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Whetstone Gazette – November 1, 2025

A 25-year-old woman was struck and killed in a hit-and-run collision late Tuesday near East Cypress Road, according to the Whetstone Police Department.

Valentina Rodriguez was found by a passerby in a roadside drainage ditch and was pronounced dead at the scene.

The alleged driver, 22-year-old Bryce Calloway, son of Congressman Jonathan Calloway (R), was located at the congressman’s residence early Wednesday morning and taken in for questioning. Authorities say excessive speed and alcohol may have been contributing factors, though the investigation remains ongoing.

Ms. Rodriguez, a housekeeper, leaves behind her one-year-old daughter, her brother, and her mother.

The Whetstone courtroom hadn’t been this packed since hangings were still legal.

Bryce Calloway slumped in his chair next to S.E. Smith—his father’s attorney, fixer, and all-purpose crisis janitor. Bryce sat quietly, doodling on his notepad like a bored kid in detention.

Behind him sat his parents: Congressman Jonathan Calloway and his impeccably composed wife. The air around them was thick with confidence and privilege, the kind that came from knowing exactly how the sentence would fall.

On the opposite side of the courtroom, behind the prosecution table, sat Valentina Rodriguez’s family. Her brother sat rigid, fists knotted. Her mother clutched the one-year-old baby to her chest, rocking absently as if motion alone could keep the world from collapsing.

For the last hour, the prosecutor—Erin Stevens, young, soft-spoken, and visibly intimidated—barely looked at the Rodriguez family at all. She kept her eyes on her papers, on the judge, anywhere except the people who had lost the most. And she made no effort to explain that the original charges—Vehicular Manslaughter and Failure to Remain at the Scene—had already been quietly pled down.

The judge, a weathered old man from a bygone generation who had sat on the bench longer than most people in the room had been alive, cleared his throat as everyone rose. Bryce stood with his fixer, disinterested. He glanced back at his father with the same blasé gaze he’d given everyone else.

“Mr. Calloway,” the judge began. “I see Ms. Stevens and Mr. Smith have reached a plea agreement. It appears you are pleading guilty to Careless Driving Resulting in Death and Failure to Report an Accident. Is this correct?”

S.E. Smith nudged Bryce like a mother elbowing her son in church during the homily.

“Yes.”

Another nudge.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I see. Taking into account the letters submitted by your father and other notable members of the community, your recent graduation from Harvard’s Business School, and your otherwise clean record, I see no reason to impose a sentence requiring you to serve time in a penitentiary that could cloud an otherwise bright future. But I want you to hear me, son–I suggest you take this opportunity to think about your future.”

The judge adjusted his glasses.

“In accordance with the state’s recommendations, I hereby impose a fine of ten thousand dollars and two hundred hours of community service. Ms. Stevens will go over your next steps with you after adjournment. You are free to go, sir.”

Valentina’s mother slumped forward as the gavel fell, as if the sound itself had struck her. She clutched the baby to her chest, and a low, broken moan slipped out of her—quiet, but unbearable.

Years later, people who had been in that courtroom would still talk about that moment. Most couldn’t describe the sound she made—not all the way through. They’d choke up, lose their words, and excuse themselves from the table.

Next to her, Valentina’s brother sat rigid, fists pressed into his knees, staring at nothing.

Bryce shook his lawyer’s hand. Hugged his mother. Shook his father’s hand. Then he walked toward the exit and stopped in front of the Rodriguez family—what was left of it.

His attorney’s hand settled on his shoulder, a gentle push to keep moving.

Bryce didn’t.

He nodded toward the baby in Valentina’s mother’s arms.

“She’s cute,” he said.

Valentina’s brother didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed fixed forward, drilling a hole into the wood paneling. Something in his face had gone very, very still.

The main doors leading outside shut quietly behind Bryce, like they were keeping secrets. He bounded down the courthouse steps like a bully stomping ants. When he reached the bottom, he froze at the sound of screeching tires.

