Chapter 10
HARPER
The drive into town felt surreal.
I sat in the passenger seat of Connor's truck, my hands twisted together in my lap, watching familiar scenery roll past the window.
The same roads I'd driven hundreds of times.
The same scattered houses and ranch land and distant mountains rising like sentinels against the pale sky.
The same turn onto Main Street where my boutique waited.
Everything felt different now, colored by the knowledge that someone had tried to kill me. That my apartment was gone, reduced to charred ruins and caution tape. That I was living in Connor's guest room wearing clothes Anna had brought because everything I owned had burned.
It had been three days since the fire, and I still felt like I was moving through a dream. Or a nightmare. Either way, I was stuck in some strange in-between state where nothing felt quite real.
Except the part where I’m homeless and broke and someone literally set my apartment on fire. That part’s real enough.
“You don't have to do this today,” Connor said, breaking the silence. His eyes flicked from the road to me, concern etched into his features. “The boutique can stay closed another few days. No one would blame you.”
“I know.” My voice came out quieter than I intended, barely above a whisper. “But I need to do this. I need to feel like I still have something. Some part of my life that didn't burn.”
Even if that something was a failing business I'd probably lose in a few weeks anyway when Mr. Chen changed his mind about giving me time.
At least it's still mine for now.
Connor's hand found mine on the console between us, warm and grounding. His calloused palm wrapped around my fingers, anchoring me. “I'll be right across the street at Melissa's. If you need anything, if anyone bothers you, if you feel unsafe for even a second, you call me. Understand?”
“I understand.” I squeezed his hand, grateful for the solid presence of him. For the way he'd spent the past three days making sure I ate, making sure I slept, making sure I wasn't alone with my spiraling thoughts.
For the way he'd become my anchor when everything else had spun out of control.
We pulled up in front of the boutique, and my breath caught.
The same cheerful window display I'd arranged last week showcased spring colors and floral patterns that promised warmer days ahead. The same hand-painted sign above the door, the script elegant and welcoming. The same building I'd poured six years of my life into.
Unchanged. Untouched. Still standing.
While my apartment building two blocks away was a charred ruin wrapped in caution tape and the acrid smell of smoke that still hung in the air. The contrast made my chest tight, nausea rolling in my stomach at the thought of losing this too.
“You okay?” Connor asked, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of my hand.
“Yeah. Just…it's nice seeing it exactly the same. Like nothing happened.”
“Something did happen. Just not here.” His voice was gentle, careful. “Ready?”
“As I'll ever be.”
Connor walked me to the door like he'd been doing for the past three days whenever we'd gone anywhere.
Trips to the sheriff's station to give my full statement, the bank to start insurance paperwork, the grocery store to pick up food to feed two people.
Never hovering, but always present. Always watching.
Always making sure no one got too close.
I unlocked the boutique door with the spare key Connor had thankfully kept from years ago and stepped inside. The smell hit me first. That familiar combination of fabric and the vanilla candles I kept burning and the faint mustiness from the back storage room I could never quite eliminate.
Home.
Or the closest thing I had to home now.
“I'll be at Melissa's,” Connor said, though he lingered in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space. “Call if you need anything. I mean it, Harper.”
“I will. Promise.”
He hesitated another moment, his eyes searching mine like there was something more he wanted to say.
Then he nodded and left. I watched through the window as he crossed the street to the coffee shop, his tall frame moving with that easy confidence I'd always envied, and watched until he disappeared inside.
Then I was alone.
I locked the door behind me, not ready for customers yet.
I needed time to breathe, to assess. I trailed my fingers over the racks of spring dresses, the soft cashmere sweaters, the silk scarves Anna had helped me pick out last month.
Everything exactly as I'd left it, untouched by the chaos that had consumed the rest of my life.
I moved to the back office, my small desk buried under the usual chaos of invoices and order forms and sticky notes to myself written in my messy handwriting.
My store laptop sat where I'd left it Saturday morning, closed and waiting.
I opened it, the screen flickering to life with a blue glow, and pulled up my email.
127 new messages.
Oh good. Only 127 problems to deal with. That’s practically nothing.
