“Could’ve been electrical?” she asks.
The older of the two men, Harris according to the stitched patch on his shirt, crouches near the remains of the side wall and shakes his head.
“Not likely. No service back there. Not enough current to do this, even before the condition it was in.”
Lark’s mouth tightens. I see it. The way she braces before the next question, before the answer she already knows she doesn’t want.
“Could someone have done it on purpose?” she asks.
Harris straightens slowly. “Could’ve.”
That’s all he gives her.
Could’ve.
I don’t miss the way her fingers tighten around the notebook in her hand.
The other inspector walks the yard line again, checking spread patterns, crouching near the section of burned brush, saying very little. Eventually, he returns, exchanges one look with Harris, and they step toward us together.
“Property’s not condemned,” Harris says. “Main structure’s standing. You’ll need repairs, and you’ll need to board that broken window before tonight. We want the rear yard kept clear until we finish the report.”
Lark nods once. “Can I stay in the house?”
I look at her, but she doesn’t look back.
Harris tips his head slightly. “Ground floor only until we get somebody up to check the stair load and smoke path. I’d recommend you don’t stay alone.”
“I can,” I say before she can answer.
Both inspectors look at me. Lark turns slowly, and I can feel the question in that movement. I don’t take it back.
Harris nods once like that solves whatever concern he had and scribbles something on the clipboard.
They leave twenty minutes later with promises of calls, reports, follow-up contractors, and all the other practical pieces disaster drags in behind it.
The silence after they go feels louder than the whole inspection did.
Lark stands in the foyer, notebook pressed against her stomach, staring toward the rear of the house like she can still see the carriage house through walls and hallways and all the hurt this place is carrying.
Then she says, “I need supplies.”
Her voice is steady. Too steady.
“Okay.”
“Boards for the window. More contractor bags. Bleach. Probably a pry bar I don’t hate.”
The list comes quick, clipped, efficient. Something to hold on to. I know the instinct. Fix what you can. Move before feeling catches up.
“You eat more than half an egg this morning?” I ask.
She turns toward me, irritation flashing instantly. “That has nothing to do with anything.”
“It does if you’re about to spend six hours breathing bleach and hauling debris.”
“I’m fine.”
The words bounce off me without landing. “Yeah. You keep saying that.”
