Page 80 of Torin

“Hannah, I’m heading downstairs.”

“Mm-hm.”

She reaches for another file.

“Have fun.”

“I am.”

I head for the door.

“Torin?”

I turn.

“Thanks for showing me this.”

“Anytime.”

By the time I reach the stairs, I can already hear another drawer opening behind me.

Orson is halfway through replacing one of the loose boards on the porch when I step outside.

He glances up. “Where’d you leave her?”

“Upstairs.”

“Doing what?”

“Going through the old office.”

He pauses, frowning. “There’s an office?”

“Uh huh.”

“So, what’s in it?”

“A bunch of papers and shit.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“Yeah.”

He shakes his head and lines the replacement board up with the edge of the porch. “Hand me the drill.”

I pick it up from the toolbox and pass it over.

For a while, the only sounds are the whine of the drill, the dull thud of the rubber mallet and the wind moving through the pines.

Orson tightens the last screw and straightens, wiping the back of his wrist across his forehead. “You were right.”

I look at him.

“About what?”

“She fits.”

I don’t answer. Because there isn’t anything to say. I’d known that from the moment I first caught her scent. The difference is, now Orson knows it too.