***

It was the turn signal clicking relentlessly that brought Bryce around.

His head throbbed. He winced when his fingers brushed the bloody gash over his right eyebrow.

Pieces came back to him. The party. The fight over his keys. Music. His phone ringing. He picked it up, swerved—

A horn blared—

The tires screamed—

Then the crash swallowed the world.

He hit something. A car, maybe?

The Lexus door groaned when he shoved it open. The cold night air punched him awake. He braced himself on the searing hot hood, engine hissing, turn signal ticking like a metronome.

Twenty yards away, a beat-up hatchback sat crooked in the ditch. Bryce staggered toward it, muscles still numb from shock.

He stopped dead.

“Oh… fuck.”

A young woman lay in the drainage ditch, twisted unnaturally, as if her bones had been dropped inside her wrong. One arm bent sideways, bone jutting through torn skin. Her legs were a tangle he couldn’t make sense of. A dark flower—almost black—spread across her white blouse, growing bigger with each shallow breath.

Her chest heaved, losing the fight.

“Oh fuck…”

Her eyes found him.

Not pleading. Not scared.

Focused.

Blood seeped from the corners of her mouth like tears. She made a wet, choking gurgle—the same sound the buck he’d shot in the throat last season made when it tried to breathe.

“Bring…” she gasped.

Bryce couldn’t look away, though every part of him wanted to.

“Bring… me… my…”

Her chest rose and fell like a raft in a violent sea. Blood trickled from her ear into the rest of the dark pooling beneath her.

“…baby.”

***

Bryce jerked hard, the memory swallowing itself. His vision swam. His breath hurried and shallow.

He blinked slowly and turned toward the street.

Two drivers had gotten out of their cars and were screaming at each other, waving their arms, faces red and furious — their tires still hissing from the sudden stop.

The sound of yelling hit him like a slap.

He headed toward the parking garage, trying to remember which level he’d parked his new Lexus on.

Bryce was doing a lot of thinking. About everything except Valentina.

His future, for instance — just like the judge said.

He didn’t think about her while weaving through traffic on the 10.

He didn’t think about her at the red light when a couple pushed a stroller across the crosswalk.

Not even when he passed the billboard begging drivers not to drink and drive.

Bryce took the exit toward downtown. He loved downtown in the afternoons. He cruised slowly past the window of his gym to see which girls were in there. His phone buzzed. A text: See you at O’Shea’s.

Smirking, he flicked on the radio.

Lady Gaga blasted through the speakers. Bryce tapped the steering wheel with his thumb when the music smeared suddenly into static—loud, sharp, and overwhelming.

He frowned and reached for the dial.

The static warped into something else.

Gurgling.

Breathing.

A cold pressure tightened around his chest.

Bryce tried to inhale, but his body seized up, leaving his arm suspended halfway to the console.

“Bring… me… my…”

He forced his eyes upward, toward the rearview mirror.

She was in the back.

Twisted.

Mutilated.

Bent in ways bones weren’t meant to bend—like plastic dolls melting on a stovetop.

Sparse auburn hairs poked through the dark, matted blood coating her head. Her skin was colorless. Her eyes were porcelain-black, dotted with tiny glittering shards of glass. Cuts webbed across her cheeks, still bleeding.

Her mouth pulled into a tight, wet O.

Blood bubbled over her lips.

“…baby.”

Bryce immediately looked back at the road and forced a haughty, nervous laugh.

“Jeeeesus. What is that, man? Get. It. Together.”

He checked the rearview again—only the leather interior looked back.

His fingers loosened from their knuckle-white grip on the wheel. A few slow blinks, a long breath, and he blasted the radio again.

By the time he parked at O’Shea’s, he felt like himself again—primal, unchecked.

He fixed his hair in the mirror, not even glancing toward the backseat.

Shouts of feigned congratulations and empty welcomes filled the pub as he jubilantly entered. Let the celebrations begin.

After his first beer he asked a couple people for coke. The conversations were recycled and banal.

