There was one Sunday I’d spent three years trying to forget.
It was late summer, that heavy, golden hour light pouring through their windows. Olivia was reaching for a serving platter on a high shelf, her shirt riding up just an inch to reveal a sliver of skin at her lower back. Ryan was outside, the smell of charcoal and burgers drifting through the screen door.
I’d been standing right there, too close to be polite. I was close enough to see the small mole just above her waistband, close enough that when she turned around and nearly collided with me, the world seemed to shrink to the space between us.
She’d laughed, startled, and steadied herself with a hand on my chest.Sorry—didn’t see you there.
Her palm had been warm, the heat of it soaking through my shirt. She smelled like vanilla and laundry dried in the sun, a scent that felt like home and danger all at once. I’d stepped back fast—too fast—and handed her the platter without a word. I’d spent the rest of the night outside, watching Ryan burn the edges of hot dogs and telling myself that the kick in my chest was just the beer.
She was Ryan’s wife. That was the boundary. That was the law.
But standing in the empty shop, holding that stupid mug, the law didn’t exist anymore
Ryan was gone. Olivia was standing in the middle of wreckage, and I'd just bet everything I had on pulling her out of it.
Six months. Timber frame to finished house. That was the job.
I washed the mug, dried it with a shop rag, then set it in the cup holder of the cab of my truck, wedged tight so it wouldn't slide. It looked out of place there—too small and too clean against the dash—but I wanted it with me. If I was going to be living out on Route 9 for the next six months, I might as well have a decent cup for my coffee.
Sunday morning, the work would start. And as long as I kept my eyes on the wood and the nails, I could keep convincing myself that the work was all that mattered.
Chapter 19
Olivia
Ipulled into the clearing at six-thirty in the morning, while the sky was still the color of a fresh bruise.
My headlights swept across the timber frame, catching the yellow pine beams in a harsh, skeletal glare. It looked larger in the dark, a massive wooden ribcage rising out of the frozen mud. I killed the engine and sat there, watching my breath fog the windshield into a white haze. The silence of the woods was absolute, a heavy, suffocating blanket that made the blood hum in my ears.
I should have been terrified. Alone in the dark, staring at the monument to my husband's lies. But I wasn't. Because I had a system.
I'd spent the last week building it because I couldn't survive another day of free-fall. I didn't know a joist from a stud, but I knew how to manage a crisis. I'd spent years organizing chaos—marriage licenses filed by date, property deeds cross-referenced by owner and parcel number, death certificates indexed and preserved. At the town hall, I was an archivist. I cataloged the paper trail of people's lives: proof they existed, proof they owned things, proof they were gone. It was what I did. What I was good at.
Organizing chaos was the only thing I had left.
Ben would build the house. I would build the wall of paperwork that protected us while he did it.
I reached for the door handle, but a beam of light cut across my dashboard—a flashlight, bright and invasive. A shadow moved into the glow, blocking my view.
Ben.
He was already at work. His truck was parked twenty feet away, the tailgate down and tools scattered across the bed like a metal buffet. He walked up to my window and knocked twice. The sound was sharp, vibrating through the glass and into my shoulder.
I rolled the window down. The January air rushed in, stinging my cheeks.
"What are you doing here?" He sounded like he hadn't slept since I’d last seen him. The exhaustion in his voice was a physical weight, a gravelly rasp that made the air feel even colder.
"Working," I said. My voice was steadier than I felt.
"It's six-thirty on a Sunday, Olivia. You shouldn't be out here in the dark."
"You're here."
"I'm the contractor. I’m supposed to be here. This isn't exactly a spectator sport."
"And we’re both on the deed now," I said, pushing the door open and forcing him to step back. "Move, Ben."
He didn't move far. He loomed in the dim light, a solid, stubborn obstacle that seemed to soak up the shadows. He looked down at me, his brow furrowed. "You don't need to be here. This isn't a place for you right now. You have a life to get back to, Liv. Aren’t you going back to work tomorrow? Your bereavement leave is?—"
