Epilogue - Sabrina #2
"Three tiny cabins out in the boonies," he said, a thread of condescension winding through each word. "Very ambitious. I saw the article in that little local paper. 'Norman House Retreats.' Cute name. You always did like projects that looked noble on paper, even when they made no financial sense."
"You mean the kind of projects that don't require stepping on people's necks to succeed," she said. "The kind that build something instead of just extracting value until there's nothing left."
His eyes cooled, the pretense of casual interest dropping away to reveal something harder underneath. "It was a dead investment, Sabrina. I told you that for years. I tried to help you get out clean, to walk away with something to show for all that effort. You refused to listen."
"You tried to talk me into selling to a company you knew was circling," she said, the pieces clicking together in her mind with a clarity that had been building for months. "A company that had very specific plans for that shoreline. There's a difference between help and manipulation."
Bree let out a low sound, something between recognition and disgust. "You knew about Seaside. You knew the whole time."
"Of course I knew," Gavin said, and there was almost pride in his voice now, the satisfaction of someone revealing a cleverness he'd been forced to hide.
"I do my homework. Always have. The offers they made were generous.
More than generous. You could've walked away with a solid return instead of watching your life burn down around your stubborn principles. "
Heat crawled up Sabrina's neck, spreading across her chest. But it wasn't the wild, helpless kind that had grabbed her in the days after the fire, the panic that made her feel like she was drowning in smoke even when the sky was clear.
This was something steadier. Something that felt like strength finding its footing.
"You really want to stand in a room full of roses and talk about my inn burning like it was a business strategy?" she asked. "Like it was just another line item on a spreadsheet?"
He shrugged, the gesture elegant and utterly without remorse. "It was a strategic adjustment. Tragic, yes, but look at you now. New venture. New man. New lease on life, as they say. Some women need disaster to make them finally move forward."
Bree took another step, her body coiled tight with barely contained fury. "Keep talking about disaster, and I'll show you one. Right here. Right now. These vases look heavy enough to make a point."
Sabrina's hand found Bree's arm, fingers pressing gently against the tension she found there. "Hey. I've got this."
She turned fully toward Gavin, the bouquet still clutched in her other hand, her shoulders squared in a way that felt like armor.
"You don't get to rewrite this," she said, and her voice didn't waver at all.
"What happened to Norman House wasn't a strategic adjustment.
It wasn't an opportunity dressed up as tragedy.
It was arson. It was a crime. It was someone deciding that my life, my family's legacy, my home, was in their way, and the easiest solution was fire.
That's on them. Not on me for refusing to sell. "
He lifted an eyebrow, the expression so familiar it made her stomach turn. "Always so dramatic. That's one thing that hasn't changed."
"You don't know the half of it," she said.
"But here's what you should know, since you drove all this way: I'm not tired anymore.
I'm not confused. I'm not lying awake wondering if I was wrong about everything, if I should have listened to you when you told me to give up.
I know exactly who I am now. I know exactly what this land is worth, and it has nothing to do with numbers on an appraisal.
I'm marrying a man who shows up when things are hard, not just when he can win an argument or close a deal. "
"Oh, right," Gavin said, his lip curling slightly. "The mechanic. Very solid life plan. I'm sure that works out exactly the way you're hoping."
"He's a firefighter," Bree said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "And a co-owner of a thriving motorcycle restoration business. And even if he worked part-time scooping ice cream at the boardwalk, he'd still be ten times the man you are on your best day."
Gavin ignored her, his attention fixed on Sabrina with an intensity that might have unsettled her once. "Still collecting strays and lost causes, I see. Still surrounding yourself with people who tell you what you want to hear instead of what you need to know."
Bree's hand flexed at her side, fingers curling into a fist. "I will put you through that display window. I'm not kidding. It'll be worth whatever the glass costs."
Out of the corner of her eye, Sabrina saw the florist pick up the phone, her movements quiet and deliberate. She pressed it to her ear, lips moving in words too soft to carry, then offered a quick nod that meant whoever was on the other end had heard enough and was responding.
