It’s been over 684 days. Let that number settle in your bones for a moment—684 days since the world I knew cracked open like a fault line, swallowing everything familiar in its chasm. December 1, 2023. 5:30 a.m. My mother’s voice on the phone, trembling like a leaf in a gale: Kali was gone. Jeremy was suspected. Zeke was missing.
I am Brian Randall, Kali’s older brother. Uncle to Zeke and Freya. And in those first shattering seconds, I became something else entirely—a vessel for questions that had no answers, a bridge between the living and the lost. This isn’t just a story of loss; it’s a chronicle of survival, of the raw, unrelenting struggle to rebuild on rubble. And woven through it all is KalicoForest—a beacon I never saw coming, but one that now anchors me when the waves threaten to pull me under.
The Call That Echoed Forever
I remember it with the clarity of a scar: the phone pressed to my ear, my heart pounding like a war drum. I’d been the first to call the Teton County Sheriff’s Office, my voice cracking as I demanded Detective Stevens. “Is Kali alive or dead? What’s the status of Zeke?” The dispatcher’s pause stretched into eternity. She took our information, promised a callback. Then… silence.
The waiting. God, the waiting. I paced our home like a caged animal, tears carving hot paths down my face. I clung to my wife—my rock, my everything—even as she teetered on the edge of her own abyss. She had nothing left to give, but she held me anyway, her arms a fragile dam against the flood. We weren’t prepared for this. No one is. But in that void, we faced it together: in silence, in sorrow, in sheer, gut-wrenching disbelief.
When the phone finally rang, my stomach plummeted. Questions poured out—phone numbers, contacts, places Jeremy might hide. And then, after those long, heavy pauses that still haunt my dreams… the words: Kali was deceased.
Those three syllables landed like shrapnel. They echo endlessly, their weight unchanging, cutting just as deep today as they did that frostbitten morning. I know they’ll always will.
Waking my kids that morning? That was a different kind of torture. Still in their pajamas, we rushed to my mom’s house, the 10-minute drive stretching into an eternity of whispered fears. “What do we say?” “How will they understand?” “What details do they need?” And the one that clawed deepest: “How do we explain that someone they loved—someone they talked to, laughed with, even from afar—is just… gone? And where is Zeke?”
There were no easy answers. Only silence. Only heartbreak.
News of Zeke’s fate came later, on the runway of a plane hurling toward Idaho. My cousin’s voice, steady but laced with defeat: “Zeke’s gone.” The man beside me shifted uncomfortably in his seat, oblivious to the bomb detonating in my chest. I’m glad he never knew. Some darkness is too heavy to share with strangers.
Thrust into the Storm: Responsibilities in the Rubble
Those first hours blurred into days at my mother’s, family orbiting like satellites in distress, all of us straining for updates from Idaho. We knew what we had to do: get there. Fast. But that meant I had to leave—leave my kids, my wife, my family—when we needed each other most. I stepped into a role I never auditioned for: point of contact. For law enforcement. Prosecutors. Victim advocates. Friends. Family. And soon, estate administrator for Kali.
Forms upon forms, each one a fresh wound. Writing “Homicide” over and over? It turned my stomach, like reliving the nightmare on an endless loop. Plane after plane, I gripped armrests with trembling hands, willing myself to hold it together in airports and aisles where strangers milled about, untouched by my storm. Kleenex ran out; my sleeves became soggy altars to grief. I must’ve looked half-dead, but I was grateful no one pried. Even now, sharing this feels like ruining someone’s day—like spilling ink on a clean page.
The first seven days in Idaho weren’t a blur; they were a tempest. Relentless, suffocating. I was torn from my wife, ripped from my children, separated from the ones who could ground me. Instead of mourning, I was hurled into meetings: with detectives piecing together horrors, funeral homes discussing unthinkable finalities, lawyers probing wounds I didn’t want exposed. Strangers asked questions about things I never wanted to know—about violence, about betrayal, about a man who was supposed to protect, not destroy.
I was forced to make decisions no soul should face: caskets, services, signatures on documents that formalized the void. All because of one coward’s choice. One act of violence. One act of destruction.
The Endless Ripples: A Life Reshaped by Shadows
That boulder analogy I cling to. It’s truer every day. The burden crashes into the still pond of our lives—fast, violent, endless. Just when the waves start to settle… it drops again. And again. It never stops.
