They climbed the stairs together.
In the dim light of the upper level, Colby had rigged a projector against the far wall. A sketch bloomed across the brick; the beginnings of Bryn’s wall, not in stark portrait realism, but in lines and shapes that suggested motion, flight, wheels. Around her, abstract swirls hinted at tracks, at waves, at something larger.
Bree’s heart punched her ribs.
“I know it’s rough,” Colby said quickly. “And we’ll refine it. But I wanted you to see the scale. The way the light hits.”
She stepped closer, fingers hovering just shy of the bricks.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered.
“Give it time,” Colby said. “It’ll get there.”
Hank stood behind her, hand at her waist. “You’re doing good work, man,” he said.
“This only works if it works for all of us,” Colby said. “She’s going to have a lot of company up there. Names, stories. Feels like the least I can do.”
Bree imagined that future; people standing here, tracing names with their eyes, seeing Bryn not as a tragedy but as a part of something living.
The warehouse, the house, the barn. The case Diaz was building. The network Colby was helping map. Brian’s paint-splattered arms. Liz’s dog-eared ordinances.
All of it threaded together, messy and imperfect and real.
Bree reached for Hank’s hand, fingers lacing with his.
Whatever the board said. Whatever the sellers countered. Whatever their hornet’s nest decided to do next.
They had started. They weren’t stopping.
“Okay,” she said, voice steady. “Let’s build a life.”
Chapter 24
Hank sat in the second row of the council chamber, the wooden chair creaking every time he shifted his weight. The room felt too small for the way his chest kept expanding and tightening, like it was trying to be two sizes at once.
Copper Moon’s zoning board looked exactly like every other board he’d ever seen: a long table, nameplates, water pitchers, and stacks of papers. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A faded photograph of the harbor hung crooked on the back wall.
Beside him, Bree’s knee bounced once, twice, then stilled when he laid his hand over it. Her fingers twitched around the folder in her lap, the edges softened from being gripped all morning.
“You’re doing it again,” he murmured.
“Breathing?” she whispered back.
He fought a smile. “Looking like you’re about to bolt.”
Her gaze flicked up to his, brown eyes sharp and scared and stubborn. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “You’re stuck with me.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I signed a lot of paperwork based on that assumption.”
She huffed out a quiet laugh, some of the tension in her shoulders easing.
Across the aisle, Liz Harper stood near the end of the board table, conferring with the clerk. She wore her usual mayoral armor: crisp blazer, sensible heels, the kind of calm that made people think rules were a suggestion she’d already considered and adjusted.
Behind them, the chamber was fuller than he’d expected for a weekday afternoon. Lila from the café sat near the back, hands folded over her purse. The marina manager slouched in a corner, arms crossed. The antique shop couple sat together, the husband already taking notes. Jason lounged against the wall near the door, work boots planted wide, hair still dusty from the job site.
Colby and Brian had squeezed into the row behind Hank and Bree. Brian’s knee bumped his chair rhythmically. Colby’s gaze tracked the exits, the sprinkler heads, the wall sconces, all the quiet habits Hank had come to recognize from someone who spent his life thinking about worst-case scenarios.
“You know there’s a fire extinguisher every twenty feet in here, right?” Hank murmured without turning.
