"We heard about the FBI visit," Tom said without preamble. "This is getting out of hand."
"How did you hear?" Izzy kept her voice neutral.
"Small town," Janet answered, her sympathy seemingly genuine. "Word travels. This must be so stressful. Your poor daughter."
Something in the way she said 'daughter' made Izzy's hackles rise.
"We're managing," Cory said firmly.
"Of course." Janet touched Tom's arm. "We just wanted you to know not everyone believes these ridiculous accusations."
"Actually," Tom shuffled his feet, "I wanted to apologize. My reports might have contributed to this mess. If I'd been more thorough?—"
"Tom, stop." Janet's voice carried gentle reproach. "You can't blame yourself for doing your job."
"I should have caught the sabotage?—"
"How could you? You're an insurance investigator, not a criminal detective." Janet turned to Izzy. "He's been beating himself up. Barely sleeping."
"It's not your fault," Izzy heard herself saying, even as she noted Tom's tells. Was his distress genuine or performance? She wished Kenji was here. He’d know.
"Of course." Janet's smile never wavered. "Well, we should go."
After they left, Izzy slumped against the door. How much worse was this nightmare going to get? Cory was right. Her friends would float her whatever funds she needed. Or they’d reimburse Cory the minute they had a chance. It wasn’t that. It was the sheer weight of it all….
She headed back upstairs. "I'm making dinner. I cook when I'm stressed."
"I noticed." His small smile took any sting from the words. "What can I do?"
"Chop vegetables. And tell me we're going to solve this."
They worked in comfortable synchronization. Izzy found comfort in the routine—dice the onions, mince the garlic, sear the chicken. Normal actions while her world crumbled.
"What about my mortgage?" she asked suddenly.
"I'll handle it."
"You can't pay my mortgage?—"
"I can and I will." He set down the knife, facing her. "Someone's trying to destroy you. Financial pressure is part of their strategy. No way they win."
Tears pricked her eyes. When was the last time someone had simply stepped up for her? No questions, no conditions, just support?
She set dinner out on the kitchen island. As Cory reached for his fork, he paused.
"Mind if I say grace?"
"Please." The word came out before she could overthink it.
He extended his hand across the table. After a moment's hesitation, she took it, his palm warm and calloused against hers.
"Lord, thank You for this food, for safety in the storm. Help us find truth and justice. Protect Chantal and Luz wherever they are. Guide our steps. Give us wisdom to see clearly and strength to stand firm. Amen."
"Amen," she echoed, not immediately releasing his hand.
"My dad used to say grace," she found herself admitting. "Every meal, no matter how simple. Even just sandwiches, he'd pause and give thanks."
"What happened to him?"
