Page 51 of Salvation (Rising From the Ashes #3)

Campbell

I t’s two in the morning, and I’m trying to keep my eyes open as I drive through town, patrolling.

My coffee has long since worn off, and there’s nowhere open at this time of night for me to grab another one.

Needing to find somewhere to pull over, I turn left onto Main Street and roll my window down to let in the cool air.

The breeze washes over my skin, and I take a deep breath, dragging it into my lungs.

There was a time when I hated working shifts like this because my mind was always at its darkest during the middle of the night, but the darkness doesn’t weigh so heavily anymore.

After my setback, I went to my doctor, and we discussed changing my medicine.

Taking it is still something I’m coming to terms with, but it doesn’t make me feel ashamed like it once did.

The sound of my tires on the pavement is soothing as I drive.

Passing by the old train depot, I notice that the graffiti has been cleaned up, barely leaving any remnants behind.

The artwork really had been beautiful, but beautiful or not, I’ve always stood on the side of the law.

Leaving it behind, I continue down the road, planning to park in front of the coffee shop for the rest of the night so when it opens in the morning, I can be the first customer through their doors.

I slow down, wanting to get a look at the progress on Ivy’s mural. When the side of the community building comes into view, my heart drops. Slamming on my brakes, I stare at a black heart ripped in two, painted in graffiti across all the progress Ivy has made.

My limbs shake as I put my car in park and step out, devastated for Ivy and all the work she has put in.

Slowly, I step toward the destroyed mural, running my hands over the paint.

It’s still tacky, but dry enough that whoever did it was here several hours ago.

My mind goes to the suspicion I had for the last graffiti Hayes and I found.

Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I pull up Willow’s name and send her a text, praying I’m wrong because if I’m right, she won’t be the only one who is hurt by this.

Every time Ivy and I are together, she mentions working on the painting with Willow. This will devastate her.

Campbell: Hey—were you painting tonight?

Despite the time, I send the text and wait for her response. When it doesn’t come, I swipe to see her location, finding her safe at home, but apprehension still sits in my gut. I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right.

“All units be advised. There have been reports of a suspicious car parked on Elm Street.”

My thumb drums against the side of my leg as I decide whether to take the call or let someone else pick it up, but when there’s still no response from Willow, I make the choice to take it, hoping maybe the call will lead me to answers that don’t involve my daughter.

Pressing the button on the radio that’s clipped to my vest, I respond to dispatch. “I’ll take the call, Rita. I’m on Main Street, so it isn’t far.”

Without waiting for a response, I jog to my car, flipping on my lights but leaving the siren off. Like all the drives in Benton Falls, it takes less than five minutes to get to Elm Street, and when I do, I immediately spy the car that was called in.

It’s a red sports car, parked far enough off the shoulder that it isn’t in the road, but none of that’s what makes it suspicious. It’s the fogged-up windows that are throwing the red flags.

Rubbing above my eyelid, I open my door and step out, annoyance thrumming beneath my skin because I already know what I’m about to walk into before I even knock on the front window.

Someone curses from inside, but the windows are too dark for me to see in.

A few seconds pass before the window is rolled down, and I’m hit with the smell of weed so thick that it’s suffocating even outside of the car.

I have to wait for the smoke to clear before I can tell who’s inside, but when it does, my stomach drops for the second time tonight.

“Yo, man,” Cameron, Willow’s boyfriend, says, his eyes glossy from his high. “We were just making out. We aren’t doing anything wrong.”

A shadowy figure moves on the passenger side, and pure rage blinds my vision. I grab the handle of the door, slinging it open.

That’s my daughter in there.

“Step out of the car, sir,” I grind out from between my teeth.

My hands are shaking, and I have to shove them beneath my vest to prevent myself from reaching in and pulling the punk out myself because nothing good happens between two teenagers at two in the morning.

“Fine, dude. Just chill,” Cameron says, stepping out with a dopey look on his face. The passenger side door opens, too, and I look up, expecting to see Willow—but it’s not honey colored eyes I’m met with. Instead, they are blue.

Relief washes over me first, and then the anger returns.

