Chapter 36
SAM
There’s a rhythm to a job site when everything’s going right. Measure, cut, set. Clean. Predictable. The air smells like cut wood and dry heat, the kind of afternoon that makes the back of your neck burn before noon.
I sit on the tailgate and unwrap what might be the saddest sandwich ever assembled.
Two pieces of bread. Turkey. No cheese. No condiments. Just … commitment issues. I stare at it. “Three thousand dollars,” I say under my breath.
“Excuse me?”
I look up. Becca’s standing there, sunglasses pushed up into her long blonde hair, taking in the scene like she walked into something mildly offensive. She's in work clothes, a blazer she's pushed up at the sleeves, looking like she came straight from a showing.
I hold up the sandwich. “This is my three-thousand-dollar sandwich.”
She steps closer, squinting at it. “Grammy pack that for you?”
I huff a laugh. “Nope. She’s still mad at me. Told me to pack my own.”
“As she should,” Becca says easily.
“Yeah,” I say. “Feels right.”
She nods toward the sandwich. “Okay, but this is growth.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” she says. “You know how much money you save packing your lunch? I told you—if you spend twelve dollars a day eating out—”
“—It adds up,” I say. “To three thousand dollars.”
We smile at the memory, both seeing how far we have come. Becca collects herself, straightening her jacket.
“There’s the fair this weekend,” she explains casually.
I wait for more. The Fall Fair is always a town staple. Becca and I go every year. I didn’t expect her to want me to go with her again, even though I hoped.
“If you’re not working,” she adds.
“I can make it.”
What I almost say is I’ll make time. I’ll move anything for you, but I don’t.
She smiles, small and real. “Okay.”
“Still eating that?” she smirks, nodding toward the sandwich sitting on the tailgate.
“Don’t start,” I say.
“I’m just saying.” She steps closer, voice dropping a little. “That thing might not need to stick around much longer.”
I glance at her. She meets my eyes, completely unbothered and serious.
Then, quieter, “Not if you keep … performing as you do,” she answers with a wink.
My grip tightens on the tailgate, Jesus. I let out a breath through my nose. “Becca,” I admonish.
She smiles, slow and satisfied, knowing exactly what she’s done.
From across the site, one of the guys whistles. “You two need a room or what?”
Becca doesn’t even flinch. Just grabs my water and takes a sip, as if she didn’t hear it. I shake my head, but I can feel the heat sitting under my skin now. More alive, awake than I have felt in months. Careful, I remind myself. Don’t rush it.
My phone buzzes on the tailgate. I ignore it. It buzzes again. Becca glances at it, then back at me. “You gonna get that?”
I reach for it, already knowing who it is. Rick. My jaw tightens before I even open it.
Rick
I’m trying to keep this from getting messy. You pulling out put me in a bad spot with the wrong people. Call me, now, before this goes sideways.
I stare at the text longer than I should. Rick’s not just pissed, he’s in trouble. Reeking of desperation.
“Subtle,” Becca says. She holds her hand out. “Give me your phone.”
I hand it over without hesitation. She scrolls, brow furrowed in focus. Calm in a way that feels … new. Different than before.
“I’ve been … studying him,” she says.
I frown. “Studying how?”
“I pulled phone records,” she says. “Dates, times. When he started reaching out more. Matched it up when he started pushing those weird expenses you mentioned."
I blink. “You did all that?”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. “I’ve got everything in one place,” she continues. “His supposed contract you sent me, invoices, changes he tried to slip through, my recorded call, the texts he has sent.”
She hands the phone back to me. “We add these,” she states. “Screenshots.”
I exhale slowly. “Okay, we follow your plan, boss.”
We. It feels different saying it now, stronger.
My phone vibrates loudly next to my bed. I know something’s wrong before I even hear it in her voice.
“Sam,” Becca breathes out, sounding as if she’s on speaker.
She doesn’t say hi, and I can feel the tension in her voice immediately. I’m already reaching for my keys, moving on instinct.
“What happened?” I ask, wanting to gather all the details.
“I got an alert from the cabins,” she says. There’s wind in the background, the low hum of her car. “There was a motion alarm, figured it could have been an animal at first. And then shortly after … smoke was detected.”
