“Nope,” she said.
He looked back at her, at the spark in her eyes that looked a lot like fear and excitement braided together.
“I’m in,” he said.
“For the house?” she asked.
“For the life,” he replied.
Her breath hitched; she looked away for a second, blinking fast, then back.
“Good,” she said. “Because I already started a list of potential paint colors for the kitchen.”
He laughed, the sound bouncing off bare brick and old beams. For the first time that day, the knot in his chest loosened for more than a moment.
Tomorrow, they’d walk through other people’s rooms and try to imagine their own lives there. The board could still say no. The case Diaz was working on could still get ugly.
But sitting on paint buckets in a half-finished dream with grease on his hands and Bree at his side, Hank felt something he hadn’t in a long time.
Steady. Pointed somewhere. Moving.
Chapter 23
The farmhouse sat at the end of a gravel lane, its white paint a little tired, its front porch tilting with the weary charm of something that had held a lot of stories.
Bree climbed out of Hank’s truck and stood for a moment, letting the place settle into her bones. A line of old maples bordered the property, their leaves just beginning to hint at gold. Beyond the house, a weathered barn and a long, low outbuilding stretched toward a fringe of trees.
“Okay,” she said under her breath. “I see why you liked the pictures.”
Hank came around the front of the truck, keys jingling. “Good bones,” he said. “Kind of like you, Spencer.”
She elbowed him lightly. “Flatterer,” she said.
The realtor, Kara, waved from the porch. She was Diaz’s assistant’s cousin, early thirties, efficient, and tablet in hand.
“Hey!” Kara called. “You must be Bree and Hank. I’m so glad the timing worked. The sellers are already out, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.”
Bree mounted the three creaking steps, hand skimming the rail. The porch boards flexed a little, but held. The front door’s paint was chipped around the handle, the kind of wear that came from use, not neglect.
Inside, the air held a faint mix of dust and lemon cleaner. The front room opened into a big, square living space with hardwood floors and tall windows that looked out over the fields.
“It’s… bigger than I expected,” Bree said.
“The square footage is decent,” Kara said. “Three bedrooms, one and a half baths. Kitchen’s dated, but functional. The big draw is the land and the outbuildings. And the fact that you’re still only fifteen minutes from town.”
Hank walked to the nearest window, looking out. “I like the light,” he said. “And the fact that you can’t see the neighbors.”
Bree followed, standing beside him. From here, Copper Moon was a suggestion; a faint line of buildings beyond the fields. Close enough to reach, far enough to breathe.
Her mind flicked briefly to her old apartment; the way the walls had closed in near the end, the way the street noise had felt like an accusation, all those lives moving forward while hers held still.
“This feels…” She searched for the word.
“Open,” Hank supplied.
“Yeah,” she said.
They moved through the downstairs. The kitchen was as advertised: tired cabinets in an orangey oak, laminate counters, and an ancient stove that looked like it had opinions. But the footprint was good. A window over the sink framed the side yard. There was space for a small table or, if she squinted, a long counter where someone could spread out sketchbooks while another someone chopped vegetables.
