Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
RONAN
Sunday dawns gray and cold. I haven’t slept. I was too wired from seeing Lily, from everything trying to crowd into my head. Instead, I spent the night making lists, trying to understand exactly what Edwards has left me with.
Now sunlight is creeping across the hardwood floor that hasn't seen polish in years, illuminating layers of dust and neglect. The house feels different in daylight—bigger, emptier, and with problems I couldn’t see last night.
I grab my notebook and start in the basement.
Construction work taught me to start with foundations, with things that hold everything else up.
The air down here is thick and damp, carrying the smell of old concrete and standing water.
My boots splash through a shallow puddle at the base of the stairs.
Running my hand along the foundation wall, I feel for cracks, and the telltale texture of where water seeps through. The concrete is solid in some places, but the corners tell a different story. Water damage creeps up from where the drainage has failed, dark stains mapping its slow invasion.
I crouch, pressing my palm flat against the cold concrete. Moisture seeps through. The foundation is salvageable, but it needs work. Nothing I can’t handle.
The electrical panel looks original to the house, with ancient fuses where circuit breakers should be.
When I pop the cover, my jaw tightens. It’s worse than I thought.
Cloth-wrapped insulation, brittle with age.
Someone spliced in aluminum wire at some point, probably in the seventies when it was cheap.
Mixed with copper, it’s a textbook fire hazard.
I spent months in prison studying electrical codes. Memorizing wire gauges and load calculations because it was something to fill the hours between counts. Reading about proper grounding while sitting in a cell. Now that knowledge matters.
“First priority,” I mutter, adding it to the growing list. Can’t run power tools safely until that’s fixed.
Each issue gets its own page in the notebook, listing not just what needs fixing, but how. Along with what I can handle versus what might need permits. It’s all knowledge I gained while I was inside, and then working on construction sites.
The furnace kicks on with a sound like metal drowning. Heat rattles through ancient vents, carrying the sharp scent of dust burning of neglected coils. That’s another thing that will need replacing before winter really takes hold.
My hand moves across the page, sketching the layout of the house.
Each room gets its own diagram with problems noted.
I start calculating costs in my head. Wire by the foot, junction boxes, breakers.
The monthly allowance will cover the materials if I’m careful and take my time.
Especially if I can do it all myself. That’s the key.
Labor is where costs explode. It needs someone who’s willing to get dirty and do the work.
Someone who understands that sometimes the only way forward is to tear everything down and start again.
I have the time and the knowledge.
The issues are bad, but not impossible. I’ve done all of it before on other people’s buildings. This time it’s mine. I draw a timeline across the bottom of the page. Six months. That’s what Edwards gave me. Six months to make this place livable.
I lose track of time as I move through the house, room by room.
In the guest bathroom, I turn on the faucet and the pipes shudder before rust-colored water sputters out. The caulk around the tub is black with mold. When I press against the wall, the drywall gives, telling me there’s water damage behind it. The toilet rocks on a rotted floor flange.
The bedrooms are in better shape, but the windows are single-pane and painted shut. I try to open one and the sash cord snaps, the window dropping hard enough to crack the glass.
In what might have been a study, the ceiling has water stains spreading from each corner.
The attic is accessed through a pull-down ladder in the second floor hallway. When I climb up, dust motes dance in the shaft of light from the bare bulb. I think the insulation is original, the wiring makes my hands itch to rip it all out, and mouse droppings scatter across the floor.
Despite all the work the house needs, the structure itself is solid. Like Edwards said, it has good bones.
Hours pass. My hands and clothes get filthy, muscles protesting from bending, twisting, and climbing through tight spaces, but the list of problems becomes clearer and more defined, making it easier to put it in order of priority.
I’m back on the first floor, checking window frames, when I catch the scent of vanilla mixed with the dust. It’s just a trick of the air, something left in the old curtains maybe. But for a second, I’m eighteen again, with my hands in her hair and her breath against my neck.
I shove the memory down hard, and force myself to focus on the window in front of me.
I will not think about her voice saying my name on Main Street. I will not think about the expression on her face.
I move to the next window, testing the wood. I will work. That’s what I’m here to do.
By early afternoon, my body is protesting. My knees ache from kneeling, dust coats my lungs with every breath, my shoulder has started its familiar throb. I roll it, trying to work out the knots. The joint clicks, a reminder of damage that never healed quite right.
Hunger drives me back to the kitchen, where I grab bread and peanut butter from the groceries I bought yesterday, make a sandwich, and eat it standing at the counter while I review my notes.
I’ll start with the electrical issues. That needs fixing before anything else. After that, I’ll look at the roof and get that fixed up. Hopefully, before the next rain makes things worse. The hardware store opens tomorrow—
“Hello! Anyone home?” A woman’s voice scatters my thoughts.