“Where is my daughter?” I demand. I’m pushing the boundaries of professionalism, but my apprehension about Willow from earlier keeps growing. Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones.

“Your daughter?” Cameron squints like he’s trying to place who I am, and then his eyes widen in understanding. He snaps his finger and points at me. “Oh, you’re the dad Willow didn’t know about. Aren’t you?”

“Who’s Willow?” the girl asks from the other side of the car.

Cameron waves his hand as if her question is irrelevant. “She’s just a girl.”

“Just a girl?” My voice shakes. I’m barely holding on to my constraint.

With a huff, the kid amends his statement. “Fine. She’s my ex-girlfriend. Better?”

He addresses his question to me, but it’s not. Nothing is better, not until I find Willow. “Since when?”

He winces, and my eye twitches. “Since tonight.”

I grind my teeth together so hard I’m surprised they don’t chip, but losing my head will do nothing to help Willow. “I’m going to ask you this one more time. Where is my daughter?”

Cameron rolls his eyes, clearly unaware of how dangerously close he is to being pummeled. “Dude, you really need to chill.”

Grabbing the front of his shirt, I get in his face so he can see the danger lurking in my eyes. “And you really need to answer the question.”

His eyes go wide, understanding finally soaking in through his high.

“I–I don’t know. She said she wanted to paint tonight, and I was down because I thought I might get—” I cut him off with a hard glare, shutting him up before he can finish that sentence.

He swallows, his eyes darting to the girl for help, but she’s still standing on the other side of the car, watching with her mouth hanging open.

When he realizes she isn’t going to save him, he turns back to me and finishes his story.

“She snuck out of her parents’ house, and I picked her up.

She left her cellphone behind because she didn’t want them tracking her, and then we drove to that painting she’s been working on.

She painted, and I watched. When she was done, I drove us to the bridge, hoping to—uh—talk?

Yeah, so we could talk,” he says more confidently the second time, even though I know he’s lying through his teeth.

“What bridge?” I ask, my voice icy.

“The–uh—the one just south of here. It’s a good place to—talk.”

“Wait, you were at Miller Bridge with another girl tonight? Is that how you got to my house so fast?” The girl screeches, but we both ignore her. She huffs, getting back in the car and slamming the door.

“Get to the point where you break up,” I demand, losing my patience by the second.

“Fine, but, dude, it wasn’t my fault. Willow was sad—she’s always sad—and it was really killing my buzz, you know? So we fought. Then, we broke up, and I left her there because she refused to get back in my car. There, end of story. Now, can you let go of me?”

I shove him away from me. He stumbles, but I’m no longer paying attention. An agonizing fear washes over my skin.

Months ago, when talking about Willow’s depression, John said that they were cautious because they never knew the triggers, but from experience, I know that’s not always true.

While it can be random, sometimes things happen that push you so far over the edge you don’t know how to come back from them—like what happened to me sixteen years ago after Ivy left.

But I don’t think it’s the idiot in front of me who pushed Willow over the edge.

He might have been the final step, but I think Ivy and I might have been the first. Looking back now, I can see how the weight of so much information on a weak foundation might have shaken her.

I can see her strength crumbling, like looking in a mirror, but I’d hoped we would also become the cement to steady her once again.

The problem is, I can’t control what else has fallen on her shoulders: pressure from a stupid boy, rejection, fear over what she’s done to the mural, none of it.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check it again to see if Willow has responded, but when my messages remain empty, that blinding fear starts to spread into my limbs.

Shooting off another text, this one to Hayes, I turn to Cameron.

“Give me your keys,” I demand, and maybe he’s not as stupid as I thought because he stumbles back to his car, grabs the keys, and hands them over. “There is another officer on his way to escort you to the jail. I highly suggest you don’t run before he gets here.”

With that departing advice, I run, needing to get to my daughter.

______________________

Campbell: Meet me at Miller Bridge. It’s Willow.

Nothing is numb anymore. Everything is bright, playing in techno color. I can’t escape it. Fear, unlike anything I’ve ever known, races through my veins as I shoot the text off to Ivy, and then speed down Elm Street to the bridge on the other side of town.