Sabrina held Gavin's gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
"You really believed I'd break, didn't you?
" she asked. "That they'd light a match, scare me off my own land, and you'd get to tell yourself you were right all along when I crawled away with nothing. "
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the carefully maintained surface of his composure. "I didn't light anything. I never touched a match."
"No," she said, the word landing like a stone in still water.
"You just fed them information. You told them where my weak points were, how much debt I was carrying, how stubborn I could be about letting go.
You made sure they knew how alone I was, how isolated, how unlikely to have anyone in my corner when things got hard. "
Color rose along his collar, climbing toward his jaw like a tide. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" she asked, and something almost like a smile touched her mouth. "Because Sergeant Diaz has been very thorough. She's the kind of person who pulls every thread until the whole sweater comes apart."
He flinched at the name. It was small, barely perceptible, just a flicker of something around his eyes and a slight stiffening of his shoulders. But Sabrina saw it, and something inside her settled into a hard, bright clarity.
The bell over the door jingled again, the cheerful sound at odds with the tension crackling through the room.
"Speak of the devil," Bree muttered, a note of savage satisfaction in her voice.
Diaz stepped through the doorway, her presence immediately commanding the space in a way that had nothing to do with her size and everything to do with the authority she carried like a second skin.
Dark jeans. Copper Moon PD hoodie with the sleeves pushed up.
Badge visible at her belt, catching the light.
Her gaze swept the room once, efficient and thorough, cataloging positions and expressions and the particular quality of tension in the air.
Her eyes landed on Gavin. Held. Didn't waver.
"Well," she said, her voice carrying that particular calm that Sabrina had learned to recognize as the precursor to action. "This is convenient."
Gavin huffed out a laugh that didn't quite land. "Sergeant. Always a pleasure."
"I bet," Diaz said drily. She shut the door behind her with unnecessary care, the soft click of the latch somehow more ominous than a slam would have been. Her attention shifted to the florist. "You called?"
The florist nodded quickly, relief evident in the slump of her shoulders. "He came in right after these two. They seemed tense. I thought it might be a good idea to have someone know."
"You thought right," Diaz said, and there was warmth in her voice that hadn't been there when she looked at Gavin.
Her attention swung back to him like a searchlight finding its target.
"You picked a hell of a place for a victory lap, Gavin.
A flower shop. Wedding planning. Bit theatrical, even for you. "
"I'm shopping," Gavin said, the words coming faster now, less polished. "Or I was, until my welcome committee started throwing around accusations and threats."
Diaz's mouth tipped, not quite a smile, something closer to the expression a cat might wear while watching a mouse realize the situation it was in. "Good news. I can clear up the confusion."
She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, holding it up between two fingers like an accusation.
"Gavin Hartley," she said, her voice shifting into something formal and iron-edged. "You are under arrest."
The room seemed to narrow around that sentence, the flowers and vases and morning light all fading to background noise.
Gavin's laugh came out sharp, too loud for the space. "For what? Having bad taste in exes? Visiting a small town? This is harassment."
"Fraud," Diaz said, ticking off the charges with evident satisfaction. "Conspiracy to commit arson. Aiding and abetting intimidation of a protected property owner. We can add 'loitering in a flower shop with an attitude problem' later if we need padding for the paperwork."
The florist made a small sound behind the counter, something between a gasp and a prayer.
Gavin's eyes went flat, the charm dropping away to reveal something cold and calculating underneath. "You have no proof. This is conjecture. My lawyers will eat this alive."
"Oh, see, that's the thing," Diaz said, and there was genuine pleasure in her voice now, the satisfaction of a job completed well.
"We do have proof. Quite a lot of it, actually.
Seaside Development's books got cracked wide open last month.
Forensic accountants. Federal interest. The whole nine yards. "
She took a step closer to Gavin, that paper still held between her fingers like a flag of victory.