Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
CLARA
This is the first time I caught myself.
Minutes had passed.
Maybe an hour… maybe more.
Many more without me thinking about Bryson and what willl never be.
It feels like healing. And it feels like pain because if healing is forgetting, I want nothing to do with it.
Nothing.
But a break from the constant heartache? Maybe I need it.
To move on. To be there for the kids. Because I don’t have other options. Because they deserve me, and a whole life.
And they deserve the man we’ve come to rely on, too.
Virgil.
T he knock comes just after lunch. It’s not Virgil. The realization hits before I even reach the door. Virgil doesn't knock anymore. At least not usually.
My stomach sinks.
The man standing on the porch wears pressed khakis and a navy windbreaker with a company logo stitched over the breast pocket. Clean-shaven with a polite smile and a clipboard in hand.
The exact sort of person who doesn't belong on Deadfall Ridge. "Mrs. McKinley?"
I grip the doorframe tighter. "Yes."
He offers his hand. "Roger Mills. I'm with Sierra Mutual. We spoke on the phone a few weeks ago."
Insurance. Of course.
I step aside automatically. "Come in."
The man ducks inside, immediately looking uncomfortable among muddy boots, drying herbs, and the general chaos of mountain living.
"Beautiful place," he says.
"It was."
The words escape before I can stop them.
His smile falters. "Right."
Silence settles. He clears his throat and opens his folder. "Well, I finally have some answers for you."
My pulse picks up. For months, everything has been uncertainty—repairs, bills, property damage. Bryson's death benefits. Questions stacked on questions.
Now the answers are sitting at my kitchen table, and somehow I don't want to hear them.
Mr. Mills slides several pages across the table. "We completed the assessment."
I stare at the papers. Numbers. So many numbers.
The roof. The solar panels. The fencing. The flood damage. Then another number. A much larger one.
My breath catches. "That's..."
"Substantial," he agrees.
Substantial.
Enough to relocate. Enough for a down payment on a house in town. Enough to start over and to leave.
The room tilts slightly.
Mr. Mills continues talking. Something about options, about rebuilding costs and timelines.
I hear maybe half of it. Because all I can think about is Virgil standing in my kitchen three mornings ago making coffee.
Luke racing through the yard. Helen waving from the school bus. The garden. The chickens. The mountains.
Bryson.
This place.
Everything feels tangled together now. “Mrs. McKinley?”
I blink. “Sorry.”
He offers a sympathetic smile. “No rush. But if you're considering relocation, these funds would certainly make that easier.”
Relocation.
Such a clean word, as if uprooting a life is as simple as changing an address.
My eyes drift toward the window and the ridgeline. Toward the patch of fencing Virgil repaired and the chicken coop. Toward the trail disappearing through the pines to his cabin.
The insurance adjuster mistakes my silence. "I know these decisions can be difficult."
No.
Difficult is choosing paint colors. This feels like choosing which half of myself survives.
"If I sign," I ask quietly, "how long do I have to decide?"
"A few months."
Months.
Not forever. But not today. Not this second. Not while I still wake up reaching for Bryson. Not while I still look for Virgil every morning.
The realization lands so suddenly it steals my breath.
I don't want to leave. I don't know if I can stay. But I don't want to leave. Not yet.
I close the folder.
Mr. Mills watches me carefully.
"I'll need some time."
His expression softens. "Of course."
He stands. Leaves his card. Tells me to call with questions. Then he's gone.
Just like that.
The front door clicks shut. The cabin falls silent again.
I stare at the paperwork for a long time. At the numbers. At the future they're offering me.
Then my gaze drifts back to the window and the distant line of pines. Toward the hidden cabin beyond them and the man who's been trying to push me off this mountain for months.
My fingers tighten around the folder. "Not today," I whisper.
The words surprise even me. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow, either.
The folder remains on the kitchen table long after the insurance adjuster leaves. I don't open it again.