First Chapter Feature: The Ashes of Us

By Ashley Baker

Would you do the unthinkable for your child?

Every parent believes they’d sacrifice anything for their children. The Ashes of Us dares readers to explore the true cost of that belief. When Addison McCall, a brilliant college student, is brutally assaulted, she turns to her father with an reprehensible request. She believes that ending her perpetrator’s life is the only way to find peace. Dr. David McCall, a respected clinical pathologist, possesses the means, medical knowledge, and skill to carry out her chilling plea. Driven by love, guilt, and a desperate need to protect his daughter, Dr. McCall steps into a moral abyss that could destroy his soul, and the very bond they share.

In her gripping second novel, The Ashes of Us, Dr. Ashley Baker, PsyD (author and clinical psychologist), navigates themes of generational trauma, the power of paternal love, and the devastating price of seeking justice.

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Chapter 1

The Phone Call

The shrill ring of David’s house phone jolted him from sleep. He flailed for the bedside table, knocking over a glass of water before managing to grab the receiver with both hands.

“Hello, this is Dr. McCall,” he croaked, the taste of Guinness still sour on his tongue. He’d brushed his teeth, but Colgate was no match for malted barley and Fuggle hops.

“Hi, Dr. McCall. We are calling on behalf of Watauga Medical Center with regards to pat⁠—”

“Is this about the... morgue temperature?” He blinked hard, trying to clear the fog. “I asked Sienna... she was supposed to check it before... before I went to bed.”

His last call every night wasn’t to family or a love interest. It was to the lab. As a clinical and anatomical pathologist, David’s beauty sleep came easy, as long as he reminded his staff to complete their midnight task. The dead had to be kept cold. The alternative was putrid.

There was a pause on the line. A long one.

“No, sir. We aren’t calling about that. We’re calling about Addison McCall.”

He shot upright, nearly dropping the receiver. Any remnant of sleep abdicated at her name. He thought back to those old public service announcements from the ‘90s. Do you know where your children are?

It used to be a punchline. Now it hit like a blow to the ribs.

The clock blinked 4:32 a.m. in red. Much too late for a courtesy call. He threaded his fingers through the phone coil, twisting them into knots.

“That’s my daughter.” His voice stilled, awaiting the worst.

“Can you confirm her date of birth?”

“Yes. February twenty-eighth. Nineteen eighty-five.” He didn’t hesitate. Best day of his life—still was.

“Sir,” the voice softened, cautious now, “we’re calling because she’s been admitted. But she won’t show up in the ICU registry. We’ve enacted law enforcement exception for her safety.”

His stomach turned, his body understanding what his mind couldn’t.

“She’s been assaulted. The injuries are... significant. The doctors are taking every precaution. You’re listed as her emergency contact. We wanted to let you know where she is.” A beat. “Room ten.”

There was the soft rustle of papers, and laughter flickering in the far background.

“The police are here. We needed to confirm her age. She’s... nineteen, then?”

Sometimes she’s nineteen, he thought. Other times, she’s five, missing her front teeth with fists full of tooth fairy money. Time broke in strange ways when parenthood was involved. One look and he’d be transported to Addison at fifteen, wearing a golden homecoming dress and beaming at the camera. To love someone for a lifetime meant you could time travel at will. But this version of her, the one behind room ten’s closed door, he’d never choose to revisit. Not in memory. Not in dreams. He already knew this night would change everything, as middle-of-the-night calls always did.

“That’s right,” he confirmed, already searching for his Levi jeans, spotting them rumpled on the floor. “Tell them I’m on my way.”

David sprang from the bed and tripped over his cowboy boots. No time for his ostrich leathers. He yanked on his sandals. Cold or not, they’d have to do. The keys—where the hell were the keys? He was supposed to keep them by the door. Instead, they were God knows where, missing when a real emergency occurred. He dropped to his knees. There—half-buried under the bed. Of course.

David ran to the garage, flung open the Jeep, and scrambled inside. The engine growled to life. He reversed too fast, tires screeching as they revved against the dead grass. The sound tore through the early morning, the pavement screaming in protest.

Motor memory carried him from his Jeep to the hospital. The distance was only three miles from his driveway. He had worked at Watauga Medical Center for twenty years and could make the commute with his eyes closed. He blew past the Blairmont stop sign, foot on the gas, the frame rattling under the strain.

