Chapter 8 #2
“Just some boxes,” Lydia said. “We were still moving in. Most of our stuff was still packed.”
Another small mercy. Most of the things that mattered. Photographs, important documents, the kids’ favorite books had been in boxes in the barn, waiting to be unpacked once they’d gotten settled.
Mitchell finished his assessment after thirty minutes, shaking her hand with that same careful sympathy. “I’ll have the preliminary paperwork to you within a week. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call.”
Then he was gone, his sedan disappearing down the gravel drive, and Lydia was alone with the ruins.
She should leave. Should get back to Mrs. Figgs’s, back to the kids, back to the safe warmth of Ethan’s house. But instead, she found herself walking toward the barn, drawn by some impulse she couldn’t name.
The barn door stuck slightly, swollen from rain or just old, but it opened with a shove.
Inside, everything was exactly as she’d left it.
Boxes stacked against the walls, labeled in her careful handwriting: KITCHEN, BOOKS, TOYS, ELI’S ROOM.
Her car’s parking spot, empty now. The utility boxes where she’d stored spare keys, tools, things she might need.
Lydia started pulling boxes toward the door. The kids’ toys—Eli’s action figures, Rosie’s dress-up clothes, the board games they’d played on rainy afternoons in Ohio. Books. Some kitchen items she’d stored out here because the farmhouse kitchen had been fully equipped. Winter clothes they needed?—
A sound outside made her freeze.
Just the wind, probably. Or an animal. But her heart was hammering, and suddenly the barn felt too isolated, too exposed. Tom could be out there. Could be watching. Could be waiting for another chance to?—
Stop it. She forced herself to breathe, to think rationally. Tom was in Ohio. The sheriff was investigating. He couldn’t just appear out of nowhere.
Could he?
Lydia put down the box she had just lifted, Rosie’s stuffed animals, the ones that had survived because they’d been packed away, and hurried back to the car. She’d make multiple trips, would come back with Ethan or Caleb or someone, but right now she just wanted to leave.
She turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing.
Tried again. The engine turned over but didn’t catch. A third time—same result. On the fourth try, she got nothing at all. Not even the turning over. Just a dull click.
“No,” Lydia whispered. “No, no, no.”
She tried again. And again. But the car was dead.
The irony would have been funny if she weren’t so close to tears. She’d come out here to prove she could handle things herself, to show that she didn’t need constant help, that she was capable and independent and fine.
And now she was stranded at the site of her burned-down house with a dead car and boxes of children’s toys in the back seat.
Lydia pulled out her phone, stared at Ethan’s number for a long moment.
The weight of imposing on him again felt crushing.
He’d already done so much. Given her a place to stay, driven her to the sheriff’s office, and been nothing but kind and patient and understanding.
And here she was, about to ask for more.
She could call a tow truck. Should call a tow truck. But the nearest service was probably twenty miles away, and it would cost money she didn’t have because her credit cards were melted ruins within the charred ruins and she didn’t have new bank cards yet, and?—
Her finger hit the call button before she could talk herself out of it.
Ethan answered on the second ring. “Lydia? Everything okay?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and hated how small her voice sounded. “I’m at the farmhouse. My car won’t start. I know you’re working, and I hate to ask, but?—”
“I’m on my way.” His voice was immediate, certain. “My shift ends in fifteen minutes. Stay in the car, lock the doors. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Ethan, you don’t have to?—”
“Twenty-five minutes,” he said. “Maybe thirty with traffic. Stay put.”
The line went dead, and Lydia sat in her dead car feeling like the world’s biggest burden.
She used the time to load more boxes into the car, cramming the back seat and trunk with everything she could carry from the barn.
Toys, books, kitchen items, photo albums. Keeping busy kept her from thinking too much about how angry Ethan might be, how disappointed.
She was supposed to be getting her life together, not creating more problems.
By the time his truck pulled up the drive, she’d worked herself into a state of anxiety that made her jaw tight and her hands shake, imagining every sound was someone approaching, or lying in wait.
Ethan got out of the truck and walked toward her, and Lydia could see immediately that something was wrong. His expression was too careful, his movements too controlled. He was angry.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming out here?” The question was quiet, but there was steel underneath it.