“Lucky dog!”

“Whataya gonna do now?”

“Hey, can you get me a meeting with your father? I’ve got some opportunities he’d be very interested in…”

“Oh honey, I’m so glad you’re okay! Hey, idea—take me and my girls to the casino tonight. I bet they comp your room, don’t they? Could be useful.”

Bryce wasn’t counting his beers. That would be insulting to the dopamine.

He sipped. Danced crudely. Sipped bigger. Danced cruder.

If it hadn’t drowned out the music, he would’ve missed it completely.

Gurgling.

“Bring… me… my… baby.”

His stomach dropped—cement filling it, then his limbs, with terror.

He scoured the sticky room filled with sycophants.

Tried to keep it casual as he asked the girl next to him—he had no idea who she was—

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what, sweetie?”

She knew him. Or of him.

“Nothing.”

He kept looking anyway.

She stroked his hand—expertly, like a girl who always knows her priorities. His posture loosened, but his eyes stayed moving, scanning.

“Sweetie?”

She put two fingers under his chin and drew his attention down to her.

“Get us a couple shots, okay?” She pouted her silicon lips. “And you can tell me all about it.”

Bryce nodded with a smirk and staggered to the bar. He climbed onto a stool, nearly missing it.

“Three shots of Patrón, guy.”

He lifted three fingers like a marionette mid-performance.

The bartender nodded, disappeared, and reappeared with three clear shots, lime wedges straddling the rims.

“Tab,” Bryce barked.

Another nod. Another disappearance.

Bryce exhaled sharply, grabbed one shot, and threw it back—ignoring the lime. He slammed the empty upside-down on the bar, smashing the lime beneath it. Juice smeared across the wood.

He grabbed the two remaining shots, preparing to bring them back—

and his gaze lifted to the massive bar-to-ceiling mirror behind the bottles.

Everything inside him froze.

Every bone. Every muscle. Every instinct.

Even the breath halfway in his chest.

She was standing right behind him—slightly off to the side, like someone waiting patiently for him to get up and leave with her.

Her once-white blouse was nearly black with gore.

Her hair, clumped and matted, matched it.

Blood streamed from her porcelain-black eyes, converging with the dark red lacerations striping her face.

Her hands rose.

Fingernails caked with glass and dirt.

They were about to touch his shoulders when Bryce finally found his voice—

and screamed.

A sound he didn’t know he could make tore out of him, raw and animal.

And she was gone.

The shots slipped from his hands and hit the bar, one rolling off and clattering to the floor. The pub went still. People stared. Whispered. The jukebox thumped on, oblivious.

Bryce straightened as best he could and lurched toward the door, shoving it open with his shoulder, mumbling to himself as he fled into the night.

***

The next morning, his mouth felt full of dust and his head packed with splinters. His condo was empty—except for the ceiling fan lazily pushing stale air across the bedroom. A hollow ache radiated through his stomach and into every limb.

A long, hot shower would fix it. Reset him.

He stepped into the spacious bathroom and caught his reflection. A stranger stared back. He reached for the Bluetooth speaker out of habit—then froze.

He pulled his hand away.

Silence felt safer.

He undressed, leaving clothes scattered across the tile, muttering to himself between dry swallows.

He cranked the heat, shut the glass shower door, and stepped under the stream. Water poured down his back and chest; his bangs hung in front of his eyes like a soaked sheepdog. Steam swallowed the room, fogging the glass door into a milky blur.

He let the sound of water hitting tile steady him.

The radio crackled on.

Music—loud, bright—blared through the bathroom.

Bryce’s throat tightened.

The stations flicked rapidly—voices, drums, snippets—

before slamming into deafening static.

“No. No no no…” Bryce whispered. “Not again… please not again…”

The static thickened, corrupted—becoming wet gurgling, choking breaths, the same ragged sound he heard in the ditch.

He sobbed once, sharp, involuntary.

Then he heard it:

The bathroom door—the locked door—

creaked open.

