Page 130 of Letters From A Stalker

“I have eaten.”

The look she gives me makes it clear she understands that I mean coffee. “You’re not allowed to count liquids.”

“You’re not my mother.”

“No, but apparently somebody needs to be.” She disappears before I can answer.

I pick up the call. “Hey.”

Renee’s voice comes through with enough noise behind her that I immediately picture the safe house in full weekday chaos, somebody speaking nearby while what sounds suspiciously like furniture scrapes across a floor.

“Please tell me you’re sitting down.”

I lean farther back in my chair. “That sentence has never preceded anything inexpensive.”

“It isn’t catastrophic.”

“That was not the reassurance you thought it was.”

She laughs briefly, although I can hear tiredness beneath it. “The contractor opened the wall in the east upstairs bathroom this morning. The leak we thought was limited to the shower line has apparently been there longer than anyone realized, so there’s moisture farther into the wall and part of the framing needs to come out.”

I close my eyes and rub my thumb against my forehead. “How much farther?”

Renee hesitates just long enough to answer the question without saying anything. “Would you prefer the optimistic estimate or the one he actually gave me?”

“The one that ruins my afternoon.”

She gives me the number.

I open my eyes again and stare at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ.”

“That was almost exactly what I said, except mine involved more vocabulary.”

“Any mold?” I ask.

“A little, but he thinks it’s contained. I already told him nothing gets closed back up until we test properly and know what we’re dealing with.”

“Good.” I sit forward and reach for the pad beside my keyboard. “Can we isolate that side of the floor without moving everyone?”

“We already moved the family in the closest room downstairs, and the bathroom is sealed off. Nobody loses a bed unless the inspection finds something worse.”

That’s good, that means more than the number she gave me.

“Then have them do it properly. If the framing needs replacing, replace it. I don’t want somebody opening the same wall six months from now because we saved a few thousand dollars today.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“Then why did you call?”

“Because despite your ongoing attempt to pretend otherwise, it’s still your money.” She snorts a little as if explaining this is actually ridiculous.

“It belongs to the house.”

“Kai.”

“Renee.”

Her sigh carries enough amusement that I can picture the expression accompanying it. “Fine. While I have you, the back porch railing is finished and the electrician confirmed Monday for the new security lights.”