I consider ignoring it, but she follows it up with an insistent knock. I set down my sandwich and walk out into the hall.
The woman on my porch looks like she owns the street. In her sixties, maybe. Expensive coat. Ruby earrings that have to be real. She startles when I open the door, gaze falling to my tattoos before jerking away and looking over my left shoulder.
“I’m Beverly Walsh. I live in the Victorian two doors down.
I noticed the lights on last night, and wanted to come and introduce myself.
” Her eyes scan the hallway behind me. “It’s good to see someone taking care of the place finally.
Harris was always talking about restoring it and living in it. He was such a dear friend.”
“Thanks.”
“You must be …” She tilts her head. I can see the calculation happening. The tattoos. The way I’m dressed. The way I don’t fit what she expects on Cedar Street.
“Ronan.”
“Ah.” Just one syllable, but it says everything I need to know. Her smile tightens, not quite reaching her eyes anymore. She’s heard my name. Maybe from Mitchell’s receptionist or the bank. Or maybe she remembers it from seven years ago when it was in the local paper.
The way she’s looking at me is one I’m used to. People see the ink, the hard edges, and decide they know exactly who I am.
“Well. Welcome to Cedar Street. If you need recommendations for contractors—”
“I’ve got it handled.”
She blinks. “Of course. Although, some of these older houses can be quite challenging. My husband and I recently had our kitchen renovated, and—”
“Thanks for stopping by.” I start to close the door.
“The neighborhood association meets on Thursdays. We’d love to have you—”
The door clicks shut before she finishes the sentence.
Through the window, I watch her lips purse, then she walks away, back straight, heels clicking sharply against the sidewalk.
Everything about her screams money and old power.
The kind of person who’s never had to wonder where their next meal is going to come from.
I’m back upstairs in one of the front bedrooms when I’m next disturbed.
“Hey! In the house!”
Jesus Fucking Christ.
I lean out of the upstairs window. A man is standing in the driveway next door.
“Saw you moving in,” he calls when he sees me. “You doing work on the old place?”
“Yeah.”
“Quite the project you’re taking on. Place needs a lot of—”
“I know what it needs.”
He raises an eyebrow at my tone. “Just trying to be neighborly. Name’s Tom, by the way.”
I don’t offer mine. Just nod once and duck back inside. He can make his own assumptions along with everyone else.
The afternoon continues to pass in a mix of inspection, planning, and note taking.
Every room holds a new surprise. Windows stick in their frames, painted shut years ago by someone who clearly didn’t know any better.
Doors need rehanging, carpets need ripping out and replacing, and I’m trying very hard not to even look at the wallpaper.
I’m examining a crack in the living room window frame when Tom’s voice drifts in through the open window.
“Getting dark in there. You’re going to need better lightning if you’re planning to work late.”
I move to the window. He’s watering his lawn. Maybe the grass grows better with adult supervision.
“Got it covered.”
“Listen.” He turns off the hose. “Some of us are having drinks on Friday. You should stop by and meet some of the neighbors.”
If they’re anything like Beverly Walsh, that’s going to be a hard pass. “Thanks, but I’ve got work to do.”
His expression says he expected that answer. “Well, the offer is there. We’re not all as uptight as Beverly.” He pauses, studying me. “Harris used to talk about you, you know. When he’d spend time here.”
Cold fingers slide down my spine. “What?”
“Nothing bad. Just that you were smart, and good with your hands. He said you’d do something with yourself if you got the chance.” He starts coiling the hose. “Guess he was right.”
I step back from the window.
Edwards talked about me?
I lean against the wall, pressing my forehead to the cool plaster. My throat is tight, and there’s an odd burning sensation behind my eyes that I don’t want to acknowledge.
Night creeps over the house while I’m still processing Tom’s words. The house settles around me, each creak and groan a reminder of work waiting to be done. I head back down to the kitchen and make coffee. While the machine heats up, I pick up Edwards’ letter again.
Maybe not everything needs to stay buried.
Did he know that coming back here would mean I’d have to face Lily again?
My reflection catches in the darkened window, and I turn to look. My shoulders are broader than they were at eighteen, tattoos cover my arms, my torso hidden by the T-shirt, my back and my neck. Muscles flex where bones used to show through. But seven years has changed more than my body.
The boy who slept in a factory and stole food is gone. The prisoner who learned to rewire panels and read blueprints has served his time. But the man standing here … I’m not sure who that is yet.
I know how to survive. I know how to work. I know how to fix broken things, at least when they’re made of wood and wire and concrete.
But people? Those are problems I don’t have blueprints for.
Tomorrow, I’ll go to the hardware store for wire, circuit breakers, and everything else I need to make this place safe. I’ll start the work.
Everything else—judgmental neighbors and the memories that plague me—they can wait.