Chapter 13
Luke
The board splits clean. Old pine. Dry rot. Probably hadn’t been safe in years.
I wedge it free and toss it aside, reaching for the new piece. Marin sits behind me on the porch, holding ice to her ankle like she’s been wounded in combat instead of just stepping wrong.
My knuckles still ache from earlier. Split skin starting to swell where it caught bone. The hammer is beside me, wiped down but not exactly clean. Never really is.
“Let me ask you something,” she says.
I grunt. Noncommittal. I’m lining up the replacement board, checking the level.
“You know anyone around here I could get something from? For the pain. Not, like, a prescription or anything official. Just something under the table.”
I stop. Set down the board.
The timing would be funny if it weren’t so perfectly wrong.
Thirty minutes ago I was explaining to a kid in a tattoo parlor why selling pills was a bad business model. Used the same hammer sitting between us to make the point stick. And here she is, asking me where to score what I just made sure wouldn’t be available anymore.
Timing like that doesn’t happen by accident. Except when it does.
“I sprained my ankle, not my sanity,” she adds, defensive. “And I don’t have time to sit in some waiting room for two hours just to be told to ice it and take Advil. In New York, you’d miss three meetings and probably still leave with a parking ticket.”
“This isn’t New York,” I say.
She scoffs. “Trust me. I noticed.”
I pick up the board again. Nail it into place. One strike, then another. The rhythm helps.
“So?” she presses. “You look like someone who knows people.”
I do know people. That’s exactly the problem.
I turn to face her. She’s watching me with that expression people get when they’re deciding whether you’re useful or just in the way.
“No,” I say. “I don’t. And what you’re asking is illegal.”
Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “So is half of what people do when they want to feel better.”
She’s not wrong.
But she doesn’t know about the Miller girl. About the funeral dress. About why I just spent the afternoon making sure one less person could sell what she’s asking for.
And I’m not about to explain it.
“I can’t help you,” I say.
She holds my gaze for a beat, then shrugs. Like it doesn’t matter. Like she was just making conversation.
“Fair enough,” she says.
She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear—highlighted, expensive. Soon it will grow out at the roots. The kind of detail she probably obsessed over in her old life. Out here, nobody will care. But she still moves like someone who’s used to being looked at. Assessed. Judged on presentation.
And that’s it. She goes back to her phone, scrolling through something, the ice pack balanced on her knee.
No negotiation. No second attempt. Just acceptance.
Most people would push. Would hint. Would circle back with a different angle ten minutes later.
She doesn’t.
I finish securing the step and test it with my weight. Solid now. It’ll hold.
“There,” I say, gathering my tools. “Should be good.”
She’s still scrolling, ankle propped, completely unaware I’m watching. There’s dirt under her nails. Her jeans are torn at the knee—not fashion, actual damage. But her posture’s still straight. Still controlled. Like if she lets herself slouch, the whole thing falls apart.
“Thanks,” she says without looking up.
I head back to the truck, feeling the dull ache in my hand with every movement.
The whole drive home, I keep thinking about the coincidence. About standing on her porch holding the hammer I’d used an hour earlier to solve a problem she’ll never know existed.
About how she asked for exactly what I’d just made sure no one could get.
Small town. Small coincidences.
Funny how things line up.
Except it’s not funny at all.