The wind howled through the clearing, punctuating the silence.
If she walked, the bank would seize the property immediately. They’d auction it off as a distressed asset. Unfinished homes were poison to lenders; they’d sell it for pennies on the dollar just to get it off their books.
It wouldn't cover the loan. Not even close.
And then the bank lawyers would look for the next asset to liquidate. They’d see the lien on Olivia’s deed.
I could see the future playing out like a set of blueprints. The certified letters, the sheriff’s sale. Olivia spending the next two years in court, trying to prove she didn't sign those papers, while she watched strangers move into the only home she had left.
It would break her.
She had already lost her husband. She had lost her history. If she lost her home, she wouldn't survive it.
"I'll buy you out," I said.
Lucia blinked. "What?"
"Your half of the LLC. I'll pay you what you have in—two hundred thousand. Promissory note, due when the house sells."
She stared at me. "You're betting you can finish and sell it."
"Yes."
"And if you can't?"
"Then you're no worse off than walking away. But if I pull this off, you get your money back."
She stared at me like I’d just suggested we flap our arms and fly off the mountain. "Are you insane?"
"Probably."
"This project is underwater. It’s toxic. You’d be buying a six-figure debt and a construction disaster."
"I'll finish it," I said. "Six months. I'll get it dried in, rough it in, finish it out. I'll get it listed by June."
"How?" She shook her head, a frantic, jerky motion. "You have a job, don’t you? You have your own life. You can't just?—"
"I'm a contractor, Lucia. This is what I do. I fix broken houses."
"But why?" she demanded. Her voice cracked, raw with disbelief. "Why would you do that? You don't owe me anything. You don't owe Ryan anything—hell, after what he did, you should be lighting a match and burning this place to the ground."
I turned away from her and looked back at the house.
Through the massive open frame, I could see Olivia.
She was still standing at the window opening, a small, dark silhouette against the gray sky. Her hand was pressed against one of the rough-cut beams, and she was staring out toward the hills. Toward the reservoir and the curve in the road where her life had ended.
She looked so small in that massive, arrogant space. So incredibly alone.
Ryan had broken everything he touched. He had broken his marriage and this woman next to me. He had broken himself.
I couldn't fix Ryan.
But I could build a house.
"Because I have to," I said.
Chapter 17
