Chapter 9: The Repair
For two hours, the only sound on Crestview Lane was the rhythmic scrape of sandpaper, the hum of a cordless drill, and the clinking of steel tools against the wooden steps.
Laura brought out a pitcher of iced tea and three glasses, setting them on the porch table without a word. She sat on the top step, watching the two men work together in steady, focused silence.
""My father used to say you were the most stubborn man in the county, Frank,"" Sam said, holding the oak baluster steady as Frank drove a three-inch lag bolt into the base.
""Your father was right,"" Frank replied, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. ""Being stubborn keeps you alive when you’re chasing bad men in the dark. But it makes you blind when you forget that good people get caught in the crossfire.""
Frank set the drill down and looked at Sam.
""I was wrong, Sam. I saw the computer logs, I saw the bank flags, and I let thirty years of cynical cop instincts tell me that everyone breaks eventually. I forgot that some men are built like Joe Hayes.""
Sam looked at his front porch, solid and unyielding under his boots. ""It’s easy to believe the worst about people when the world makes a lot of noise, Frank. What matters is who stays to fix the wood when the shouting stops.""
He extended his hand.
May you like
Frank took it, his grip rough, calloused, and firm.
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