A dull throb bloomed at his temples. A leftover punishment from the four Guinness he’d downed, but he barely registered it.

A growing rumble of panic throbbed in his chest. Addison. Hurt. In the hospital. With police.

Each word brought a new wave of fear.

He screeched into the employee parking lot, yanked out his ID, hardly hearing the beep as he swiped in.

Slamming the brakes, he looked down. Was he wearing a shirt? Yes. Somehow he’d selected a clean long-sleeved polo, good enough for the September chill.

No time to wonder how. He was already moving.

Dr. McCall nearly hit the second-floor button out of habit, then froze. The lab was on level two. The ICU was on four. He stabbed the correct button.

The elevator stalled. He considered bolting for the stairs.

Then it lurched to life. Relief hit so hard, he could’ve kissed the floor. He swayed with the movement, half in the moment, half in shock.

The elevator doors slid open. David staggered from the elevator, his pace almost a sprint. He scanned the faces at the nursing station. No one he recognized was working, but their eyes held a recognition of grief. It wasn’t fear they reflected, but a heaviness, like his sorrow might be contagious. They avoided eye contact, as if to imply that he wasn’t just a man in a hurry. He was a dead man walking.

David didn’t wait. He skidded down the hall, barreling toward the number ten that held his only daughter.

“Addison!” he called, throwing open the heavy door.

Inside, two Boone police lieutenants sat across from the new ICU doctor, the one fresh out of residency. Dr. McCall had shaken his hand at the hiring party, eaten a piece of stale Ingles cake. But none of that mattered now.

The men? Unimportant.

His gaze locked on a female social worker, her clipboard clutched in her hands. Helpful, sure, but that didn’t register.

He didn’t wait. He lunged for the bed, his eyes fixed on the IV line like it could tether him to reality.

Addison’s hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. Wrong. She always wore it down, curly. Pale, with a red dot of blood across her forehead. This imitation only vaguely resembled the child he knew, the one who never tired, always outdoors with the sun as her solar battery. He scanned the crowd, his throat tight. Only one question mattered: how bad, and where?

He glanced around, disoriented, unsure of what to do next. His eyes locked onto the whiteboard, his heart sinking at the words no father should ever see for his daughter.

Rape Evidence Collection Kit Obtained

HIV and Hepatitis B status and vaccination (STD kit ordered)

Recent consensual sexual encounters? Last menstrual cycle?

Then underneath, words relevant to him.

CBC, CMP, LFTs, UA, Urine Pregnancy, HIV

He couldn’t turn off his training, his mind working through which of the sexual assault nurses was on call tonight. He might not know her, they tended to circle in and out. The majority of his work, as head of the hospital laboratory, was limited to his bright-field compound microscope and rotating lab technicians. His logical mind flashed to DNA, samples, and ranges on a printout. His body revolted, not caring about data, not with Addison lying broken in the bed. A ribbon of nausea surged in his stomach, a metallic taste wafting in the back of his throat. His eyes drifted to the minuscule bathroom.

He swallowed the bile and clenched his fists, forcing his focus onto finding answers.

A red, swollen mark marred her left cheek. His chest tightened. Addison’s eyes were shut, but the monitor tracked a steady heartbeat of 72. A quick scan gave him more. Respiratory rate,16 breaths per minute. Blood pressure, 118/74. Normal, that’s good, he reasoned.

A polite cough drew his attention. The flash of a white lab coat, the same standard-issue model hanging in his own closet, entered his peripheral vision.

“Hello, Dr. McCall. So sorry to see you again under these circumstances. I’m Dr. Sloane. I wanted to fill you in on what we know so far. I’m assuming this is your daughter, Addison?”

“Yes,” he managed. David was surprised his voice worked at all. She was always Addison. Never Addi. Never Dee. Too headstrong to shorten her name. The only nickname she ever tolerated was Spitfire. It spoke to the mulishness that ran through their family, the instinct to make every disagreement a hill worth dying on. The same girl who used to climb trees just to grab the highest branch was now lying still in a hospital bed.

“Okay,” Dr. Sloane began. “Let me summarize. Catch you up to speed. She arrived by ambulance at approximately 0330 hours. On admission, she was only partially responsive and unable to answer basic orientation questions. Physical examination revealed two fractured ribs on the left side, extensive ecchymosis across the chest, upper thighs, and back, a cracked central incisor, and signs of recent vaginal penetration with condom use. A full sexual assault forensic exam was completed on arrival.” He stalled, letting his words land.

