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."