My chest tightens. “Are you there?”
“On my way,” she says. “Five minutes out.”
“You shouldn’t go alone.”
“I’m not waiting,” she says, sharp and focused.
“I’m coming,” I say, already moving. I don’t try to be quiet so as not to wake my grandparents. I don’t have time to worry about what the neighbors might think when rushing out in the middle of the night.
“Sam—” she starts.
“I’m coming,” I repeat.
“Okay.” She exhales. I can hear the relief in her tone.
“I think it’s him, Rick.”
Of course it is. “What makes you think that?”
“The cameras,” she says. “I set them to alert on motion after dark. And I added a smoke trigger last week.”
I pause mid-step. “You added—what?”
“After his frantic behavior with the salon, showing up at my open house, his texts to you, something was really off, frantic,” she declares.
Of course she did, Becca is always taking care of everything, seeing through the bullshit and getting right to the root of the problem.
“I cleared brush around the cabins too,” she continues. “Basic fire line. Nothing crazy. Just … precaution. You know how our summers can be.”
I know it’s true, some locals don’t call it summer around here, they just call it fire season. But this cuts deeper; she felt as if she needed a plan for this. Not because she’s paranoid, but because she’s prepared. And I brought this monster into our lives.
“I’ll be there in ten,” I relay, keeping my voice steady.
“Okay.”
The line stays open for a second longer than necessary. Neither of us is hanging up right away, wanting to hear each other’s breathing still.
By the time I pull up, her car is already there. Headlights cutting across the dirt road. The property is dead quiet except for the river and the wind moving through the ponderosas at the edge of the lot. The driver’s door hangs open like she got out in a hurry. I don’t like that.
I kill the engine and step out fast, scanning.
“Becca,” I cry out.
“I’m here,” Becca hollers from a distance.
Her voice comes from near the cabin. I round the corner and find her standing just outside the cleared line around the structure, phone in hand, screen lit. She is looking around like a detective, not frantic like my heart feels.
“There.” She nods toward a patch of ground off to the side.
I follow her gaze, a small burn. The smell of smoke is faint but unmistakable, the kind that lingers even after the flame is gone. Charred brush; it didn’t catch the surrounding juniper bushes.
I exhale, tension coiled tight in my chest. “It didn’t take.”
“No,” she says. “It didn’t.” She’s thoughtful for a minute and then lets out a long exhale. “Whoever did this was definitely never a Boy Scout. They clearly didn’t know how to start a fire.”
I laugh, relief settling through me. She steps closer, crouching slightly, scanning the ground like she’s cataloging it.
“You okay?” I ask.
She glances up at me. “Yeah.” And I believe her. Not because nothing happened, but because she is made for being the calm in the chaos.
I step closer anyway. Close enough to touch, even though I don’t, not yet. She does not need a knight in shining armor; she slays her own dragons. She just needs someone to be there for her.
“What exactly happened to get you here?” I ask.
She holds up her phone. “Motion alert first, about thirty minutes ago. I didn’t even bother to check it, figured it was a deer or a raccoon. Then smoke. I checked the feed before I even left.”
“You saw him?”
She nods once. “I think so.”
“Think?”
“I didn’t want to say it until I could see it again,” she says. “With you.” Through this disaster I’ve created in our lives, having her wanting my help and opinion means more than anything.
She taps her screen, pulling it up. The cameras are in night mode, grainy but clear enough.
A figure near the edge of the property moves low and deliberately. Someone clearly not out for a nighttime stroll.
My jaw tightens. I can’t make the person out yet; they are too far from the cameras.
The figure crouches with something in their hand. A flicker: small flame, a lighter. Their hand is trying to block the wind and keep it contained until it catches.
As soon as the first bit of sparks catches, he looks up, backing away slowly. His eyes look straight at the camera, and my stomach drops before my brain catches up. Even in the dark, even in that shitty angle—I know him. I’ve worked next to him and talked to him, even trusted him.
For a brief second, I see the version of Rick I thought I knew. The guy who fed my ego, told me what we were accomplishing, and who said we were building something.
Then it’s gone. Instead, he is now someone standing at the cabin my wife worked so damn hard on, trying to burn it down.