The damage seeps everywhere. Our mental health? Uprooted, shattered. New diagnoses—PTSD, anxiety—stack like bricks on a crumbling wall. My fuse is shorter now, burning faster, a spark away from ignition. Explaining this to my children? Watching their innocence fracture, knowing it’ll shape them forever? That’s a daily crucifixion.
Then there are the boxes—Kali’s life, frozen in time. Belongings she curated with care: clothes that still hold her scent, journals scrawled with dreams, photos of Zeke’s. We sift through them, sorting pieces of who she was, knowing she’ll never touch them again. Unbearable doesn’t cover it.
Trust? Harder to give, like handing over shards of glass. Songs that once lifted us? Now poisoned by memory, their melodies twisted into dirges. And the guilt—oh, the endless, aching guilt. The “what ifs,” the “should haves,” the “maybes.” What if we’d seen the signs sooner? What if we’d pulled her closer? Even knowing, rationally, that maybe we couldn’t… it gnaws.
We survive a version of “us” we didn’t choose. Forced upon us by one man’s monstrous decisions. I’m not the same man I was before that day. That version? He’s gone. The one left behind is still learning to navigate this fractured reality—fighting not just to breathe, but to live in it.
This path, this pain—it was never ours to choose. But we walk it anyway. For my kids. For my wife. For all who loved her. For the family that props me up when my legs buckle. And every day, I claw back the stolen parts of myself. Not for me. But for them. Because they deserve the man I was… before all this.
KalicoForest: From Ashes, a Grove of Strength
In the heart of this devastation, something unexpected took root: KalicoForest reborn from her Roots—my fierce, forest-loving sister who found solace in the whisper of pines and the quiet strength of ancient trees—it’s more than a website, more than a nonprofit. It’s a sanctuary. A digital grove where survivors gather, where stories like mine aren’t shouted into the void but heard, honored, amplified.
KalicoForest began as her way to share her skills, and is now growing from a whisper in the dark—a way to channel the chaos into purpose. What started as a though for our family to process grief is evolving into a platform raising awareness about intimate partner violence, the hidden grip of narcissism, and the systemic blind spots that let monsters like Jeremy thrive unchecked. We want to share resources: hotlines for those trapped in cycles of control, legal guides for navigating the aftermath, therapy finders for the PTSD that follows. But at its core, it’s a memorial to Kali, Zeke, and Freya—a living testament to the lives they led, the love they spread, the futures stolen too soon.
To me, KalicoForest means redemption in the ruins. It’s the antidote to isolation, the counterweight to that boulder in the pond. When the guilt surges or the “what if’s” howl, I pour them into posts like this one—raw, unfiltered accounts that remind me I’m not alone. It’s where I honor Kali’s spirit: her laugh that lit rooms, her unyielding advocacy for the overlooked, her belief that even in winter’s grip, spring finds a way. Zeke’s boundless curiosity, his tiny hands exploring the world—it’s all there, in stories that educate, in forums where others share their scars.
KalicoForest means purpose reclaimed. Every visitor who reads, every donation that funds a survivor’s first therapy session, every shared post that sparks a conversation—it’s a ripple outward, turning our pain into protection for others. It’s my fight for justice beyond the courtroom: ensuring no other brother paces in agony, no other family sifts through frozen boxes. It’s the voice Kali, Zeke, and Freya can no longer wield, but I can. We must.
In this grove, I’ve found glimmers of the man I was—patient, present, unbroken. My wife sees it too, in the way I now hold our kids a little tighter. My family feels it, in the shared burden lightened by collective resolve. KalicoForest isn’t healing; grief like this doesn’t heal. But it’s growth. A forest rising from ash, roots entwining to hold against the storms.
A Breath, At Last
Wherever this story finds you—thank you for allowing me to share. For allowing me to be the voice for Kali, for Zeke, for Freya. They can’t anymore. But we can. And we must.
If you’re reading this in the shadows—trapped, grieving, questioning—reach out. To KalicoForest, to a friend, to the National Domestic Violence Hotline (1-800-799-7233). You’re not alone. The forest is vast, but it holds room for you.
For Kali, Zeke, and Freya. For the light they left us.
-Brian
If KalicoForest resonates with you, join us.