Expensive boots.
Not a speck of dust on him.
Like destruction is just another meeting on his calendar.
“We’re prepared to make you a generous offer,” he says pleasantly.
I rest my hands on the counter that somehow survived the fire.
“I’m not selling.”
He nods, as if that answer was expected.
“Of course,” he says. “But rebuilding will be… difficult.”
“Why?” I ask.
He gestures lightly toward the burned walls.
“Environmental reviews can take years,” he says. “Insurance disputes too.”
The words are calm.
Professional.
But something cold crawls up my spine.
“And if I don’t sell?”
He shrugs.
“Then you wait.”
He slides a business card across the counter.
White.
Thick paper.
No company logo.
Just a name and a phone number.
“Think of it as an early retirement,” he adds.
I look at him.
Really look.
At the calm eyes.
The rehearsed sympathy.
The quiet certainty.
“You tell whoever sent you,” I say slowly, “this town doesn’t scare easy.”
He smiles again.