I let out a slow breath. “That’s him.”
“Yeah,” Becca says quietly with no question or hesitation.
“This isn’t just him being pissed,” I say, jaw tight. “He had something riding on this.”
"The Yarrows," Becca states.
I straighten in surprise and ask, "How can you be sure?"
"I know it is," she admits confidently. "Nessa saw Rick at one of their events. But it was more than that." She pauses, eyes still on the charred brush. "The way he kept circling back to the cabin specifically, not just the salon. How he wanted to delay the build, it was always the land."
I nod slowly, the pieces clicking together.
"Think about it," she continues. "Your Dad helped us get this marked for business use. That almost never happens here. Before that, it had been called unbuildable for years: the zoning, the water access, everything. Someone had to know exactly what they were doing to make this work."
"Dad knew exactly what he was doing," I say begrudgingly.
"Yes, and Rick wanted in," she continues with more confidence. "This wasn't just a consolation prize after the salon fell through. This was always his end goal."
I stare at the charred brush, at the small burn that didn't catch. The dream Becca built on land that was never supposed to be buildable due to the government red tape.
"He overpromised it to the Yarrows before he even had it," I say.
"And when he lost the salon deal and couldn't deliver quickly—" she pauses.
"He panicked," I finish, clenching my fist.
She nods. "Desperate people do desperate things."
She scrubs back through the footage, pausing on the timestamp. “I’ve got this, plus all the texts,” she shares confidently. “Dates, times, his escalations, all in a Google Drive.” I laugh at her organization.
I glance at her. “Color coded?”
She shrugs, a little embarrassed. “It is easier to find the information that way.”
God, this woman. I can’t hold back anymore. I grab her in for a hug and hold her close, breathing in the familiar smell of her shampoo.
I shake my head once, looking back at the screen. “He really thought this would work.”
“When people feel threatened, they tend not to think rationally,” she mumbles, eyes going distant, replaying scenarios she has seen over the years, many people in similar situations.
It’s true. The second I had pulled him out of the deal with the salon, he became erratic, unhinged. I shake my head, wishing for the thousandth time I didn’t fall for his schemes.
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
She stands, brushing her hands off. “We don’t confront him ourselves.”
I nod. “Agreed.” Even if I am shaking with rage inside, I know Becca does not need a husband with an assault charge.
“We document everything,” she continues. “We send it to the police, let them handle it.”
“You knew this would happen, didn’t you?” I say.
She gives me a knowing look, as if she has seen this all before.
“I didn’t know for sure,” she trails off. “I just … know what happens to people in a bad financial situation. Many won’t do anything violent, but desperation takes a toll on you, physically and psychologically.”
And I know she is thinking about her childhood, what she saw growing up, maybe not directly with her family, but with her neighbors and friends. The constant need to survive and catch up on your bills has long-lasting impacts. Our eyes lock, and I brush my knuckles gently down the side of her face.
“Your past, as hard as it was, prepared you to be the badass woman I love. You not only made your dreams come true on your own financially, but your experiences protected them.”
Her breath hitches, and I can tell she knows that I see her, all of her. I am not judging the way she was brought up; I am applauding all she has survived.
Before she can speak, my phone starts vibrating. Grandad is calling. I feel a moment of guilt, realizing I probably scared the hell out of him storming out of there.
“Hey Grandad, everything okay?” I ask, sounding like a guilty teenager.
“I don’t know, Son, mind telling me why you broke curfew and snuck out of our house like a bat out of hell? The least you could do was be sneakier.”
I can’t help but laugh. Before I can say anything else, Becca holds out her hand, asking for the phone. I hand it to her without hesitation, knowing she will melt his anger.
“Hey, old man,” Becca says warmly.
She quickly explains that there was a situation at the cabin, but that everyone and everything is fine. She seriously charms the pants off that cranky old man. In two minutes, she has eased the tension.
“Okay, yes, Grandad, I will take care of him. We will be by tomorrow to pick up his stuff.”
My heart stops. We? The rest of my stuff?
She hangs up, and I pull her in close. “Did I just hear what I thought I heard?”
She smiles and wraps her arms around my neck. “You did. We need to talk to the police first thing tomorrow, but tonight, I want to go home with my husband.”