“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?”
“Yeah,” Bree said. Her artist’s brain cataloged the angle of the man’s head, the way his hand tightened on the steering wheel. “Just… looking at the view. The harbor’s so close it feels like you could fall into it.”
“You always did like getting close to the edge of things,” her mom said. “You sure about this? Staying there. Building a life that isn’t two hours down the road.”
Bree watched Hank push off the wall and glance up, checking windows automatically. His gaze found her; he tipped his chin in question. She lifted a hand and gave a small wave, pointing subtly toward the street.
He turned, casual, like he was only stretching. His eyes tracked to the sedan. After a beat, the car pulled away, merging into light traffic and disappearing around the corner.
“I’m sure I need to try,” Bree said, pulling her focus back to the phone. “If I come back now, before I’ve given this a real shot, I think I’ll always wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stayed.”
“And if it doesn’t work?” her mom asked.
“Then I’ll figure something else out,” Bree said. “But right now, when I picture the future, it’s not just me in an apartment full of half-packed boxes and memories. It’s this building. The shop downstairs. The studio up here. Hank. People climbing stairs to see what I made of all this grief.”
“You always did make things out of what hurt,” her mom said softly.
Bree swallowed. “I learned from the best.”
Her mom made another small sound.
“Can you and Dad come down when we get closer?” Bree asked. “I’d like you to see it before it’s finished. Help me decide where the Bryn wall goes.”
“We’d like that,” her mom said. “Your father’s nodding. He says he’ll bring a level.”
Bree laughed. “Of course he will.”
“I know you’re going to be okay,” her mom said. “I just need a little time to catch up to it.”
“Take all the time you need,” Bree said. “I’m not going anywhere for a while.”
“We love you,” her mom said.
“I love you too,” Bree replied.
