Bree leaned her shoulder against the window frame. The light was warm on her face, smelling faintly of dust and salt. “How are you?” she asked.
“Tired,” her mom said. “The good kind, where you’ve cried it out, and your husband made you sit on a bench and eat half his granola bar. Your father wishes me to inform you that the grounds crew needs to mow the north slope more often.”
Bree smiled. “Of course he does.”
“How are you?” her mom asked. “And don’t say ‘fine.’”
“I’m… hopeful,” Bree said slowly. “Scared. But hopeful.”
“Tell me about this place,” her mom said. “The building. I’ve been picturing some kind of haunted shack by the docks.”
“It’s not haunted,” Bree said. “It’s old. Brick warehouse on Bay Street, two blocks from the harbor. Ground floor’s going to be the performance shop. High ceilings, concrete floor, lots of space for lifts and whatever mechanical wizardry Hank and the guys need. Upstairs…” She turned, letting her gaze travel over the room. “Upstairs is big. Wood floors, tall windows facing the water. It’s rough right now, but you can see what it wants to be.”
“Which is?” her mom asked softly.
“A studio,” Bree said. “And a small gallery. I can see easels, canvases, and a big table in the middle for messy work. A corner where I can just sit and stare at things when I forget how to be a person.” Her throat got tight. “And a wall dedicated to Bryn.”
There was a quiet sound on the other end of the line; she knew that inhale, that small intake that meant her mom was holding back tears.
“She’d like that,” her mom said. “What kind of wall?”
“Not portraits,” Bree said. “Not just her face. Pieces of her. Her Doc Martens under a bench. The coffee mug she stole from that diner. The paint on her knuckles. The way she’d leave smudges on doorframes like little fingerprints of color everywhere she went.”
“She did make a mess,” her mom said, a watery laugh threading through the words.
“A beautiful one,” Bree said. “I want people who never knew her to stand here and feel like they’re meeting her anyway.”
“I can’t decide if that makes me want to cry or clap,” her mom said. “Maybe both.”
“Same,” Bree admitted.
“Do you have to decide about the money now?” her mom asked quietly. “The insurance.”
“No,” Bree said. “But I want to. I’ve been letting it sit like a stone in my pocket for a year. It feels heavier every day I don’t use it. Hank said something this morning that stuck, about money not knowing where it came from, only what we use it for. I think I want to turn some of it into walls and light and paintings instead of letting it gather dust in a bank account.”
Her mom was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had steadied. “Then that’s what you should do,” she said. “We gave it to you for your future, not for guilt.”
“I know,” Bree said. “I just had to catch up to the idea.”
“Is it safe?” her mom asked suddenly. “This warehouse. This town. You said there was cheating at the race. People being shady.”
“There was,” Bree said. She glanced out the window at the street. Hank stood with his back to the wall, his gaze sweeping the block, automatic and practiced.
“And?” her mom prompted.
“And we spoke up,” Bree said. “Hank turned in the illegal kit. The police are on it. There’s some fallout there; Sergeant Diaz said the people who were profiting from it aren’t thrilled. But the mayor’s on our side. The cop in charge knows what she’s doing. They’re putting cameras in the area. We’re not walking into this blind.”
Her mom let out a low sound. “I don’t like the idea of you being anywhere near people who make money by hurting others.”
“Nobody does,” Bree said. “But pretending they don’t exist doesn’t make them go away. At least here we’re surrounded by people who give a damn. Hank’s not going to ignore it. Neither is Diaz.”
“And you,” her mom said.
“And me,” Bree agreed.
She noticed movement across the street; a silver sedan had eased to the curb, idling. A man in a ball cap sat behind the wheel, his posture just a little too stiff for someone taking a phone call. He looked toward the warehouse, then down the block.
“Bree?” her mom asked. “You still there?”
