Chapter 9
HARPER
Iwoke up disoriented, my body ached in places I didn't know could ache and my throat was dry and hoarse like I'd been screaming. My mind was foggy with exhaustion that went deeper than just lack of sleep, deeper than the bone-tired weariness of a restless night.
The room I was in was unfamiliar. Too big, with morning sun streaming through curtains in a pattern I didn't recognize.
The bed beneath me was soft, the sheets smelled like lavender detergent instead of the unscented kind I bought at the dollar store, and for one brief, confused moment, I couldn't remember where I was or how I'd gotten here.
Then it all came rushing back like cold water dumped over my head.
Fire. Smoke choking my lungs, burning my throat. Running. Jumping from a second-story window in bare feet with flames reaching for me. Everything gone. Thirty-six thousand dollars in debt and now homeless too.
Well. At least I don't have to worry about packing. The thought came with a hysterical edge that I immediately squashed down. Not helpful. Not now.
Connor had carried me into his house like I weighed nothing, his voice rough when he'd promised we'd figure everything out in the morning.
Morning's here now.
I sat up too fast, my heart racing, and the room spun slightly. My hands were shaking, trembling so badly. I could still smell smoke in my hair and taste it at the back of my throat.
The room was simple but comfortable. A queen bed with a handmade quilt in blues and creams, a dresser that looked handcrafted with visible grain in the wood, matching nightstands with a lamp and nothing else.
A small bookshelf was built into the wall with a reading nook under the window with cushions that invited someone to curl up with a book.
Through the window, I could see pastureland stretching endlessly to a tree line, horses gathered around piles of hay in the early morning light. Their coats gleamed in the sun, some dark bay, some chestnut, reflecting light off the patches of snow that still clung to the shaded areas.
Beautiful and peaceful and completely surreal.
I'm at Connor's ranch. Because my apartment burned down.
Arson.
The fire marshal's words echoed in my head like a drumbeat. Not an accident. Not faulty wiring or a forgotten candle or any of the other reasonable explanations I'd tried to convince myself of in those first moments of consciousness.
Someone had deliberately burned down my home. Had disabled the smoke alarm to…what? Try to make sure I didn't wake up? Or just to make sure maximum damage was done?
My stomach churned and I pressed a hand to my mouth, breathing deeply through my nose to fight the nausea rising in my throat.
My phone sat on the nightstand, plugged into a charger Connor must have brought in while I was sleeping. The sight of the small gesture, the care behind it, made my throat tight with emotion I couldn't afford to feel right now.
I grabbed it to find that it was just after nine in the morning and had a slew of notifications covering the screen.
Seventeen missed calls. Thirty-two text messages.
My thumb hovered over the notifications, anxiety spiking through me as I imagined who had called and why, and whether there were going to be more threats.
I forced myself to open the messages first. Most were from Anna, starting from around seven this morning.
Anna
Are you awake? How are you feeling?
Bringing you some clothes. Also getting toiletries. Let me know if you need anything specific.
Forget my question, I'm just bringing you everything. You need everything.
Despite everything, my lips twitched in a small smile. It was so like Anna. Taking charge, making sure I was taken care of regardless of whether I wanted it or not.
A few messages were from people in town who'd already heard about the fire. Small-town gossip moved at the speed of light, apparently.
Mrs. Patterson
Harper dear, I heard about the fire. Are you alright? Do you need anything?
Melissa
OMG Harper! I heard about your apartment! Are you ok???
Jake
Saw the news about the fire on Maple St. That was your place right? Hope you're ok.
Mr. Chen
Ms. Walsh, I'm so sorry to hear about your apartment. Please don't worry about the boutique lease right now. We can discuss arrangements once you've recovered from this tragedy. My prayers are with you.
Heat flooded my face as tears pricked the corners of my eyes at the kindness, even though I owed him so much money and we both knew I couldn't pay it. Even though his sympathy felt like salt in an open wound.
Then I got to the unknown numbers. Three of them.
The first two were spam. Something about car warranties and a phishing attempt.
But the third one made my blood run cold.
Unknown
Such a shame about the fire. I hope you're reconsidering my offer.
My hands started shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone.
