Chapter 1
Focus, Addison. Just stay focused, and you’ll get through this. The words pulsed through her mind, steady, rhythmic—her own lifeline to sanity. Yet, her fingers quivered as she fumbled with her keys, the December chill doing little to disguise the tremor that ran deeper than the cold. She clutched her laptop bag close, feeling its familiar weight, a quiet reminder of the life she’d spent years rebuilding from fractured pieces. With every step in her scuffed heels, a faint throb ran through her, mirroring the ache still lodged in her heart.
Outside, the world was a tableau of holiday cheer—twinkling lights strung along tree branches, wreaths and garlands wrapped around every lamppost, the air thick with cinnamon and fresh pine. But rather than comfort, it only intensified her sense of distance. The season’s joy felt like an elaborate facade, mocking the emptiness that had taken root within her.
When the elevator doors opened, more decorations greeted her, a kaleidoscope of reds and greens that made her unease swell. She adjusted her silk-lined blazer, an elegant armor that no longer felt like her own skin. I shouldn’t be here. The thought pressed against her, and she bit her lip, trying to stave off the anxiety rising in her chest. *Can I really do this?*
The elevator stopped several floors too soon, and fear clawed at her. *No. Not now, not here.* Reflexively, she hit the emergency button, halting the ascent, and leaned against the cold metal wall, shutting her eyes. Her breaths came quick and shallow, the air thick and suffocating. Her hand found its way to the cross around her neck—a simple, delicate charm her mother had given her, the one part of her past she still clung to. *Lord, I don’t know if I can do this,* she prayed silently, urgently. *Please, give me strength. I need You now more than ever.*
In that stillness, a verse surfaced, like a thread of warmth breaking through her panic: *“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God.”* The familiar words slowed her pounding heart. She took a deep breath and released the button, letting the elevator resume its climb.
This time, when the doors slid open, she walked out with determination, heels clicking against the polished floor as she made her way to the stairwell. By the time she reached the parking garage, her chest heaved with the effort, but she hadn’t stopped. The shadows stretched long and eerie across the dimly lit space, but she pressed on until she reached her car. And then, finally, the dam broke. Tears spilled over, blurring her vision as she slid down beside the door, the weight of it all crashing in.
*I can’t keep doing this,* she whispered to herself, voice trembling. Her hands searched the console for something—anything—to ground her. They closed around a crumpled pack of tissues, and a faint, bittersweet smile tugged at her lips. *The ones I kept for Emma.* Her little girl had always needed them at the worst times, her own little crises that seemed insurmountable in her small world. Addison swiped a tissue across her cheeks, clinging to that memory as a lifeline.
*It’s supposed to get easier.* She’d told herself this so many times it had become a hollow refrain, something people said without knowing the truth. The truth was, without Emma, without the life she’d lost, nothing would ever be easy again.
Her gaze landed on the passenger seat, where papers lay scattered from her last desperate search. Among them, an envelope caught her eye. She reached for it, her heart racing as she tore it open, feeling the weight of hope and dread twist together in the pit of her stomach.
Gunnery Sergeant Rowan McCaluson sat at his desk, staring at the commission letter in his hands. The words on the page were clear, but they felt foreign, as though meant for someone else. Eighteen years in the Marines had led to this moment, a promotion that should have filled him with pride. But instead, all he felt was gnawing uncertainty. Is this what I really want?
A sharp knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up as a woman entered the room, immediately commanding his attention. Her wavy brown hair framed a face that was both striking and weary, her deep-set eyes shadowed with the weight of untold burdens.
“Excuse me,” she began, her voice steady but tinged with something unspoken, something fragile. “I’m looking for Sergeant McCaluson?”
Rowan stood, extending a hand. “That’s me. How can I help you?”
“My name is Addison Lawson,” she replied, her grip firm but cold. “I’m looking for someone, and I think you might be able to help me.”
There was a guardedness in her tone that made Rowan pause. “What’s this about?”
