Page 45 of The Embers That Remain

My fingers tightened around the phone. I’d been so blind. The entire relationship had been a con. I could respond. I could ask what he meant. I could engage. I didn’t. Instead, I blocked his latest number. I locked the screen and set the phone down on the porch railing like it might burn me if I held it too long. I didn’t wait for another message.

The mower droned on in the background, and I focused on that instead. On the sharp, clean lines cut through the grass. The yard slowly looked . . . cared for again. Maybe that’s what my life was—not a fresh start, but something still being worked on piece by piece until it felt like mine again. Messy, but still moving in the right direction. I wrapped my arms around myself, letting the sun warm my skin. Inside, Jace laughed at something Grandpa said.

Out here, the world felt . . . manageable. Even with the past knocking at the door. Even with everything still waiting beyond the porch. I wasn’t where I wanted to be. Not even close. But for the first time in a long time—I wasn’t drowning either. And maybe, just maybe—that was enough for now.

Twenty

Lane

“Hey, can you hold this for just a minute so I can look at it from far away?” Landry called. The bandana wrapped around her hair was already slipping, her messy bun fighting its way free at the top. She held up a framed watercolor painting of buffalo grazing across rolling hills and waited. The Hope Center renovations were finally done. It had been operational part-time as soon as the paint was dry, but we’d be opening full-time next week. After a walk-through last week, Sawyer suggested the industrial-modern space needed something softer. Warmer. More . . . human.

Naturally, everyone thought of Landry. And she’d delivered. What had started as clean lines and sleek furniture had been transformed layer by layer with soft throws, greenery, textured art, and enough throw pillows to fill the bed of my truck twice over. The place didn’t just look better. It felt different: lived in, safe, and exactly the atmosphere we’d been aiming for. Sawyer had envisioned it, and Landry had brought it to life.

Maybe I should’ve thought twice before handing over my black Amex to my best friend’s little sister. But who was I kidding? I’d spend more than she’d ever dare use if it meant making this place work. All my ventures mattered. But this one—

This one was different. This one was here. This one he’d see.

And somehow, I already knew it still wouldn’t be enough. Funny how the people whose approval you spent your whole life chasing always knew exactly where to leave a bruise. I could spend ten unlimited cards on this place, and he’d still find something to criticize. This place would earn a quiet nod followed by a backhanded comment about how his contacts could’ve elevated it further.

My lungs tightened, that familiar pressure settling right behind my sternum. I rubbed at it absently before setting my iPad down and shrugging off my suit jacket.

Long day. Too many meetings. Too many numbers. Not enough movement. I’d just wrapped up a video conference for a charity gala in Chicago benefiting women and children escaping domestic violence. Work like this was why retirement had never appealed to me the way it had to some of my teammates. The gala wasn’t until next Spring but the organization was already marketing it, aiming to get as many donors as possible. This was the kind of work I enjoyed most because it made a real difference.

“Here,” Landry said, passing me the artwork before backing up nearly a dozen feet. She squinted slightly as she studied the wall as if it might confess its secrets if she stared long enough.

“This?” I asked, angling it so she could see better.

“Maybe lift it . . . yeah—about a foot higher.” She gestured vaguely, before nodding. “Yes. That’s it. Hold that.”

I adjusted, arms pressing as I kept it steady. She slipped a roll of painter’s tape from her wrist, where it had been dangling like some oversized bracelet, and quickly marked the wall.

“Okay,” she said, stepping back again. “Let’s set it down for now.”

I lowered the painting carefully to the floor. She stood there another moment, frowning.

“I have paint drying in the Chill Corner,” she said after a second. “I’ll come back tomorrow and finish up. Something’s just . . . off. Not wrong, exactly. I need to sleep on it.” Which was such a typical Landry response.

She pulled her phone out, glancing at the screen. Her nose scrunched. Just as quickly, it disappeared, replaced by her usual bright, effortless smile. Too quick.

“Everything okay?” I asked. Her eyes lifted to mine, her smile softening slightly as she studied my face instead. That was the problem with Landry—she didn’t just look at you. She read you. Always had. She was more than my best friend’s little sister. She was family. The kind that noticed too much. The kind that asked too many questions. The kind that didn’t let things stay buried if she thought they mattered.

“Yeah,” she said lightly. “You?”

I rolled up my sleeves, more for something to do than any actual need. “Just busy.” That wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. She studied me. Too perceptive for her own good.

“Busy how?” she asked.

“Just . . . a lot going on,” I hedged. “You know how it is.”

I didn’t need her connecting dots that weren’t hers to connect. Not when everyone already had enough on their plates. She held my gaze for another second, then nodded slowly. I couldn’t tell if she bought it or if she was filing it away for later—waiting until she had enough pieces to come back with a full investigation like some small-town Nancy Drew. Knowing Landry? Definitely the second one.

“Uh-huh,” she said. Yeah, she didn’t believe me.

“Who’s got Hope?” I asked, shifting the conversation before she could dig any deeper.

“Jonah,” she said, crouching to gather her hammer and measuring tape into a small cardboard box. “They ran to the hardware store for nails.”

I leaned against the brick feature wall and looked around. Landry had done exactly what Sawyer hoped she would. She’d softened every hard edge without taking away the structure. The room finally felt like somewhere people could exhale. Funny how a place could feel finished while the people inside it weren’t.