Page 27 of Sterling Clay

I’d felt sick at the accusation that I would do something like that to my own home. And being that the mortgage was listed in my name, I’d been the first to be accused of the crime.

Thankfully, Stone Sylver came to my defense in his report about the doping. When Wesley handed me a glass of orange juice that morning, I hadn’t been suspicious. I’d considered it a peace offering after our explosive fight the night before, when I told him I wanted him out. When I’d suggested I’d sell the house and return to Florida, a place I loathed to consider living in again.

Wesley had threatened to burn the place to the ground before he let me leave him or sell our place. At the time, I’d thought his threat was one of many, often said in the heat of an argument. I never suspected he’d go so far as to literally start a fire with Dutton and me inside. Stone assumed Wesley slipped me the roofie to prevent me from saving Dutton and myself. Wesley’s action would have burned us alive.

The irony was Wesley Holland had no claim to any insurance policy if he had set the blaze.

Also, there was now a warrant out for his arrest for attempted double homicide.

Wherever he was, I doubted he’d show his face again in Sterling Falls. He was stupid but not that foolish, which was another reason I felt safest here.

Still, I needed money to live anywhere and the insurance agent, with her perfectly polished red nails and professionally dyed blond hair, was telling me there would be no payout.

A bubble of laughter pops free. Disbelief gurgles inside me. Hysteria takes over.

The agent continues. “There was an investigative report in which the arson charge was inconclusive.”

“The conclusion was that there wasn’t an act of arson.” Even if Wesley had started the fire, the house had been titled in my name, and as the official owner, I hadn’t done anything to spark the blaze. I’d been cleared of suspicion.

Ignoring me, she continues. “A further investigation was done into the faulty wiring claim. You didn’t have a legal permit with a licensed electrician for the work on file.”

I’d been over this with the adjusters, sharing the records I have from various contractors. The work invoices often were missing a phone number or an email address. Many of them were without legitimate websites and asked us to pay in cash. As several came after me for the outstanding debts, I’d borrowed money from my parents, like I’d told Clay, to pay them off. I hadn’t further inquired into the legitimacy of each of them. Still, I refused to take the blame here. Not fully.

“And finally, the last two checks written for the policy bounced.”

“What?” How much more bad news can I take?

“Which means your insurance coverage was voided.”

My breath catches. I almost worry I’ve blacked out as the room disappears for a moment.

Was she serious? “Why is this the first I’m hearing about this?” I’d been on the phone over and over again, transferred from department to department, and not one person ever mentioned that the insurance payments were not up to date nor that the coverage had lapsed.

“So, what exactly are you saying?” Although she’d already told me, I needed to hear it again, disbelief now firmly rooted in me.

“I’m sorry.” She averts her gaze, embarrassed for me, maybe ashamed of herself. “There isn’t any payout for you.”

“What you’re telling me is, my burned house is a total financial loss?” My heart hammers faster. The office is suddenly too warm. The agent grows fuzzy in my vision.

She swallows and fiddles with the pens on her desk. Ones I notice are red to match her nail polish. “Yes.”

“Unbelievable,” I whisper. As if I still don’t hear her correctly, as if I can’t comprehend what this means.

But fifteen minutes later, I’m outside in the alley behind the building, sliding down the side of the brick wall at my back and curling into myself while the truth vibrates through my body.

And I’m too stunned to cry. Too angry to think straight. I literally have no feeling in my limbs and no thoughts in my head. I’m numb when I should be sick to my stomach.

I can’t ask my parents for more money.

I can’t go back to their home.

I don’t have a plan.

How did I get into such a mess?

With my head in my hands and my elbows on my raised knees, skirt tucked beneath my thighs, I stare toward my feet, willing them to carry me away and yet begging for a few more desperate minutes to wallow in this new betrayal.

No money from the insurance company. No house. No job. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.