“It’s personal,” she said, her voice tightening. The small office became the hub of activity and Rowan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not sure what you’re hoping to find, but—”
“Do you have a copier?” she asked, raising her voice slightly over the activity, catching him off guard.
“A copier?” he repeated, confused. “Uh, yeah, we do.”
“Can I use it?”
Rowan hesitated, then nodded. “Sure, follow me.”
He led her to the mailroom, holding the door open as she walked past. He watched as she pulled a letter from her purse, made a copy, and then, to his surprise, scribbled something on it before folding it neatly and handing it to him without a word.
Rowan took the letter, watching as she left the room, her silence leaving more questions than answers. As he turned the folded paper over in his hand, curiosity got the better of him.
Before he could open it, the door swung open again, and a familiar voice called out.
“Gunney!” Clarkson, his best friend, strolled in with his usual grin. Sergeant Joel Clarkson was the kind of man who could find humor in any situation, his sandy blond hair and easygoing nature a stark contrast to Rowan’s more serious demeanor. “Where are we going to celebrate?” Clarkson asked, dropping into the chair opposite Rowan’s desk.
“Celebrate what?”
“Your promotion, of course!” Clarkson replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Master Sergeant McCaluson—it’s got a nice ring to it.”
Rowan shook his head, setting the letter aside. “It’s not official yet.”
“Come on, it’s a done deal. You’ve been working for this your whole career.”
Rowan sighed. “Yeah, but what if it’s not what I want anymore?”
Clarkson’s grin faded. “What are you talking about?”
Rowan leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m just not sure this is the path I want to keep walking.”
Clarkson picked up the folded letter from the desk, his curiosity piqued. “What’s this?”
“Some woman named Addison Lawson came in looking for me,” Rowan replied. “She left that.”
Clarkson unfolded the paper, his grin returning as he read the bold, direct message:
Gunnery Sergeant McCaluson,
Call me when you have a moment to give a damn.
Addison Lawson
555-8136
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Well, that’s one way to get your attention,” he muttered.
***
I fumbled with the keycard, my hand shaking as I pushed open the door to my hotel room. The soft click as it shut behind me echoed with a hollow finality. *What am I doing?* The question haunted me, a constant refrain since I’d started this desperate search.
The room was impersonal, cold, with sterile decor that offered no comfort. I dropped my bag on the bed and sank into the chair by the window, staring out at the city lights below. Exhaustion tugged at me, but I knew sleep wouldn’t come. My mind was a whirlpool of doubts and fears, pulling me deeper into an abyss I couldn’t escape.
The drive had been long, endless stretches of road that left me alone with my spiraling thoughts. And then there was Gunnery Sergeant McCaluson—his brusque, no-nonsense demeanor rattling me more than I cared to admit. *Will he call?* If he didn’t, I’d have to start over. But giving up now, when I was so close, was unbearable.
Memories drifted back, unbidden, as I sat there in the dim room. I was only nine years old when my world shattered—my parents killed in a car accident, my little brother and I split up into different foster homes. I could still see his tear-streaked face as they led him away, his little hands clutching a stuffed bear.
“Don’t forget me, Quinnie,” he’d pleaded, voice breaking.
“Never,” I’d promised. But that promise had been harder to keep than I’d ever imagined.
Now, years later, all I had was a letter from the Marines, confirming he was registered under a different name—Pete Granger. After all this time, I was finally close to finding him. But after so long, would he even remember me? Or had we both changed beyond recognition?
My stomach growled, pulling me back to the present. I slipped into jeans and a T-shirt and headed out, letting the cool night air clear my head. Down the road, a small bar with a flickering neon sign caught my eye. It wasn’t much, but I needed something to eat—something to ground me in the here and now.
Inside, the bar was dimly lit, the wood accents dark and worn, giving it an unexpectedly cozy feel. I slid into a seat at the end of the bar, back against the wall as I took in the room. Buzz cuts and tattoos filled the place—a dead giveaway I’d wandered into a military hangout. *Of course.* I bit back a wry smile. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.
