Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
RONAN
Wilson’s Hardware opens at eight. I’m there at eight-oh-five, notebook in hand. Replacing the electrical panel is today’s priority, before the house burns down.
The bell above the door announces my arrival. The store is empty except for someone stocking shelves at the far end, so I head straight for the electrical aisle.
“Wondered when I’d see you.”
Dan Hartman steps out from behind a display of power tools, wearing a red store vest. Seven years haven’t been kind to him.
The muscle from his football days has gone soft around his middle, and broken capillaries map his nose, evidence of too many beers, and not enough else to do. But that sneer is exactly the same.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me, but news travels fast in this town, so that isn’t unexpected.
“Heard you moved into a place on Cedar Street.” His eyes track over the tattoos on my arms. “Figured you’d show up for supplies at some point.”
I ignore him, and turn to check the wire gauges. The panel needs to be completely replaced, which means a total rewire of the first floor.
“Must be nice.” He moves closer. It’s deliberate, testing to see how I respond. “Being able to afford that neighborhood now. Real step up from where you used to sleep.”
My jaw tightens. He’s trying to get a reaction by reminding me of who I used to be. But times have changed, and so have I.
“I need a breaker panel.” I turn to face him fully, and wait while my height advantage registers.
He doesn’t back up, but something flickers in his eyes. Recognition, maybe, or acknowledgement that the skinny, starving teen he used to shove into lockers isn’t what’s standing in front of him now. His fingers twitch against his thigh. He used to do that as a kid … right before he threw a punch.
“Seven years since they dragged you out of here.” He tries to make it sound casual, and fails. “Prison changed you that much?”
“Do you really want to find out?”
Color floods his face. His fingers ball into fists, and for a second, I think he might actually try something. I almost hope he does. The air between us crackles with unfinished business.
“Town’s been talking.” His voice rises. “About how you got that house, and where the money came from.”
I grab more wire, adding it to my cart. Let him run his mouth. He can try and get under my skin all he likes with his small-town gossip and old memories.
“Kind of funny, isn’t it?” He follows me down the aisle, so close behind me I can smell him. “You living up there now. After what happened at Feldman’s store.”
I turn fast enough to make him stumble back into a display. Paint cans rattle.
“After what happened?”
“Breaking into the store, getting caught, and making the front page.” His chin lifts in a move of defiance, trying to prove to himself that he’s not scared of me.
But his eyes keep darting to my hands, my arms, and the tattoos that mark every year I wasn’t here.
“Now you’re back, throwing money around like—”
I step into his space, and his eyes widen.
“Like what?” My voice is soft. “Like someone who did his time? Grew up? Paid his dues? Or are you still telling the same stories about the kid who slept in abandoned buildings?”
He tries to hold his ground. I take another step forward, and he falls back.
“At least I didn’t do time.”
“No.” I smile. It has teeth. “You’ve just spent it reliving your glory days at high school. How’s that working out for you?”
The color that filled his cheeks earlier drains away. He looks away first. He hasn’t changed from the guy who peaked in high school. He’s still trying to prove himself by breaking others down.
“Everything okay here?” An older man appears. Wilson himself, I’m guessing, based on the name tag.
“Fine.” I don’t take my eyes off Dan. “Just need a breaker panel.”
Wilson looks between us, easily reading the tension. “Dan, go check the delivery that just arrived out back.”
Dan’s jaw works. For a moment, it looks like he might argue, then he turns and stalks away, shoulders rigid with anger.
“We keep a few panels in stock.” Wilson gestures for me to follow him. “You got experience with electrical work?”
I pull out my phone and show him my certifications. He reads them, unlike most people who just want to check a box.
“These are good.” He hands back my phone. “You’ll need permits too.”
“Already on it.”
He walks around the store with me, filling my cart with wire, conduit, junction boxes and the tools I’ll need, then rings everything up. The total is high enough to raise his eyebrow, but low enough that it barely breaks into the ten thousand allowance I have. I hand him my bank card.
“Need help loading up?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Dan reappears while I’m packing everything into the trunk of the car, hovering in the doorway.
The same ugly looks twist his features, but there’s something else there too, now.
Something desperate. As though he can’t stand that the kid he used to torment turned into someone who doesn’t need to take his shit anymore.
“Those rich neighbors know about your record?” His voice carries across the parking lot, sharp with spite. “Or where you used to live? Do they have any idea who you really are?”
I slam the trunk. Hard. The sound cracks through the air like a gunshot. “Why don’t you tell them … since you’re so interested in my life.”
He steps out of the doorway, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “Just think people should know what kind of person has moved into their street.”
“What kind of person is that, Dan?” I cross the distance between us in three long strides. He backs into the brick wall with a thud. “Someone who did his time and moved on? Or someone like you, who needs to push people around to feel big?”
His face flushes, then pales. Sweat beads on his upper lip despite the cold.
“You think you’re better than us now? Is that it? With your fancy house and your—”
“Better?” I plant one hand on the wall beside his head. “No, not better. Just different. But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? Since you haven’t changed at all.”
He can’t hold my stare. His mouth opens, but no words form. Instead, he presses himself back against the wall, trying to put space between us.
I pat his cheek gently. He flinches. “See you around, Dan.”
The drive back to the house takes less than ten minutes. My hands are steady on the wheel, but my jaw aches from clenching. The confrontation with Dan has left adrenaline humming under my skin and no way to burn it off.
I carry everything inside and force myself to focus.
The wiring won’t fix itself, and I’ve got better things to do than give Dan Hartman real estate in my head.
I unroll the wire, mapping out the path it needs to take.
The old circuits are a mess, junctions overloaded with decades of makeshift repairs.
I start by pulling staples, and cutting away rotted insulation, making room for what comes next.
Hours pass. The light shifts through the windows, afternoon fading to dusk. My hands move on autopilot—strip wire, crimp connections, test voltage. The rhythm steadies me, and eases the tightness that’s been in my chest since Saturday night.
Since I saw her.
By the time I call it a day, my hands and back are aching. But the new wiring is in. And Dan’s words are still spinning in my head.
Let them talk. I don’t care if they’re wondering where the money came from, and what prison did to me. They can make up all the reasons they want for why I came back to a town that never wanted me in the first place.
I scrub my hands clean in the kitchen sink, watching as dirt and sweat swirls down the drain. The water is still running when a knock sounds at the front door. My shoulders tense.
It’s past seven. Who the hell—
Tom is standing on the porch when I open the door, toolbox in hand.
“I saw you unloading supplies earlier. Thought you might want some extra tools while you’re working.”
I eye the toolbox, then him. “Got my own.”
“Sure you do.” He sets it down anyway. “But these belonged to Harris. I figured they should stay with the house.”
My heart picks up speed at the mention of his name, and I look down. The toolbox looks well-used, handles worn smooth from years of use.
“He used to putter around here on weekends,” Tom continues. “Never was much good at fixing things, but he said it kept him amused once he retired from teaching. Always said he was setting up the project for you.” He looks past me, and into the house. “Are you taking it room by room?”
I nod, not really wanting to invite more conversation.
“I’ll be leaving you to it then.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “Offer still stands, by the way. Friday drinks. No pressure, just some of the … nicer … neighbors.”
I don’t answer, and he walks away, whistling quietly under his breath.