Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 32231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
I put the truck in gear and roll away into a night that isn’t as empty as it used to be.
The text hits at 1:14 a.m.
EMBER: You awake?
I don’t sleep much anymore. CLAY: Yeah.
A bubble pulses like a heartbeat.
EMBER: The heat works. House sounds different. Like it’s breathing.
CLAY: Good.
A pause. Then: EMBER: If I redraw the outline, will you tell me when I hit a wall?
I stare at the little glowing question and let the truth be the thing that keeps me human.
CLAY: Yeah, Quinn. I’ll tell you.
Another bubble. EMBER: Night, Clay.
CLAY: Night.
I put the phone on my chest and stare at the ceiling for a long time.
Somewhere down the hill, a house breathes. Somewhere under my ribs, something that thought it was ash shifts like embers catching in a sudden wind.
I should be afraid.
I am.
But the fear doesn’t taste like it used to. It tastes like honey in hot water, like citrus on skin, like the word that should’ve burned my mouth and somehow didn’t.
Joy.
God help me, I might be stupid enough to try.
Chapter Seven
Ember
By the time the insurance investigator pulls up, Copper Mountain has already decided I’m getting paid.
The bakery put out a tray of Fire & Frosting cupcakes with little candy flames and cream cheese snow. The book club ladies DM’d me three different “just in case you need moral support” gifs. Someone hung a banner outside the firehouse that says THANK YOU, HERO CLAY, and I don’t want to know who had that in their garage ready to go.
But Mr. Wilton—the investigator—isn’t here for cupcake diplomacy. He steps out of his rental with a rolling file case and an expression like he ironed his conscience this morning. Crisp navy jacket. Clipboard. Eyes that skim every surface like they’re looking for soot on my soul.
I meet him at the curb in paint-smeared overalls and red lipstick because I refuse to shrink to fit paperwork.
“Ms. Quinn,” he says, shaking my hand the way men shake soft fruit—careful, like he expects mess. “Appreciate you making time.”
“Your emails were… motivational,” I say sweetly. “Come on in.”
The rental is trying its best today—sun slanting over the little round table, plants leaning toward the window stretching for the winter sun. It still smells faintly like clay dust and the citrus oil I rub on my wrists when my hands won’t stop shaking. The heater Clay resurrected last night hums like a satisfied dragon.
“Coffee?” I offer.
“No, thank you.” He sets his case on the chair and clicks it open, withdrawing a stack of forms like a magician producing rabbits. “We’ll need to walk through the timeline again. Start to finish. Any records you have—bank statements, proof of purchase for your kiln and wheel—photographs, receipts…”
Clay’s already here.
I feel him before I see him; the air shifts, temperature rising a single dangerous degree. He’s in his station boots and a clean gray tee that makes his shoulders criminal, jaw dark with the kind of stubble that suggests he shaved badly on purpose. He steps from the hallway with a manila folder, eyes flat calm, mouth unreadable.
“Morning,” he says to Wilton, professional smooth. To me, it’s softer. “Ready?”
I unclench, just a fraction. “Let’s dance.”
Wilton blinks at the folder in Clay’s hands. “And you are…?”
“Clay Walker,” he says, every inch of him suddenly regulation. “Copper Mountain Fire. Incident commander on Studio One-Seven’s call. Ms. Quinn’s fiancé.”
It shouldn’t curl low in me, that last word. It does.
“Right.” Wilton clears his throat like he swallowed a pebble. “Of course. Thank you for…being here.”
He doesn’t thank Clay for saving me.
We sit. Clay takes the chair beside me, not across, and sets the folder near my elbow. When my fingers brush the edge, his hand finds my lower back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Warm. Possessive. A little warning, too—I’ve got you. Breathe.
Mr. Wilton clicks his pen. “Let’s begin with the electrical panel at the studio.”
I talk. I talk like it’s a job. I tell him about the flicker last week, the weird hum, the way I turned off my wheel and kiln early the night before the fire because something felt wrong in the walls. I tell him about calling a handyman who never showed, about the list I made that morning—oil brushes, dry mugs, pull test tiles, call electrician—and how the list survived while the test tiles didn’t.
He asks about everything. My landlord’s maintenance habits. My outlets. My extension cords (none). My space heater (unplugged). He inquires if I’m planning on ordering a new kiln and supplies, I inform him that I already have and am just waiting for them to arrive. He even asks how often I clean my kiln glass, and I don’t roll my eyes because adults are present but my left brow goes rogue.
Every time my voice hitch-hikes toward panic, Clay’s thumb draws one slow circle between my ribs and my spine and I remember how to pull air.