Chapter Three – Holt #3
No dramatics. No embellishment. Just facts delivered like she’s trying to keep herself from feeling any of them.
“You call it in right away?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else see it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anybody been on the property besides you today?”
“No.”
I watch her face while she says it. Not because I think she’s lying. Because I want to know what that answer costs her.
There’s a whole life in the exhaustion written across her. I can see it without knowing any details. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from one long day. The kind that takes time to build.
She glances back at the inn again, and something changes in her expression then. Not fear exactly. Something older. Heavier.
“My house was next,” she says quietly.
Mac approaches then, stepping through the wet grass with his helmet off and his face set in that unreadable way he gets after a call he’s still assessing.
“Main structure’s clear for now,” he says. “No visible spread. We’ll need the marshal in daylight. Too much compromise at the point of origin to make any calls tonight.”
Lark straightens. “You think it was set?”
Mac looks past her toward the carriage house before answering.
“I think I’m not guessing in the dark.”
Not a yes. Not a no. Enough. I see the words land in her. See the way her fingers tighten once on the porch post.
Mac looks at me. “Get her information. Make sure she’s not staying here tonight.”
He doesn’t say good luck, but I hear it anyway. He turns and heads back toward the truck to talk with Ray.
Lark’s eyes snap back to mine immediately. “I’m staying here.”
Her tone says the subject is closed.
Mine says otherwise. “No, you’re not.”
Her shoulders square. “Excuse me.”
“This property isn’t secure.”
“I just got here.”
There’s so much packed into those five words that I feel it before I understand it. Pride. Frustration. Attachment that got there far too fast.
I look at the inn again. The dark windows. The broken glass on the first floor. The way the side yard still smells like wet ash and old wood. Whoever or whatever started the fire hit the weakest point on the property and got lucky with the wind.
I look back at her. She’s not the kind of woman who scares easily . She is very clearly the kind who doubles down instead.
“You can’t stay here tonight,” I say again, quieter now. Less like a command. More like the truth. “And we’re putting cameras up,” I add.
She blinks at me. “Cameras.”
“At the house. The drive. Whatever we can cover fast,” I say. “I should’ve done it after the first call out here.”
“This isn’t exactly a small property,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “Which means we won’t catch everything. But we’ll catch enough to know if someone comes back.”
Her gaze flicks toward the dark stretch beyond the yard.
“Assuming they don’t already know where not to be,” she says.
“That’s the part I don’t like,” I answer.
For the first time, her gaze slips.
The dog noses her hand. She looks down at him and breathes once through her nose like she’s pulling herself back together from the center out.
When she looks up again, she’s calmer. No less stubborn. Just clearer.
“You don’t know me,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “I know this property is compromised, there’s an active fire investigation hanging over the outbuilding behind you, and you’d be sleeping in a structure with broken access points and no guarantee nobody comes back.”
That one gets her attention.
Her eyes narrow. “Back.”
“If this was set, somebody knew enough about the property to use the rear structure and the brush line. If it wasn’t, you'd still have an unsecured building on the edge of town, and I’m still not leaving you here. And they stayed off anything we could’ve caught,” I add.
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You think they knew.”
“I think they either got lucky,” I say, “or they knew exactly where we wouldn’t be looking yet.”
The night goes very still around that. She studies me for a long second, and I have the strange, unwelcome sense that she’s trying to decide whether I’m worth arguing with further or whether I’ve already crossed into the category of men who won’t leave a thing alone once they’ve made up their minds.
Unfortunately for both of us, she’d be right on that last count.
“I don’t have money for a hotel,” she says finally.
That throws me for half a second. Because the answer sounds less like pride and more like a fact she hates.
“No friends in town?”
“No.”
“Family?”
This time, the pause lasts longer.
“No.”
It isn’t true. Or not entirely. I can hear that much. But I also hear the shape of the real answer underneath it: no one she’s willing to call. That’s different. That I understand.
The dog leans into her shin again, and she shifts him automatically with the side of her boot. Protective without even thinking about it.
I exhale slowly and drag a hand over the back of my neck.
“My mother would lose her mind if I left you out here.”
The words come out before I decide if I’m going to say them.
Her brows pull together. “What?”
I ignore the part of my brain telling me to shut up.
“There’s room at the farm,” I say. “Or at my place.”
The sentence hangs there between us. She stares at me. Somewhere behind me, Beckett makes a low delighted noise that confirms he heard exactly enough of that to make himself insufferable later. I don’t turn around.
Lark’s gaze flicks once toward the truck lights and back to me. “Your place.”
“It’s on the farm,” I say. “Separate house. No one crawling all over you.”
That makes one corner of her mouth twitch before she catches it. Good. At least she’s still in there.
“You make this sound very normal,” she says.
“It’s not,” I answer honestly. “It’s practical.”
She looks at me like she doesn’t entirely trust that word coming from anyone.
I tilt my head toward the house. “You can come back here in daylight. You can walk through every room. You can tell the inspector where to stand and the contractors where to breathe. Tonight, you sleep somewhere that doesn’t have a view where half the backyard burned.”
“I have someone coming out to look at cameras,” I add.
