Light in the Dark (Three Rivers #2)

Chapter 1

One

FELIX

I curse under my breath, sticking my thumb in my mouth like an idiot for a split second before yanking it out and shaking it—also idiotic. I hadn't burned it, I'd smacked it with a fucking hammer. Sucking on it and shaking it weren't going to do anything for the pain. Instincts are stupid sometimes.

I look at the injured thumb—it’ll bruise like a bitch, but whatever.

Annoyed, I toss my hammer onto the ground and stand up, taking a second to let my temper cool off. Working angrily leads to mistakes. If I make a mistake here, it could mean days, weeks, or even months of setbacks to correct—I'm building this place by myself, no crew I can bitch out and order around. Just little old me, building a house from the ground up with my own two hands. Well, and generous use of heavy machinery—it's sorta impossible to raise framing by yourself.

I've made good progress in the last few weeks—I'd actually taken a long weekend, putting Riley and Bear in charge of my crews; I was able to get the driveway cleared so I could start getting the machinery back there.

Yes, I know, I'm nuts. Building a house from scratch with your hands is sort of nutty, I get it. Back in the day, it meant cutting down trees, splitting, sawing, all that. A whole hell of a lot of insanely hard work, sure, but doable. A modern house? That's a whole other beast. And I'm not building a thousand square foot cabin, I'm building a Crowe construction special—the kinda thing you'd see in a neighborhood downtown, just…way out here in the middle of nowhere.

So here I am on a Saturday morning, putting framing together. I'd dug and poured the foundation last weekend, and now, while it cures, I'm putting the framing together. Again, I'm doing it the hard way. You can get preassembled framing, but not only is this cheaper, I'm determined to do every last lick of work with my own two hands, concrete, plumbing, electrical, the whole fucking kit and kaboodle.

Because I'm a crazy man.

My phone rings, jarring me out of my idle reverie. I step over the piles of lumber and boxes of screws and nails and other odds and ends to where my phone sits on the tailgate of my truck. It's stopped ringing by the time I get to it, of course. The notification reads: "Missed call: Bear."

Fuck, that's not good. Bear doesn’t call on the weekends. He doesn't call period—he hates cell phones. It rings again immediately, the photo of Bear with Noelle popping up on the screen.

I swipe to answer and put it on speaker, taking a long slug of lukewarm water before answering. "Bear, what's up?"

His deep voice is troubled. "Sprung a leak out at Aspenview Lane."

"Fuck me, what? A leak? Which house? How bad?"

I hear sloshing. "Bad, boss. Real fuckin' bad." I hear a grunt, a curse, a splash. "Jesus. Got the main shut off, but this basement is a swimming pool."

"Goddammit, how the fuck did that happen. Which one is it?"

"Nine-one-six-one. The one that was almost fuckin' done."

"Shitting Moses," I mutter. "Fan-fucking-tastic."

"I got Reggie, Alvarez, Tom, and Dominic on the way. Reggie's cousin runs one'a them emergency restoration companies, I guess, so he's got his cousins bringing pumps and fans and whatever else."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," I say.

"Sorry, Fee. I don't know what happened."

"We'll figure it out. Mistakes happen." As I talk, I round up my tools one-handed.

"I just—" By the growl in his voice, I can tell Bear is on his way to taking the responsibility for the situation on himself.

"Bear," I cut in, "I know better than anyone how seriously you take your job. Mistakes happen. You can't watch every guy do every job all the time. I ain't mad atcha. You're good."

He sighs. "Supervisor's supposed to supervise."

"Were you off playing hooky or some shit when plumbing went in?" I ask.

"No.”

"New crew? New guys?"

"No."

"So you were doing your job, to the best of your knowledge?"

"Yeah."

"Then let it go. We'll handle it. It'll cost time and money, it'll suck, we'll all sacrifice our weekend, but it ain't on you, buddy. I'm the boss. It's my name on the door. Buck stops with me, not you. Yeah?"

He sighs, a big, blustery sigh of acceptance. "Yeah, I got it. Just sucks."

"I ever tell you about the time a new guy tried to show initiative and accidentally burned down a build we were four days from turning over to Mackenzie?"

Mackenzie Laird is our broker, in charge of selling our builds—she was a marketing and sales guru who could sell water to a fish.

"How the hell?"

I chuckled. "Investigator said he was trying to do something with the wiring that never got finished, something shorted, sparked, caught, and he barely got out alive."

Bear snorts, and the sound is decidedly ursine. "If y'ain’t got the training, you don't touch plumbing or electrical."

I consider my own intention to do the plumbing and electrical work here myself. "That is true. And since then, I've made a point of making that clear to all my newbies. Stay in your lane. If you don't KNOW you know how to do something, don't fuckin' do it."

I make sure the keys for the cherry picker are safely locked in the glove box of my truck, double-check the site to make sure I haven't forgotten anything, and then slam the tailgate closed.

"A'ight, Bear, I'll see you there in fifteen."

"Yes, sir. Sorry to fuck over your Saturday."

"Quit fuckin' apologizing, man, Jesus.”

He lets out a grunt that sounds like a growl. "Whatever. See you." I laugh as he hangs up on me.

