The Sunday morning sun filtered through the oak trees as Nate Whitmore worked on his classic 1967 Mustang. At 34, years of working with cars had sculpted his body into something hard and efficient, like the machines he fixed.
Daddy, look what I found. Nate glanced up, his stern features softening as Hazel came bounding across the lawn, her dark pigtails bouncing. She clutched something in her small hands.
Face alight with childish wonder. What’ve you got there, pumpkin? He wiped his hands on a rag and crouched her level. Hazel opened her palms to reveal a blue jayfeather.
It’s pretty. Can I keep it? Sure thing. Nate tucked the feather carefully behind her ear.
Looks good on you. Nate? Hazel? Lemonade’s ready. Brielle’s voice rang from the porch.
She stood there in a simple sundress, her honey blonde hair catching the light. To anyone watching, they were the picture of suburban bliss, the hardworking husband, the doting wife, the cherubic daughter. Nate watched his wife as she set the picture down.
Something in his gut tightened the mechanic’s instinct that could hear a problem in an engine before any diagnostic test could find it. Just a flicker, they’re gone. Coming, Mommy.
Hazel called. Racing toward the porch, Nate followed more slowly, closing the Mustang’s hood. He bought the car as a wreck three years ago, rebuilding it piece by piece.
His business, Whitmore Auto Repair, had started small but now employed three full-time mechanics beside himself. You’ve been at it since dawn, Brielle said, handing him a glass of lemonade. Her smile was perfect, practiced Miss Junior Charleston eight years running before they’d met.
Almost got her purring right. Nate answered, taking a long drink. The lemonade was too sweet, the way Brielle always made it.
They sat on the porch, watching Hazel as she chased butterflies across the small yard of their Charleston suburb home. I was thinking, Brielle said, her voice casual. Maybe we could take Hazel camping next weekend? Just up to Lake Moultrie? Nate nodded.
Could do. Been a while since we got out of the city. I could pack your favorite sandwiches.
She placed her hand on his knee, perfectly manicured nails against his worn jeans. Hazel’s been asking to go. The day unwound slowly, comfortably.
Nate grilled burgers for dinner while Brielle prepared a salad and Hazel set the table, standing on a stool to reach. After dinner, they watched a Disney movie. Hazel nestled between them on the couch, her small body warm against Nate’s side.
When she finally dozed off, Nate carried her upstairs to bed, tucking her favorite stuffed rabbit beside her. Sleep tight, pumpkin, he whispered. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he lingered in the doorway, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
A protective instinct surged through him the knowledge that he would do anything to keep her safe. Later, as Brielle showered, Nate checked the locks on the doors and windows, a ritual he’d performed every night since Hazel was born. He couldn’t have known that in less than 24 hours, his trust would be shattered beyond repair.
Nate woke to screaming that he bolted upright, instantly alert. The digital clock read, 2.17 AM. Daddy.
Mommy. It hurts. Hazel’s cries cut through him like a blade.