She glances over at me. “Already?”
“Yeah,” I say. “House first. Then here.”
“And that’s supposed to fix it.”
“No,” I say honestly. “It’s supposed to give us a chance to see what we’re missing.”
There’s a long pause. Then, very carefully, “Temporary.”
The word sits between us. A line she needs. A boundary she’s trying to make solid before the whole night slips too far from her control.
I nod once. “Temporary.”
That seems to matter to her. I’m not sure why that matters to me.
Ray walks up behind me with his gloves off and his expression already halfway to tired. “Mac wants the owner’s info for the report.”
Lark answers before I can. “Lark Carrington.”
Ray’s gaze flicks from her to me, then back again. He catches more than he ever comments on.
“Phone number,” he says, holding on to the clipboard.
She recites it.
He writes it down and glances at the dog. “That thing bite?”
“He has standards,” Lark says.
Ray’s mouth twitches. “Good.”
Then he moves back toward the truck. Beckett approaches next, hauling some piece of equipment over one shoulder and grinning in a way that should be illegal.
“So,” he says, looking straight at me, “this is definitely the kind of thing that turns into a story everyone tells later.”
I don’t look at him. “Go away.”
He looks at Lark instead. “I’m Beckett. The competent one.”
She blinks once. “That doesn’t seem right.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Beckett clutches his chest. “You wound me.”
“That means she has excellent instincts,” I say.
He grins wider. “See. He likes you.”
Lark’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel the air tighten anyway.
“Shaw,” Mac calls from the truck.
Beckett sighs heavily. “Duty.”
He leans in just enough to stage-whisper to me, “This is already my favorite call.”
Then he jogs off before I can decide whether murder in uniform is technically against policy.
Lark watches him go. “Is everyone in your life like that?”
“Only the exhausting ones.”
“And there are multiple?”
“Unfortunately.”
That one does make her mouth move. Not quite a smile. Close enough to be dangerous.
I glance toward the inn one more time, then back to her. “You got anything inside you need tonight?”
“Phone charger. Bag. Dog food.”
The dog huffs like he resents being reduced to a supply line.
“I’ll get it,” I say.
Her chin lifts again immediately. “I can do it.”
“I know you can.”
That one makes her pause. Maybe because it isn’t a challenge. Maybe because it isn’t pity. Just a fact.
I nod toward the side entrance. “Tell me what room.”
“The first-floor bedroom in the back.”
“Stay here.”
Her eyes narrow. “That went so well the first time.”
I almost smile. “Stay where I can see you, then.”
The correction settles better.
I head inside. The first floor smells like old wood, mildew, smoke, and the harsh bite of whatever cleaning product she’s already been using.
Windows stand open in a few rooms. A contractor bag sits near the foyer wall.
A stack of supplies crowds the hallway. She’s barely arrived and she’s already been working.
Of course she has.
The back bedroom is exactly where she says it is—less destroyed than the rest of the floor but still rough enough that the idea of anyone sleeping here tonight makes my jaw tighten.
The mattress is stripped. One lamp sits on the floor.
A folded blanket and a duffel bag rest near the wall.
Dog food and a bowl are tucked into the attached bath.
I grab the bag, the charger from the bedside, the food, the bowl. Then I stop for one second and look around. This room is not temporary in the way she wants it to be. It’s survival. Barely.
I walk back out with my arms full and shoulder the side door open. Lark is exactly where I left her. Still near the porch. Still gripping the last of her dignity with all the force she can muster.
I hand her the bag.
“Our five-star accommodations await.”
That gets a real look from her. Assessing. Caught somewhere between offense and humor.
“Is that your attempt at charm?”
“That’s me being generous.”
Her mouth twitches.
“There he is,” she says quietly.
I frown. “Who?”
“The one who almost smiles.”
The words hit low and strange.
Before I can answer, Mac comes over with the last of the paperwork in hand.
“Wright, you’re clear to transport. One of the volunteers is leaving the pickup for you to use. He’ll ride back with us,” he says. Then to Lark: “Your nerves are too rattled to drive. Let Holt take you. The marshal will want to speak with you in the morning. Don’t come back here alone before then.”
She nods. “I won’t.”
Mac studies her for a second longer, then looks at me. “Text me once you’re done.”
“Yes, sir.”
He walks off.
The scene around us starts to collapse inward. Hose packed. Equipment loaded. Light bars still throwing red and blue over wet grass and blackened wood. The kind of aftermath that feels almost peaceful if you don’t know what it cost to get there.
I take Lark’s duffel from her before she can argue and head toward the truck.
The dog trots at her side, then pauses to bark once at the wreck of the carriage house as if issuing a final warning.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That seems fair.”
She hears me. I know she does because I catch the sound of her laugh behind me.
Brief. Unexpected. It follows me all the way to the passenger side door.
And somewhere between the smoke still clinging to my clothes and the woman walking beside me in the red wash of emergency lights, I understand something I’d really rather not.
This whole night just shifted. The call. The station. The old inn at the edge of town. The woman who stepped into the road with my focus and walked away with part of it.
I don’t know what that means yet. I only know I’m already not as unaffected as I should be.