David’s eyes darted, knees splintered. The social worker read the ruin in his face and pointed to the chair beside Addison’s bed. He dropped into it, breath boxed in his chest.

“She’s currently receiving IV fluids and a scheduled regimen of analgesics, including a loading dose of morphine,” Dr. Sloane continued. “We’ve also administered prophylactic antibiotics and emergency contraception. We’re monitoring for signs of internal trauma or delayed hemorrhage. Neurologically, she’s stable, but sedated.”

It felt more comfortable to label her symptoms with medical jargon, to tuck the raw anguish beneath a shield of clinical terminology. Broken ribs became thoracic fractures. Bruises turned into hematomas. The violation of her body translated into sterile phrases from a forensic report. Emotion was swapped for codes from the ICD-9 to keep everything contained.

“Thank you, Doctor,” David said, his voice muted, his gaze never straying from Addison’s face. Her lips quivered. He ached for silence and space, for the private paralysis the news demanded.

“I need to finish my rounds,” Dr. Sloane explained. “The officers can walk you through the remaining details. Once she’s in the clear, we can talk discharge.” He looked down at her chart. “Cases like these, best to recuperate at home.”

Cases, rape cases, violent ones. The kind that leave women broken, stunted, alone. How could that include his Spitfire, his soccer star, his straight-A student, the one who never snuck out, always with her head on a swivel? It shattered all logic. He didn’t belong here. She never did. A mistake of the highest order claimed the night.

David bowed his head, certain he was asleep, that all this was a fever dream or a nightmare.

Dr. Sloane placed a firm hand on David’s shoulder, a gesture of support that was both practiced and genuine. “If you need anything, I’m here. Truly. Just give me a page.”

David held back his tears. The kindness wrapped in professionalism almost did him in. It was the kind of grace doctors extended to one another in moments too heavy for words. He was grateful, but the weight on his chest made it impossible to speak. David granted him a small nod. For now, that was enough.

Dr. Sloane shut the door carefully, making sure it wouldn’t slam.

The officers didn’t waste time.

“Good evening, Dr. McCall,” one of the officers said, his voice somber. “I’m Lieutenant Daniel, and this is Lieutenant Drax. We were the first responders to the scene. We followed the ambulance here.”

He gave David time to absorb the words before continuing. “Your daughter was found in a field behind an apartment complex off Highway 105. There was a large house party winding down when we arrived. We secured the area immediately, roped off the scene to preserve evidence. Several partygoers were still there, but they were cleared out and interviewed.”

He hesitated, shooting an uncertain look toward his partner. “It looks like your daughter made the call herself. Her phone was still in her hand when we found her. We’ve already started canvassing the area, trying to track down anyone who might have seen or heard something. We’re working with the hospital to get her full statement when she’s able.”

He paused again, meeting David’s eyes, his voice gentler. “We’re going to do everything we can. In the meantime, we’ll leave you with your daughter. Here’s our card. Please call us when she’s ready to give a full statement. We’ll be your point of contact at the station.”

Lieutenant Drax jumped in. “We can go at her pace, no need to rush. We will be busy with pulling footage from any nearby gas stations.” His expression turned somber. “This won’t be quick, Dr. McCall. But we’ll help however we can. I, uh, I have a daughter about the same age.” He stared at his hands and couldn’t continue. It was implied, the shared bond of fatherhood and worst-case scenarios.

David rested his head in his hands, unable to reply.

The police filed out, their work done and dusted. Only the social worker remained. She kept her voice melodic, close to David’s right ear. His head remained bowed. He couldn’t look at her.

“Hi, Dr. McCall. I’m Cindy, head of Social Work. I’m sorry for what’s happened. I just need to go over a couple of things with you.”

He straightened, trying to summon what was left of his energy reserves.

She reviewed the paper on her clipboard. “First, I’ll need you to sign a release form for any medical or legal inquiries. After that, I’ll get you some information on local counseling services and legal aid. If you need anything else, just let me know.”

She handed David a stack of resources that he couldn’t read. The font looked blurry though his vision had always been 20/20. “I’ll leave you with Addison now. If you need me, I’ll be at the nurse’s station until shift change.”

With that, she turned and stepped out, leaving David to his grief.