Arkansas

The church smells like wax and lilies and sadness. I sit in the front pew in a satin black dress, a black bow tied in my long onyx hair. Mr. Piggles is tucked inside my backpack, the zipper barely closed around his fuzzy red snout.

Mama’s photo sits framed on the altar. She looks so alive in it. Her eyes bright, hair soft, and smile like sunlight. But that woman isn’t here anymore. That woman won’t be singing in the car or twirling in the kitchen.

That woman is gone.

People say a lot of nice things. That she was kind. Brave. The kind of person who lit up every room.

I don’t care about the rooms she lit up. I just want her back in mine. I want her humming in the kitchen. Her warm hands in my hair. Her whispers saying everything will be okay, even if it wasn’t. I want her laugh. I want her.

Not the memory.

Not the stupid photo in the gold frame.

Her.

Daddy holds my hand the whole time, never letting go. Even when the music starts. Even when the casket rolls down theaisle. I look up and see his face, stone-set, eyes rimmed in red, but dry. No tears. Just pain.

We drive to the cemetery in silence. Just the low hum of tires and the lump in my throat I can’t seem to swallow.

Mama’s casket rests beneath a white tent. The roses from the church already wilting and curling at the edges like they know she isn’t coming back. I hate those flowers.

The sun hangs low, creating long shadows across the grass. A breeze brushes my dress. It’s cool against my legs, but I barely feel it.

My fingers clutch Mr. Piggles. I’d taken him out on the drive. I don’t care if anyone thinks I am too old. I need him.

Aunt Claire stands behind me, her hand warm and steady on my shoulder. I don’t turn. I can’t. If I met her eyes, I’ll shatter into pieces too sharp and too wide to ever fix again.

Daddy stands at the head of the grave like a soldier. Stiff. Still. Fists so tight I think his skin might split. His eyes are locked on the casket, like if he stares hard enough, he can undo it all.

When the pastor finishes, Daddy steps forward and lays a single white lily across the coffin. It looks lonely on the dark wood. His favorite, not hers. Maybe because he couldn’t stand the thought of giving her something she loved when she wasn’t here to love it back.

Then comes the sound. The first thud of dirt hitting wood. Then another. And another. Each one a drumbeat inside my chest. Not rhythmic, or gentle, just cruel.

Aunt Claire whispers a prayer, but her voice feels far away, lost beneath the roaring ache in my ears.

Uncle Jack’s hand slides over mine, his palm warm and steady. When a tear slips down my cheek, he brushes it away with his thumb before I can.

The pastor keeps saying that she’s at peace now. That Mama isn’t hurting anymore. But how can it be peaceful if I’m not with her? If she’s not with me?

I want to scream. To jump in and pull the dirt back out with my hands until Mama can breathe again.

But I don’t. I stand there, quiet and small, while they bury the only person who’s ever truly seen me.

Then a chill scrapes down my spine. Not the wind. Something worse. Heavier. Like a shadow slipping under my skin.

A shadow moves where shadows shouldn’t. At the edge of the cemetery, half-hidden by trees, a black SUV idles. No plates. Tinted windows. Silent. Still. Watching.

“Daddy,” I whisper, tugging his sleeve. “Who’s that?”