Every second that passes feels like a lifetime. I don’t even know if Willow will still be there, but I do know that if she’s feeling anything that I’ve felt in the past year, then she doesn’t need to be there alone.

“Please, God, just watch over her.” It’s a broken prayer from a broken man, but I don’t question whether this one is heard.

The bridge looms ahead, and I press my foot down harder on the gas.

It’s an older, stone bridge that sits high over a dried-up river.

It needed to be rebuilt years ago, but since it’s down a back road, it’s low on the list of things for the city to fix.

Just before I get to it, I pull my car over to the side of the road, jumping out and taking off running.

My heart beats in overdrive, refusing to slow down until I know my daughter is safe.

I run faster than I’ve ever run before, and when I get to the edge, my feet skid to a stop.

Willow is standing on the side, looking down over the thirty-foot drop.

When she hears my footsteps, she turns her head toward me with tears streaming down her pretty face.

Heartbreak lies behind her stare, but not the kind that comes from loving a boy.

No, this is the kind that comes from not loving yourself enough.

Her eyes meet mine, and I recognize the look on her face. Numb. Hopeless. I’ve lived with it, but I also lived through it.

“I never took you for a stalker,” she says, but it’s missing her usual snark. Her voice is flat, and my heart breaks.

The first time my heart ever broke was the day Ivy left. I never thought anything could hurt as badly as that, but I was wrong because watching my daughter’s heartbreak is just as painful. Maybe even more.

I shrug, wanting to keep her talking until I’m close enough to grab her. “Guess you don’t know everything about me then.”

Willow smirks but turns her head back to the ground below. I take a step forward, slowly easing my way to her.

“Since you’re here, I guess you saw the painting.” She doesn’t look up, but I can hear the fear in the tremble of her voice. She’s trying to pretend she isn’t scared, but she is.

“Yeah,” I say carefully, shuffling forward another step. I could be to her in two steps, but I take my time, knowing now is not the time to rush.

Honey colored eyes lift to mine, striking me in the chest with their sadness. “It was me.”

“I know.” I nod my head, keeping my eyes on hers so she can see that I’m not angry—that I only want to help—but it doesn’t matter because she’s angry enough for the both of us. I take another step forward, and she watches me.

“Ivy is going to hate me now.”

“Do you want her to?”

A small sniffle escapes her, and I see the way she hates herself for it.

“Maybe,” she shrugs.

“Why?”

Bright, hot anger flashes through her eyes. “Because I hate her,” she yells. “And I hate you, too.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s true, Willow.”

“IT IS,” she insists, the volume of her voice echoing around us.

Tears stream from her eyes, but she makes no move to push them away.

“It is true because you were supposed to fix me. You guys were supposed to fill this hole inside me. I thought—I thought if I met you—that if I got to know you—that I would—that I would—” She stops, unable to say it, so I do it for her.

“That you wouldn’t feel so lonely.” She nods, wiping her nose with her hoodie sleeve. “It gets better, Willow. I promise. I’ve been where you are, and it gets better.”

“No,” she says, taking a step away from me. She wobbles on the edge, and my heart drops to my stomach before she regains her balance and looks at me. “I don’t think it does, and I’m tired of hurting.”

“Willow,” I plead, a paralyzing fear numbing my legs. “I promise, baby. It gets better. Just let me help you.”

Indecision wars on her face as she looks from me to the ground below and back again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “For everything.”

Everything happens in slow motion after that. A pair of headlights flash across Willow’s face, grabbing her attention right before she’s about to jump. I take advantage of the distraction, closing the distance and throwing my arms around her waist so I can drag her to the ground with me.

“Let me go,” she screams. “Let me go. Let me go. Let me go.”

Her back is to my chest, but it doesn’t stop her from fighting me. She kicks and punches and jerks away, but I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight.

Eventually, her fighting turns into sobs, and she goes limp in my arms. Her head falls to my forearm, and I stroke her hair, letting her cry.

“It hurts, Dad. Everything hurts. And I just want it to stop.”

It’s the first time she’s called me dad. The first time I’ve really felt like one.

“I know, baby. I know.”

Footsteps run our way, and when I lift my head, the rest of my world is running toward me, tears streaming down her face.