I scrolled through them with growing dread, my stomach sinking with each subject line. Vendors asking about payment. Automated reminders about overdue invoices that felt like digital slaps in the face. A few messages from other shop owners in town expressing sympathy about the fire.
And one from my insurance company.
Subject: RE: Fire Loss Claim - Additional Documentation Required
My stomach dropped as I opened it.
Dear Ms. Walsh,
Thank you for submitting your fire loss claim. Unfortunately, we cannot process your claim at this time as we require additional documentation:
1. Official fire marshal report (pending investigation) 2. Itemized list of lost possessions with estimated values 3. Proof of residence at the listed address 4. Police report (if arson is suspected)
Additionally, as the fire is under investigation for possible arson, your claim has been flagged for additional review. This may extend processing time by 4-6 weeks beyond our normal timeline.
We apologize for any inconvenience and will update you as soon as possible.
Four to six weeks. On top of whatever the “normal timeline” was which, knowing my luck, was probably another month.
So, two to three months before I saw any insurance money. Two to three months of having nothing while I waited for bureaucracy to decide if I deserved compensation for losing everything I owned.
That was just perfect. Why would anything be easy?
My hands were shaking as I closed the laptop with more force than necessary. The thought of being dependent on Connor for that long, of being a burden, of owing him so much I could never repay, made me want to scream into the void.
A knock on the front door made me jump, my heart leaping into my throat.
I looked up to see Mrs. Patterson peering through the glass, her kind face creased with concern. She waved when she saw me, and I forced myself to stand, to smooth down the soft blue sweater Anna had brought me, to paste on a smile that felt like broken glass cutting my face.
I unlocked the door and opened it. “Mrs. Patterson. Good morning.”
“Harper, dear!” She pulled me into a hug before I could protest, her familiar floral perfume washing over me. “I've been so worried about you. Are you alright? Where are you staying? Do you need anything?”
The genuine concern in her voice made my throat tight. “I'm okay. I'm staying with a friend and I’m managing.” If managing meant barely holding it together with duct tape and spite anyway.
“Well, that's good.” She pulled back, studying my face with sharp eyes that probably saw more than I wanted them to. “I heard about the fire. Heard it wasn't an accident.”
Of course everyone knew already. Small town gossip moved at the speed of light.
“The investigation is still ongoing,” I said carefully, using the line Sheriff Davies had coached me to use. “But I'm safe. And the boutique is fine, so—”
“So you need customers!” Mrs. Patterson's expression shifted to determination, her jaw setting. “Well, I'm here to shop. I need a new spring dress for my granddaughter's wedding in April. Something cheerful. Yellow, maybe, or that lovely coral color you had last year?”
Warmth bloomed in my chest, spreading through me like sunshine. “I think I have just the thing.”
Mrs. Patterson stayed for an hour, trying on dresses with the thoroughness of someone who took shopping seriously. She bought two dresses and a scarf, telling me the second dress was just because I deserved the sale, her eyes twinkling with kindness.
Three hundred and forty-seven dollars.
More than I'd made in a single sale in weeks.
She was leaving, shopping bag in hand, when Melissa from the coffee shop came in. Then Mrs. Chen, Mr. Chen's wife, smiled warmly and squeezed my hand before browsing. Then Sarah, who owned the bookstore two doors down.
One after another, throughout the morning, women from town filtered into my boutique. Some I knew well, regular customers who'd been supporting me for years. Others were only vaguely familiar, faces I'd seen around town but never really spoken to.
All of them had heard about the fire. All of them expressed concern, asked if I needed anything, and offered help in whatever way they could.
And almost all of them bought something.
Not huge purchases, but they mattered. A scarf here, a pair of earrings there, a cardigan someone didn't really need but bought anyway. It added up. With each transaction, with each genuine smile and word of encouragement, I felt something in my chest start to unknot.
The town cared. People cared.
By noon, I'd made over fifteen hundred dollars in sales. More than I usually made in a week during the slow season.
I was ringing up Sarah's purchase of a beautiful emerald green wrap dress she'd admired for months but never bought when the door chimed again. I looked up with my customer service smile in place only for it to freeze on my face.
Morgan Ashford stood in my doorway.