Lydia’s spine stiffened. “Because I didn’t need permission. I’m an adult, Ethan. I can handle meeting an insurance adjuster on my own.”
“That’s not—” He stopped, took a breath. “How long have you been alone out here?”
She pursed her lips, reluctant to admit it. “An hour.”
“The adjuster left an hour ago, Lydia? You’ve been out here alone for an hour? In the middle of nowhere? At the site where someone tried to kill you?”
“I was getting boxes from the barn. Things the kids need.” Her voice was rising despite her best efforts to stay calm. “I can’t just sit around your house doing nothing while you’re at work. I needed to handle this.”
“You needed to—” Ethan’s jaw clenched. “Lydia, the arsonist is still out there. Tom, or whoever did this, is still free. And you came out to this isolated spot, alone, without telling anyone where you’d be?—”
“I don’t need a babysitter!” The words came out sharper than she’d intended, and she watched Ethan flinch.
But she couldn’t stop now, couldn’t push down the surge of anger that felt too much like the old fear.
“I don’t need someone monitoring my every move, demanding to know where I am and what I’m doing. I won’t do it again.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ethan’s face had gone pale. “You think—” He stopped, seemed to gather himself. When he spoke again, his voice was very quiet. “You think I’m trying to control you? Like Tom?”
Hearing it said out loud made Lydia’s anger falter. “You’re demanding to know why I didn’t tell you where I was going?—”
“I’m worried about you.” Ethan took a step closer, and Lydia had to force herself not to step back.
“Lydia, I don’t care if you handle an insurance meeting alone.
I know you can. But coming out here, to this isolated spot, when someone tried to murder you less than a week ago …
that’s not about you needing permission. That’s about you being in danger.”
“I can take care of myself.” But even as she said it, she could hear how hollow it sounded.
“I know you can.” Ethan’s expression softened.
“I’ve seen you take care of yourself. I’ve watched you be strong and capable and handle things that would break most people.
I’m not questioning that, Lydia. I’m just—” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“I’m just asking you to let me help keep you safe. That’s not control. That’s caring.”
The distinction hit her hard. Control versus caring. Tom demanding to know where she was because he didn’t trust her, because he wanted to own her movements. Ethan worried because someone had tried to kill her, because the threat was real and immediate and terrifying.
They weren’t the same thing at all.
“I’m sorry,” Lydia said, and the fight drained out of her all at once, leaving her exhausted.
“I didn’t … I should have told you. You’re right.
I just—” She stopped, trying to find words for the complex tangle of emotions.
“I needed to feel like I could handle something on my own. Like I wasn’t completely helpless. ”
“You’re not helpless,” Ethan said gently. “You’re scared. And someone is targeting you and the kids. There’s a difference.”
Lydia’s eyes burned with tears she refused to shed. “Can we just … can we try to start the car? I want to go home.”
The word slipped out before she could catch it. Home. Not “back to your house.” Home.
If Ethan noticed, he didn’t comment. He just nodded and moved to her car, popping the hood. “Let me take a look.”
Five minutes later, after trying everything he could think of, including a jump start, Ethan admitted defeat. “Battery’s dead. Completely drained. I’ll need to come back with a replacement.”
“I’m sorry,” Lydia said again. “I’m so sorry for dragging you out here?—”
“Stop apologizing.” Ethan closed the hood with more force than necessary. “You need help. That’s not a crime. Come on. Let’s transfer these boxes to my truck and get you home.”
They worked in silence, loading box after box into Ethan’s truck bed. Lydia’s throat was tight the whole time, caught between gratitude and shame and the lingering ache of their argument.
When everything was loaded, Ethan opened the passenger door of his truck for her. The gesture was so simple, so automatic, but it made Lydia’s chest ache. Tom had stopped doing little things like that after the first year of their marriage. Had stopped treating her like someone worth caring for.
She climbed in, and Ethan closed the door gently before walking around to the driver’s side.
The engine started with a smooth rumble, and heat poured from the vents. Ethan pulled out of the driveway, and Lydia realized she’d forgotten to put on her seatbelt.
She reached for it just as Ethan did the same thing, reaching across to grab the belt for her, the way you’d do for a child who’d forgotten. His hand brushed her shoulder, and Lydia jumped, her entire body going rigid.
Ethan froze. “Sorry. I just … force of habit. From the ambulance.”