One last glance at my site—my hammer is still where I tossed it after smashing my stupid thumb. I grab it and chuck it into the orange 5-gallon bucket of frequently used tools I keep strapped into the front left corner of my bed, smack the white cap in place, and take off.

I arrive at Aspenview Lane and park in the street behind a line of pickups, a battered blue late 90s Suburban, and a cube van with the rolling door open to reveal emergency restoration equipment. I hear pumps going as I approach the open front door, stepping over a mess of cables and hoses on my way to the basement.

"Holy fuck," I mutter as I reach the bottom of the steps.

The basement is unutterably fucked. Water sloshes knee deep. Bear's voice, deep and quiet and rumbling, carries over the rest despite the fact that he rarely raises his voice above a murmur. I rub my forehead with a knuckle, assessing what's gonna have to be done to unfuck this.

All the drywall down here, just completed yesterday, is gonna have to come out. The luxury vinyl plank flooring has to come up—we might be able to salvage it if we get the water up fast enough and get things dry. We'll have to go through all the wiring down here, all the outlets…the list of items keeps on racking up as I move through the basement.

I find the crew in the mechanical room, several worksite utility lights hanging from the ceiling to illuminate the area. They're focused on a section of plumbing near the water softener.

"What do we got, boys?" I ask, grabbing one of the lights and shining it on the section they're looking at.

"Hey, Boss," Bear says. He points at a junction where the main supply branches off to feed through the softener. "One hundred percent installer error." He points. "Ain't a plumber, but this don't look right to me."

I examine the junction. "Good god almighty," I snap. "What kinda fuckin' glue-sniffing numbnuts did this kindergarten bullshit?"

The guys all clam up, so I look at Bear. "Who was doing plumbing?"

He glances at the ceiling. "Calloway's guys. We've used them for years—you have, I mean. This is my first build with them. I don't know the particular person who did this, though."

"Well, a blind monkey coulda done a better job at this fucking junction." I hand Bear the light and pull out my phone, take a handful of close-ups from different angles.

The next thing I do is take a video of the flooding. I spend the next hour going through the fix process with Bear, making sure he understands what all has to happen. Once I'm satisfied that he's got it, I head back up to my truck, sit on the tailgate, and take off my boots and socks.

I dial Holden Calloway; it rings twice before his gravelly pack-a-day voice answers. "Felix." That's Holden for you—no nonsense, no wasted words.

"Holden, we got an issue, man."

A soft growl, the click-scrape of a lighter, and a breath as he exhales smoke. “Talk to me."

"One of your guys fucked up my build over here on Aspenview."

"Fucked up how?"

"Used the wrong piece for a junction, no glue, I don't know, man, but it's fucked up. Caused a massive flood in the basement. I'm talking weeks to unfuck and tens of thousands of dollars in damage."

He sighs, the sigh turns into a cough, and then he hits his cigarette before answering. "Photos?"

"Incoming." I send him the photos and the videos, put it on speaker, and tug the cuffs of my jeans up to my knees.

He's silent as he peruses the images. “Jesus fucking Christ on crumbling cracker. That's the sloppiest shit I ever seen." A pause, keyboard keys clacking in the background. "Aspenview? Which one?" I repeat the house number for him, and he types some more. "That was…Abel's crew. Abel is one of my best, but he did have three guys quit a few weeks ago. Betcha fifty bucks it was a new guy."

"Well, whoever it was, it's a problem," I say.

"No shit," he says. "We got insurance for this, though. I’ll handle it. If you can see your way to trusting me again, I’ll give you a break on the next job."

"Just make sure you vet your crews better than this, Holden. This wasn't complicated plumbing. This should not have fuckin' happened."

Another snorting exhale. "Yeah, I hear ya, Fee. My agent'll be contacting you. We'll get it fixed, and I'll find who did it and what else he may have worked on. If he fucked that up, who knows what else he fucked up."

I feel like someone slugged me in the gut. "Fuck, Holden. I hadn't considered that."

"Been in business for thirty-five years, Felix. Seen it all."

"'Preciate you, Holden."

"You too, Felix. Later."

"Later." I punch the end call button and only just barely resist the urge to hurl my phone across the lawn—it's in an OtterBox, so it'd survive fine, but I don't feel like slogging over there to get it.

So. Now what? Back to the site? I should, but I'm soaking wet, irritated, angry, hungry, and I just don't feel like it. Fuck it—I'll take a real Saturday. Maybe even go fishing.

I call Riley—he answers right before it would have gone to voicemail. "Hey, bro. What's shakin'?"

"Shitty fuckin' day all of a sudden, Rye, that's what. What are you up to?"

"I'm in Petosky with April."

"Oh. Alright then, never mind."

"What?"

"I just don’t feel like going back to the site, so I was gonna see if you wanted to go fishing."

" Fishing ?" He says it like I suggested parachute-free skydiving. "Fee, my brother, you hate fishing."

"Yeah, I know. I just…"

"You suck at relaxing," he says, finishing where I trailed off. "You wouldn't know a real day off if it bit you in the ass."

