I pick up the board again.Nail it into place.One strike, then another.The rhythm helps.
“So?”she presses.“You look like someone who knows people.”
I do know people.That’s exactly the problem.
I turn to face her.She’s watching me with that expression people get when they’re deciding whether you’re useful or just in the way.
“No,” I say.“I don’t.And what you’re asking is illegal.”
Her mouth twitches.Almost a smile.“So is half of what people do when they want to feel better.”
She’s not wrong.
But she doesn’t know about the Miller girl.About the funeral dress.About why I just spent the afternoon making sure one less person could sell what she’s asking for.
And I’m not about to explain it.
“I can’t help you,” I say.
She holds my gaze for a beat, then shrugs.Like it doesn’t matter.Like she was just making conversation.
“Fair enough,” she says.
She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear—highlighted, expensive.Soon it will grow out at the roots.The kind of detail she probably obsessed over in her old life.Out here, nobody will care.But she still moves like someone who’s used to being looked at.Assessed.Judged on presentation.
And that’s it.She goes back to her phone, scrolling through something, the ice pack balanced on her knee.
No negotiation.No second attempt.Just acceptance.
Most people would push.Would hint.Would circle back with a different angle ten minutes later.
She doesn’t.
I finish securing the step and test it with my weight.Solid now.It’ll hold.
“There,” I say, gathering my tools.“Should be good.”
She’s still scrolling, ankle propped, completely unaware I’m watching.There’s dirt under her nails.Her jeans are torn at the knee—not fashion, actual damage.But her posture’s still straight.Still controlled.Like if she lets herself slouch, the whole thing falls apart.
“Thanks,” she says without looking up.
I head back to the truck, feeling the dull ache in my hand with every movement.
The whole drive home, I keep thinking about the coincidence.About standing on her porch holding the hammer I’d used an hour earlier to solve a problem she’ll never know existed.
About how she asked for exactly what I’d just made sure no one could get.
Small town.Small coincidences.
Funny how things line up.
Except it’s not funny at all.
14
Marin
The knock comes at 9:47 a.m., which is somehow both too early and exactly on time for the kind of person who thinks showing up uninvited is neighborly.
