Chapter 10 #2
"Go," Hank said, jerking his chin toward the door. "We'll flag anything we see. And Colby?" He waited until Colby met his eyes. "Bree and I are here if you need anything else. Dinner. Company. A place to decompress that isn't your own four walls. Whatever."
"Same," Brian said. "My couch isn't fancy, but it's available. And I make a mean frozen pizza."
Despite everything, Colby felt his mouth curve. "I'll keep that in mind."
Brian pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then swiveled them toward Colby. "Text when you get home. Since you're apparently the guy who texts Sabrina, she's going to have my head if you disappear off the radar."
Colby huffed a laugh. "Yes, Dad."
He took one last look at the bike on the lift, the parts waiting patiently for hands to assemble them, then headed back out into the morning light.
The drive back to his house was short, the streets of Copper Moon quiet this time of day. He found himself scanning the sidewalks anyway, checking faces, looking for expensive jackets and polished smiles.
Old habits. New stakes.
The motion sensor near the front door gave its soft chime as he stepped inside, announcing his return to the quiet house.
Sabrina sat at the kitchen table with her laptop open and a legal pad covered in notes beside it. Her phone rested on the table, speaker mode active, a woman's professional voice already mid-sentence when he walked in.
"...so as we discussed, Ms. Hartley, the adjuster has confirmed total loss on the main structure," the woman was saying. "Your policy includes replacement coverage on the dwelling itself, subject to your deductible and the policy limits we reviewed earlier."
Sabrina's hand tightened around her pen, knuckles going pale. "Right."
Colby set his keys down quietly on the counter and stayed near the doorway, giving her space to finish the call but staying within her line of sight.
She glanced over, met his eyes, and some of the tension in her shoulders visibly eased.
Like just having him there made the conversation easier to bear.
"What does that mean in actual numbers?" Sabrina asked, her voice carefully controlled. "Ballpark."
"You're looking at a payout somewhere in the low to mid six figures once everything clears," the woman said.
"I'd like to be more precise, but we're still waiting on a final report for a small portion of the structural assessment.
The contents coverage is separate and will depend on the inventory you're compiling. Have you been able to start that?"
Sabrina swallowed hard, her throat moving visibly. "That's... more than I thought, honestly. And yes, I've started the inventory. It's slow going, trying to remember everything that was in the building."
"Take your time with it," the woman said, her tone softening slightly. "I know this is overwhelming. The important thing is that you were properly insured. You did that part right. Whatever else happened, you protected yourself as much as anyone could. We'll move as quickly as we can on our end."
"It is overwhelming," Sabrina said. "But thank you. I appreciate you being straightforward with me."
They wrapped up the details. Forms to sign. Timelines to expect. The kind of practical administrative talk that made Colby's eyes glaze over but clearly mattered, the bureaucratic scaffolding that would eventually turn tragedy into something resembling a path forward.
When Sabrina finally ended the call, she let the phone drop to the table and stared at the legal pad like she was waiting for the notes to rearrange themselves into something that made sense.
"Hey," Colby said softly, crossing to the table. "You okay?"
She blew out a long breath. "I will be. I think. Eventually."
He pulled out the chair beside her instead of across from her, wanting to be close. "Tell me."
She tapped the pen against the page, a restless rhythm. "I just sat through a conversation where a stranger reduced my entire home to a line item. One big, neat number in a column on a spreadsheet somewhere. Thirty-eight years of memories. My grandparents' whole lives. All of it, quantified."
He nodded slowly. "That sounds rough."
"It was." She turned the notepad so he could see what she'd written.
Numbers with arrows, ranges, and little annotations in the margins.
Her handwriting was neat but tight, the letters pressed hard into the paper.
"She said they'll cut a check that would cover rebuilding a structure about the same size as Norman House.
If I wanted to put it back exactly the way it was, I could probably do it.
Eventually. After all the paperwork and the waiting and the construction. "
He studied her face, reading the conflict there. "Do you want that? To rebuild it exactly?"
She looked toward the window, out in the direction of her land, miles away but never far from her thoughts. "No."
"Okay," he said. "So what do you want?"
"The cabins." Her voice was quiet but certain, the conviction underneath it growing stronger the more she spoke.
"Not tomorrow. I can't go from ashes to blueprints overnight.
I need time to grieve, to figure things out, to make sure I'm thinking clearly.
But that money..." She pressed her hand flat against the notepad.
"That money means I don't have to sell the land to do it.
I can build something new. Something smaller. Something smarter."
She gave a shaky half-laugh. "Norman House Cabins might actually be more than just me talking to myself in a field full of ashes."
Warmth spread through his chest, the kind that had nothing to do with temperature. "That's good news. That's really good news."
"It is." She pressed the heel of her hand to her chest like she was trying to contain everything swelling inside her.
"It also means whoever set that fire didn't destroy everything.
They knocked down a building. They didn't erase my future.
They didn't take the land or the insurance I'd been paying into for years. They didn't take me."
He reached for her hand, weaving his fingers through hers. "They can't."
Her fingers tightened around his, holding on.
"I hate that I feel relieved about an insurance payout that's directly tied to arson, while Diaz is out there trying to figure out if my ex-husband lit the match.
It feels wrong somehow. Like I shouldn't be allowed to feel hope and fury at the same time. "
"Both things can be true," he said. "You can be relieved and pissed off simultaneously. You can grieve and plan at the same time. That's allowed. That's human."
She let her head tip toward his shoulder, resting against him. "You make everything sound so simple."
"It's not," he said. "Not even close. But you're not carrying it alone. That's the part that matters."
She looked up at him, her eyes clear and steady despite the emotional weight of the morning. "I know. That's the part that keeps surprising me. Every time I expect to be doing this by myself, you're there."
He squeezed her hand. "Get used to it."
Her mouth curved into something that was almost a smile. "Bossy."
"Honest," he corrected.
Her laugh was softer this time, threaded with something that sounded like hope trying to take root.
They sat there at his kitchen table, fingers intertwined, the motion sensors standing silent guard at the doors, and the weight of unknown motives still pressing around them from every direction.
The house was quiet except for the soft ticking of the cheap clock above the stove and the distant sound of a car passing on the street outside.
It should have felt like too much. The investigation was still open. Gavin was still unaccounted for. The future was still uncertain in a hundred different ways.
Instead, it felt like a line had been drawn. A boundary. A declaration.
Whoever had lit that fire had changed Sabrina's life. They'd burned down her history, her inheritance, the building her grandparents had poured their lives into.
But they hadn't broken her.
Not while she had breath in her lungs and fire of her own in her eyes.
Not while he was in the picture.
He looked at her profile, at the stubborn set of her jaw and the determination that lived beneath the exhaustion, and felt something settle into place in his chest. Something that felt a lot like certainty.
Whatever came next, they'd face it together.
That was the only plan that mattered.