Bryce’s eyes widened. His whole body froze.

He stared at the fogged glass, wanting to wipe it clean but unable to move.

A shadow slipped inside.

A silhouette.

Bent wrong.

Moving wrong.

A form that defied the natural shape of things.

The static roared.

A voice leaked through it—wet and broken.

“…Bring…”

The shadow grew larger, approaching the shower.

“…me…”

Bryce pressed back against the cold tile, trembling.

“…my…”

A hand—black through the fog—lifted toward the shower door.

“…baby.”

“What?” Bryce screamed, voice cracking into a sob. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”

The static collapsed into silence—

then the music snapped back on, cheerful and horribly normal.

Bryce forced his eyes open.

The cold air had cleared the fog from the glass.

He pulled the door open with shaking hands.

The bathroom door was still locked.

The radio was off.

No footprints.

No shadow.

No movement.

He slid to the shower floor, water pouring over him, and cried quietly into his hands.

***

The Rodriguez house was modest, with high grass pushing up through the cracks in the sidewalk and driveway. Not the safest neighborhood, not the worst. At 3 a.m., almost everyone was asleep.

Almost.

Bryce Calloway paced back and forth in the street out front.

Fidgety. Exhausted.

He drifted in and out of the streetlight’s glow, muttering to himself.

“She wants the baby… she won’t stop… she wants me to bring her the baby…”

He froze.

The porch light clicked off.

A minute later, the last light in the house followed.

Bryce stepped back into the darkness and licked his lips, thinking.

How long should he wait?

How long until they were asleep?

After several tense minutes, he eased open a window on the side of the house. It groaned, but not loudly enough to stir anyone. Once inside, he shut it softly—he planned to leave by the front door.

He stepped carefully down the hall, past framed photos of a young Valentina. Her mother. Her brother. A man who could’ve been her father. Another of Valentina holding her newborn daughter. Helping her walk. Bathing her in the kitchen sink.

The first door on the right was cracked open. A faint light and the buzz of a fan spilled into the hall. Bryce peeked in: Valentina’s mother slept in the bed, facing the wall.

He pushed the door open. It creaked—barely—but he stopped cold.

Nothing stirred.

He crept inside and approached the crib.

He looked at Valentina’s mother—still asleep.

Then down at the baby girl. Pacifier half out of her mouth. Chest rising and falling in tiny peaceful motions.

He hunched over the crib rail and slid his fingers gently beneath her—

Cold metal pressed into the back of his skull.

He froze.

A man’s breath filled the room.

Then a voice:

“Turn. Around. Slowly.”

Bryce obeyed.

He recognized the man immediately—even in the dark.

Vicente Rodriguez.

Valentina’s brother.

Bryce didn’t know his name. Never bothered to.

Vicente shoved the pistol harder into Bryce’s forehead, pinning him against the crib.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Valentina’s mother jolted awake. She took in the scene silently—then hurried to the crib, grabbed the baby, and backed away. She never took her eyes off Bryce.

Bryce’s thoughts spun out.

He tried to speak past a trembling jaw.

“Her baby… she won’t stop… I have to—I have to bring her the baby. Please. She won’t stop…”

He looked up—and for a moment he felt relief.

Because Vicente’s eyes were full.

Not with justice.

With hate.

With grief.

With something older and heavier than the law.

The kind of desire that had burned a hole through the last of his mercy.

Bryce closed his eyes and held his breath.

He let it out when he heard the hammer cock back.

A whisper followed—soft, deliberate. Bryce had to strain to hear it.

“Para ti, mi chiquita…”

***

Whetstone Gazette – November 13, 2025

Authorities continued the search today for 22-year-old Bryce Calloway, son of Congressman Jonathan Calloway. Calloway was last seen leaving O’Shea’s Pub at 12th and Broadway after what witnesses described as a “frantic outburst” and “erratic behavior.”

If you or anyone you know has information regarding his whereabouts, please contact the Whetstone Police Department.