Out Of The Ashes. Cynthia Reese

when insurance is going to write out that check—half past never.”

      “But you did have insurance, correct?”

      “Sure. The whole bit, even paid extra for coverage in case of work stoppage. But it’s arson, Rob. And they’ll take one look at my record...” Kari shook her head. “Never mind. It is what it is. They’ll pay or they won’t. I’ve submitted the claim, so the ball’s in their court.”

      “They won’t pay out until my investigation is finished,” he reminded her.

      “I know that. So how can I help?”

      Did he look surprised at her offer?

      “I just had a few more questions.”

      “Let me guess. You’re going to be like that old TV detective that was constantly going, ‘Just one more question, Miss,’ aren’t you?” she asked.

      “Ma always said I was the curious type,” he acknowledged.

      “Ma—whoever Ma is—is right on the money.”

      “Ma is my mom, Colleen Monroe. She raised nearly all of us by herself after my dad was killed.”

      Kari’s stomach turned at the thought of someone dying because of a stupid fire. She hated fire. Making a conscious effort to shift her attention to something else, she asked, “Who’s all of us?”

      “Well, there was me and my brother Andrew, and you’ve met Daniel. And I have three sisters. Daniel had moved out—he was actually a professional baseball player in the minor leagues when it happened. But the rest of us were still at home.”

      “That’s—that’s quite a big family.”

      “What about you? Do you have just the one brother?”

      “Jake? Yes. It’s just me and him.”

      “How old is he, anyway?”

      “Believe it or not, he’s three years older than me. He just—Mom says he hasn’t found his true calling in life.”

      “But you don’t believe that.” It was a statement, not a question. Kari narrowed her eyes at his too-keen observation.

      “I guess I’m hoping for Mom’s sake that he’ll find that true calling sooner rather than later,” she said. She made to pick up the box, but Rob closed his hands over hers.

      “Allow me. Unless you want to give me another rendition of Clash of the Cymbals.”

      “No way. It sounded like I’d let a two-year-old loose in my cupboards. If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it—my car is just outside.”

      “Wait, not the vintage Mustang convertible? Man, now that’s a car I could get excited about—”

      She laughed. “No, that’s my next-door neighbor’s—he’s going through a midlife crisis. No, mine’s the brown minivan with the peeling paint. The back door should be unlocked.”

      He pivoted with the box. “Just put it anywhere?”

      “Wherever you can find a spot. I’ll be there in a jiff—I need to grab a few last things from the bedroom.”

      Alone, she made one last tour of the empty apartment. It was a good thing she hadn’t had the money to buy a lot of furniture or bric-a-brac. She couldn’t have afforded the storage costs, and her mother’s house didn’t have the space.

      With a lump in her throat, she surveyed the sunny rooms she’d first seen just six months ago. So much hope. So much promise.

      “I’ll be back,” she whispered. “Maybe not here, but some place like this. Some place better, even. It’s not forever. It’s for now.”

      And maybe she’d even believe that eventually. But at the moment, Kari would have to pretend that she did.

      She tightened her hand on the handle of the big shopping bag with the toiletry items she’d waited to pack last, then turned for the door.

      It was as she was locking the door for the last time that she spotted what Rob was doing.

      The box was on the sidewalk. The doors to the van were open—all of them.

      And Rob was very carefully, very thoroughly, searching her vehicle.