The bartender handed me a menu, and I ordered a Reuben, fries, and a beer. But as the minutes ticked by, my appetite faded, replaced by that familiar gnawing uncertainty. *What am I doing here?* I’d driven all the way to Florida based on a form letter, clinging to the hope it was more than just a piece of paper. Reality had a way of chipping away at my resolve. *Maybe it’s not worth it…*
I stared down at the bar, willing myself to feel something other than the numbness that seemed to shadow me.
*Lord, guide my steps.* The prayer was silent, desperate. *If this is the wrong path, show me. I don’t know what to do, but You do. Help me trust You.*
“What’s a pretty lady like you doing sitting all alone when you could be enjoying yourself with someone like me?”
The voice was rough and unwelcome. I looked up to find a man looming over me, large and muscular, the smell of beer and sweat thick around him. His eyes roamed over me with clear intent, and my stomach twisted. Forcing a tight smile, I replied, “This pretty lady is fine on her own, thanks.”
But he leaned in, smirking, undeterred. “You don’t know what you’re missing, sweetheart. Trust me, you don’t want to pass this up.”
My patience thinned to breaking. “I’m not interested.” I kept my tone firm, though my heart raced as he moved closer, his arms trapping me against the wall.
“You need a good time, I can tell,” he murmured, leering. “Let go, and I’ll show you the night of your life.”
Before I could respond, a calm, authoritative voice cut through the tension. “I believe she said she wasn’t interested, Sergeant.”
Relief washed over me as I recognized the voice, and the man in front of me stiffened.
“Just talking, Gunney,” he slurred, his smile faltering as he turned to face the newcomer.
“Step back, Sergeant. That’s an order.” The tone was steel, and the sergeant backed away, eyes hardening as he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright,” he muttered before slinking out of the bar.
I exhaled a shaky breath, finally allowing myself to look up at the man who’d intervened. Gunnery Sergeant McCaluson.
My food arrived, but my appetite was gone. I asked for a to-go box, hoping to make my escape.
“Ma’am, excuse me?” His voice was softer now, almost hesitant.
“If you’re looking for a thank you, it’s not going to happen,” I said, my tone sharper than I intended.
“No, ma’am,” he replied, steady and calm. “I wanted to apologize.”
The sincerity in his gaze threw me. “There’s no need. We can call it even.”
But he didn’t move. “Why did you come to my office today?” he asked, voice gentler.
I hesitated. “I was looking for information. About Pete Granger.”
McCaluson nodded slowly. “And did you find what you were looking for?”
I shook my head, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over me. “Not unless you have information you’d like to share. But I have to keep trying.”
He studied me for a long moment. “You came a long way for something that might not matter.”
“It matters,” I whispered. “He’s my brother… I think.”
“You think?” His brow furrowed.
I steadied myself. “I won’t know until I find him. Our parents died when we were kids, and we were separated. I’ve spent fifteen years searching. Your letter was the first real lead I’ve had.”
McCaluson’s eyes softened briefly before his expression hardened again. “How did you know to look in the Marines?”
“A few months ago, I found his social security number. A search led me to the Marines, where he was listed as Pete Granger. That’s why I’m here—to find him and finally know if he’s my brother.”
He exhaled, shoulders relaxing. “I wish I could help, but without proof, my hands are tied.”
My heart sank, but I squared my shoulders. *Lord, give me strength.* “Thank you for your time.” I turned to leave, feeling the weight of my mission bearing down harder than ever.
Back in my room, the soft glow of Christmas lights cast a bittersweet warmth. The small tree in the corner, decorated with delicate ornaments, felt like a fragile memory of happier times. Around it, half-packed suitcases sat in stark contrast to the festive decorations. Christmas had lost its magic; it now served as a reminder of everything I’d lost.
I picked up my Bible, opened to Psalms, my finger tracing the words, *“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”* I closed the book, holding it close to my chest. *Lord, I need You. I’m not sure I can do this alone.* My whispered prayer lingered in the air.
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