It had to be Armand. Such a shame. Not “I'm sorry” or “are you okay?” or any expression of human concern. Just such a shame, like he was commenting on the weather. Like the fire was mildly unfortunate but ultimately inconsequential.
Like he knew it would happen. Like he'd made it happen.
My stomach lurched again, harder this time. I swallowed convulsively, tasting bile, dinner from last night threatening to make a reappearance.
I couldn't think straight through the panic clawing up my throat. I forced myself to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Count to four. Again. Again.
A soft knock on the door made me jump so hard the phone flew from my hands and landed on the hardwood floor with a crack that made me wince.
“Harper?” Connor's voice, quiet and careful. Gentle. “You awake?”
I scrambled to grab my phone, checking for new damage to the already cracked screen, and set it on the nightstand with trembling hands. “Yeah. Come in.”
The door opened slowly, and Connor appeared carrying a mug of coffee. Steam rose from the surface in lazy curls, and the smell hit me first. Rich and dark and exactly what I needed.
He looked tired. More than tired. Exhausted, with shadows under his honey-brown eyes that said he probably hadn't slept much. But he'd showered and changed into fresh jeans and a gray henley that clung to his shoulders, and his dark hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends.
Concern was etched into every line of his face as his eyes swept over me, cataloging, assessing, making sure I was okay.
“Morning. I brought coffee.” He moved into the room with careful steps, like I was something fragile that might shatter if he moved too fast. He held the mug out with steady hands. “Wasn't sure how you take it now. I did two sugars, and a splash of milk. Is that still right?”
The fact that he remembered from before when everything was easy between us, before Morgan and the distance and all the careful avoidance, made my throat tight.
“That's perfect. Thank you.” I took the mug, wrapping both hands around the warmth. The ceramic was smooth under my palms, slightly too hot, grounding me in the moment.
The bed dipped under Connor's weight as he sat on the edge, careful to keep distance between us. Respectful of my space even though this was his house, his guest room, his everything. He studied my face with an intensity that made me want to look away.
“How are you feeling?”
How am I feeling?
Like my entire life had imploded. Like everything I'd worked for over the past six years had gone up in smoke, literally. Like I was standing on the edge of a cliff with nothing to hold onto and the ground was crumbling beneath my feet.
“I'm okay.” The lie came out raspy from my damaged throat.
He didn't look convinced. His jaw tightened, and I watched a muscle jump beneath his stubble. “Harper—”
“I got a text.” I cut him off before he could push and I had to admit just how not-okay I actually was. I picked my phone back up and turned the screen toward him, showing him Armand's message. “From the guy I told you about last night. Armand.”
Connor's expression darkened as he read it, his whole body going rigid. His hands curled into fists on his thighs, knuckles going white. “When did this come in?”
“About an hour ago.” I pulled the phone back, stared at those words that felt like a threat wrapped in false sympathy. “Connor, what if he…what if he did this? What if he burned down my apartment because I wouldn't take his money?”
“Then he's going to jail.” Connor's voice was flat, hard, the kind of voice that said he meant every word and consequences be damned. “We're calling Sheriff Davies. Now. This is evidence.”
“Of what? He didn't admit to anything. He just said it was a shame.”
“After harassing you about money, after threatening you, after you told him no, your apartment mysteriously burns down and he texts you the next morning?” Connor stood, already pulling out his own phone from his back pocket.
“That's not coincidence. That's consciousness of guilt. Davies needs to see this.”
“Connor, wait.” Nothing good could come from calling Davies if these people really were responsible.
I reached out to try and stop him but he was already dialing, the phone pressed to his ear as he paced to the window.
I sat there clutching my coffee mug, listening to him explain the situation to the sheriff in short, clipped sentences that brooked no argument.
“Yes, Harper's staying with me…Yes, she's safe…I understand…Yes, I have evidence of prior harassment…Can you come out to the ranch this morning? Perfect. We'll be here.”
He hung up and turned back to me, his expression still dark with barely controlled anger. “He'll be here in an hour. And Harper? We're telling him everything. All of it. The loans Armand offered, the threats, the financial pressure—all of it.”
I wanted to argue and say that I could handle this myself, that I didn't need everyone knowing how badly I'd failed, how deep in debt I was, or how completely I'd screwed up my life.
But I was so tired of handling things alone.