I chuckle. "You're not wrong. Also, who the hell is April? Flavor of the month?"

"Oh, fuck off, Fee. Don't be a dick." He says something muffled, then comes back to me. "You need a social life. A girlfriend. Something."

"I know. Well, have fun in Petosky with April. See you Monday."

"I'll be back later. We could grab some brews tonight."

"Sure, sounds good. Hit me up whenever. I'll probably be, I dunno, sorting paperwork or something."

"Felix, if I find out that you spent your Saturday afternoon doing goddamn paperwork, we are gonna be fighting. I swear to god I'll roofie you, take you to fuckin' Vegas, and force you to have fun for once in your Type-A workaholic life."

I laugh, knowing he's in no way joking. "Fine, fine, I'll find something to do."

"Something that isn't work . For the company or your house."

"Right. That."

"Bye, bro."

"See ya."

I hang up and toss the phone aside with a sigh. What do normal people do for fun on the weekend? I've always worked or found a project. I restored a ’69 Camaro, and that took a few years. But then once it was done, I only enjoyed driving it for one summer, and then I sold it. I have a '73 FJ40 in my garage right now, but it's a project I've never really even started. Even the house where I currently live was a weekend project.

I bought this place from the estate of the previous owner, an old widower who'd lived there alone for twenty years after his wife died. He'd been a hoarder, and the estate—managed by a lawyer, since he had no kids or grandkids—hadn't wanted to spend the time or resources to clean it out. So they auctioned it off for pennies on the dollar just to get rid of it. I'd paid less than what the land itself was worth—a bargain and a half since it was on a corner lot with almost two full acres, less than two blocks from downtown.

The less bargain-y part was the state of the place. The old guy had stacked garbage up to the ceiling in an un-navigable maze. The miasma was unbearable—I'd needed full PPE just to go past the front door. And that was after the body had been removed.

All told, it took me two months of weekend work to get the shit cleared out. I filled two seventy-five-yard roll-off dumpsters and half of a forty-yard one. The walls were riddled with black mold, the floors were rotting through to the subfloor, and the crawlspace was full of rodents, as was the attic. I'd had to tear the place down to studs just to get to a halfway decent starting place.

I spent two years restoring that house—it was my first solo endeavor. I came up in the business working for Dad, the original owner of Crowe Construction. Back then, I was a bottom-rung rookie, fresh out of high school and just learning the ropes of the construction trade, although I'd spent my entire life on jobsites with Dad. I tagged along as a little kid, got put to work sweeping up nails and whatever, and got paid in McDonald’s and ice cream. When I turned fourteen, he officially hired me on the cleanup crew, and I worked after school and on weekends during the football and baseball off-season.

When I graduated high school, I had a D1 full-ride offer from U of M to play ball—both sports. I turned it down to take a position as a foreman for Dad…and primarily because Amy had no intention of leaving Three Rivers. She wanted to be close to her family and friends.

The irony of the thing is that after I drunkenly fucked up my entire life at Ryan Calhoun's party, Amy took a job at a hospital in Detroit, leaving me up here. I don't regret the decision not to go to U of M, but I do sometimes wonder what my life would be like if I'd taken it.

Fuck, I'm maundering. I grab my phone, close the tailgate, and jump into the cab. As I'm easing away from the house to make the U-turn in the cul-de-sac, I pass by a young family coming out of one of the finished and sold homes—the Rogers, if I remember correctly. A young Black couple with a pre-teen son and a daughter about kindergarten age. Sweet family. They're all sporting swimsuits, the kids have swim goggles on their heads, and the mom is carrying approximately seventy pounds worth of coolers, mesh bags full of sand toys, and who knows what else, while the dad wrestles a stubborn back seat down to make room for the gear Mom is carrying.

And suddenly, the beach sounds good. Not the local beaches, though—I've got nothing against tourists, for the most part, but the beaches close to town are swarmed with fudgies this time of year. I'm thinking of what we locals call Secret Beach: a spot a good thirty minutes north of town where I can reliably have the beach to myself, or mostly.

I text Bear:

Me:

heading out of town for a few hours and turning off my phone. Please try not to have any more emergencies.

He gives the message a " haha " and then sends a thumbs-up emoji. Yes, a haha and a thumbs up. Pro-level texting, right there.

I swing by my house and change into a pair of swim trunks—my favorite pair, mainly because Riley hates when I wear them. They're super short and tight, as in 70s style. I shrug into a muscle shirt, plop a ball cap on my head, and pack a cooler with ice, a six-pack of Local's Light, and a variety of snacks. As a last-second addition, I even pick up the Louis L'Amour western from my bedside table—even though I haven't cracked it open in months.

The FJ40 in my garage is a running project—it needs updated tires and suspension, new upholstery, and the engine needs a thorough overhaul, not to mention some minor rust mitigation and fresh paint. But it runs reliably, and most importantly, I already have a winch system for taking the hard top off from when I owned that CJ. It takes about fifteen minutes since the bolts holding the top in place are stubborn, but I get the top off and the engine running.

Finally, earbuds in my pocket, cooler packed, I head north for a day at the beach.

Alone.

Go me.