Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Hope you had full coverage,” I say, taking her by the hand and leading her to my truck.
Anneliese gasps, stopping short at the end of the driveway.
“What is it?” I ask, turning back.
“I had renters’ insurance,” she says. “Everything inside the house was covered . . . all of the furniture, the lights we hadn’t installed yet, the appliances I bought . . .”
“So you might not walk away from this empty handed after all.”
“It won’t be close to what I lost, but it’ll be enough for whatever comes next . . .”
I take her hand again, pull her in, and kiss the top of her smoke-scented head. “What do you say we grab some clean clothes at the big-box store and look for a place to crash for the night?”
“As long as it’s not the Pine Grove Motel . . .”
“Tomorrow we’ll get you a new phone,” I say when we get to the truck. “And we’ll start calling the insurance companies.”
Anneliese climbs in next to me, slides to the middle of the bench seat, and rests her head on my shoulder as we head to the outskirts of town, to a twenty-four-hour Walmart.
Today we lost everything but this old beater of a pickup truck.
And each other.
For now, it’s all we need.
THIRTY-THREE
ANNELIESE
feelstoria (n.) a story that is heavily influenced by the author’s emotional state at the time of its writing
“Tell me a story.” I roll to my side and slip my arm across Lachlan’s bare chest, our legs tangled in hotel sheets and the blackout curtains pulled so tight it still feels like nighttime. We’ve been camped out at the Hampton Inn north of Arcadia Grove for the past week. It’s no Ritz-Carlton, but it’s a world above the Pine Grove Motel.
I’m pretty sure I’d take a tent or a tree house at this point, though—anywhere with Lachlan. He’s been a godsend through all of this, offering his support and encouragement, hyping me up for living a life with the “bare necessities,” unencumbered by things.
Also, Berlin, Flo, and Lynnette have rallied the Arcadia Grove troops, telling everyone they know about the house fire and setting up donation funds both online and all around town. Last I checked, we’ve been given more than we could possibly need, and we intend to make sure the excess goes back into the community and is put to good use.
Funny how life can break you apart, only to put you back together again—better than you were before.
“What kind of story?” he asks.
I begin to answer, only to be interrupted by his vibrating phone on the nightstand. He leans over, checking the caller ID.
“It’s a local number,” he says. “Might be the arson investigator. They said they’d be calling within the week.”
Sitting up, he takes the call on speaker.
“Mr. Byrne,” a man on the other end says. “This is Jim Connor, arson investigator for Arcadia Grove FD. We spoke earlier last week.”
“Yes, Mr. Connor,” he says. “I’ve got Anneliese Nielsen here with me.”
“Ms. Nielsen, hi,” Jim says. “We’ve concluded our investigation, so I’ll cut to the chase here. We’ve determined the cause of the fire was a faulty wire connected to the gas range in the kitchen.”
Lachlan and I exchange looks. For the past week, we speculated and guessed, wondering what it could possibly have been. I worried I’d left a curling iron plugged in, or perhaps one of the varnish cans had been left in direct sunlight and combusted. We went through every scenario we could think of—but the brand-new range was not one of them.
“I’ll email you a copy of the report,” Jim says. “Your insurance company will ask for it when you submit your claim.”
“Thank you,” I chime in.
“You have my number if anything comes up or you have any questions,” Jim says before ending the call.
“Wow.” Lachlan places his phone aside, turning back to me. “The range . . .”
“I thought I was saving a few grand by going with a scratch-and-dent model,” I say. “Somehow it ended up costing me everything and giving me everything at the same time.”
Lachlan takes me in his arms, tucking the messy covers around us as the ice-cold AC hums from the opposite side of the room. We’ve been holed up for a week now, only leaving the hotel to get fresh air, food, and a few replacement electronics—a phone and laptop for me, charging cords and earbuds for him.
“We should probably get out of here, don’t you think?” I ask.
“Where do you want to go? Don’t let me forget to top off my gas tank while we’re out.”
“London? Morocco? Florence?” I shrug.
“Oh, you mean get . . . out . . . of . . . here.” He pulls me into his lap, and I gather the covers around me for extra warmth. “Tell me where you want to go, and I’ll book us on the next plane there. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”