forty
“Enough for today, ladies.” Maggie set down her sanding block and brushed sawdust from her jeans. The women of Haven House’s woodworking class gathered their tools, some lingering to admire their finished projects while others rushed off to collect children from the daycare room down the hall. The scent of fresh-cut pine and lemon oil hung in the air, mingling with the chatter of accomplishment—the sound of women rebuilding their lives one hand-made treasure at a time.
“Maggie, do you think I should add another coat of finish?” Marissa held up her small bookshelf, turning it to catch the light from the window.
“One more thin coat should do it. Let that dry completely first, though.” Maggie ran her finger along the edge of the shelf, nodding in approval. “Your sanding is perfect.”
Marissa beamed at the praise, her face transformed by the smile. Six weeks ago, she’d arrived at Haven House with a black eye and a broken spirit. Now she stood straighter, laughed more freely, made eye contact when she spoke.
“I’ll finish it next class,” she said, wrapping the shelf carefully in an old blanket. “Cason wants to put his Pokémon collection on it.”
“It’s the perfect display for Pokémon.” Maggie squeezed her shoulder. “Next week we’ll start on that desk for him, okay?”
The room emptied gradually, each woman carrying something she’d made with her own hands. Only Sarah remained, hunched over her keepsake box at the back table, meticulously applying grain filler to the corners.
“Sarah, class is over.”
No response.
“Sarah?”
Her head jerked up. She’d come so far in such a short time, but she was still as jumpy as a frightened doe, still carried that haunted look in her eyes. But there was also a new intensity there that hadn’t been present when she first arrived at Haven House.
“Sorry, I was just...” Sarah gestured to the box.
“No rush,” Maggie told her, beginning to wipe down the workbenches. “Take your time. I’m just cleaning up.”
“I want to get this part perfect.” Sarah didn’t look up, her dark hair falling forward to shield her face, and she bent over the box again. “It needs to be perfect.”
Maggie smiled at her fierce concentration. In the weeks since her arrival, Sarah had thrown herself into the woodworking classes with unexpected passion. Her box had started as a simple project—a basic hinged container for keepsakes—but had evolved into something far more elaborate. She’d added inlaid details, carved delicate patterns along the edges, even fashioned a tiny hidden compartment beneath a false bottom.
“It’s already gorgeous,” Maggie said, sweeping sawdust into a pile. “You’ve got a natural talent for detail work.”
Sarah didn’t respond, just kept working with that same intense focus.
Maggie left her to it and moved around the room, collecting discarded sandpaper and stacking lumber scraps. As sheworked, her thoughts drifted to the events of the past two weeks. Landry’s arrest had unleashed a flurry of activity—police statements, restraining order modifications, and endless calls from the network. The most disturbing revelation had come three days after his arrest when Ghost discovered that Landry had never actually been in Billings. He’d given his phone and wallet to some down-on-his-luck guy at a bar, creating an electronic trail that convinced everyone he was still hours away.
But he’d always been here, likely having followed her directly from Florida.
At least that answered one question. He’d been the one camping behind the forge near the creek. He’d likely been the one to stab Princess, though he’d repeatedly denied it.
“He’s going to get what he deserves.”
Maggie startled at Sarah’s voice. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped sweeping, lost in thought.
“Sorry, what?”
“That man—your ex.” Sarah looked up from her box, her expression unreadable. “He deserves whatever happens to him. Worse, even.”
Maggie set the broom aside. How did Sarah know what was on her mind? Had she been thinking out loud? “The legal system will handle him now.”
“Will it? Men like that know how to work the system. They cry and apologize and promise to change, and people believe them because they want to.”
Given her history, Sarah had every right to her bitterness.
“You’re right,” she acknowledged and leaned a hip against the worktable. “But Landry’s facing multiple charges. Breaking and entering, assault, violating a restraining order. The evidence is pretty solid.”
“Evidence can disappear. Witnesses can change their stories. Police officers can just be corrupt assholes who don’t want to do their jobs. It happens all the time.”
