Page 14 of Love Story

When the call ended, I sat down heavily, staring at the snow outside the window.Sixty-forty.Those weren’t odds I liked, but they were better than nothing.

I hadn’t slept.Brad was in prison.The execs were being cornered.And yet, I couldn’t shake the bitterness that after losing everything, I still had to wait and see if justice would be served, and I wouldn’t have anything pinned on me.

I hadn’t planned to blow the whistle.Not at first.I’d stumbled across discrepancies by accident—numbers that didn’t add up in the software audits, funds that seemed to vanish into thin air.At first, I told myself it wasn’t my problem.I wasn’t paid enough to unravel the tangled web of deceit in the firm.But the more I looked, the more I couldn’t unsee it.

It wasn’t only skimming; it was systemic.Executives had misappropriated millions of dollars with clients, funding their off-book ventures.The fallout was worse than I’d imagined when I reported it after finding emails from Brad suggesting I’d make a great scapegoat.The firm tanked, jobs were lost, and reputations ruined.I’d lost everything I’d worked so hard to achieve, everything I’d sacrificed countless sleepless nights for.

Burnout wasn’t even the word for it—I was crushed.

Brad had tried to cover up discrepancies using coding he’d created for the brokers and hanging my name on the work.

And here I was, in Caldwell Crossing, trying to piece together whatever was left of me.

But it was too quiet here.

For a second, when I first woke up, I half-expected to hear sirens or the hum of traffic or maybe the distant shout from someone on a city street.But when I pulled the drapes this morning—day three of my stay in Caldwell Crossing—all I saw was a deer, its rich brown coat stark against the white, pausing mid-step in the snow.It flicked its ears, then darted into the trees.

I’d seen Bambi every day since I arrived, but today was the first time the sight made me smile.Not that I didn’t usually appreciate wildlife, but between the aches, bruises, and the overwhelming weight of leaving everything behind in Boston, I hadn’t been in a mood to appreciate nature.The first two mornings of being here, I could barely drag myself to the window without muttering and cursing under my breath.

But today was different.I smiled at the deer as it moved through the new snow that had fallen overnight, blanketing the last of the bushes and softening the world’s edges.Everything outside was clean and untouched, like a blank slate.There were no hints of green anywhere, just white on white.

“Are you awake, Ben?”Harriet called and knocked all at the same time.

“I’m up.”

I turned from the window and opened the door to find her outside, dressed in one of her neat cardigans, her short gray hair combed, and glasses perched on her nose.She stared at me with a familiar blend of love and concern.

“Morning, Aunt Harriet.”

“Morning, sweetheart,” she said.“Would you like to try the kitchen today for breakfast or do you want a tray again?”

I managed a small smile.“I’m coming down.”

She beamed at me.“Good,” she said, giving my arm a light pat.“Ready in twenty if you want a shower first.”

I glanced down at my ratty T-shirt and knew I needed a shower, a change of clothes, and maybe… I smoothed a hand over my stubble.“I’ll shave as well,” I announced and warmed at the nod of approval.

“Good, good.I’ll make it for thirty minutes then.”She turned and headed back down the stairs.

I leaned against the doorframe for a moment, watching to make sure she made it down the internal steps to the small hall and through the door to her home.Staying in Harriet’s apartment over her garage was a step in the right direction.I’d needed her.She’d always felt more like an honorary grandmother than a great-aunt.She was my grandfather Thomas’s younger sister, and I’d seen her often when I was young, and there’d always been this connection between us.Maybe it was our shared love of books, history, and puzzle books, or how she looked at the world.She didn’t have kids, but that hadn’t stopped her from being a steady presence in the family, especially for me.

I might not have visited much—because I was a fucking asshole—but I’d called on her birthday and Christmas.

Nope, still an asshole.

When I was little, she’d sent me letters with old photos, family stories, and history.Those letters were a lifeline, anchoring me when my parents divorced, and everything had spun out of control.So, when things fell apart in Boston, and Theo said I needed to get out of the city, I’d called Harriet, and she’d offered me a place to stay in Caldwell Crossing; I didn’t hesitate.She didn’t push for answers about why I was leaving Boston, she just gave me a place to land and time to figure it all out.

That was Harriet.She didn’t need words to make you feel like you belonged.

And she fussed.A lot.Not that I blamed her—she’d seen the state I was in, fresh from a ditch with a crumpled car and bruises I was doing my best to ignore.I wasn’t proving myself to be a responsible adult who thought ahead and bought snow tires for my sensible Prius.She hadn’t left me alone much since, constantly checking in, ensuring I was eating, resting, and recovering.

It was annoying in the way only care can be.And if I were being honest, after months of drowning in drama, it was also precisely what I needed.

I checked my phone—6:45 a.m.Harriet had said breakfast was in thirty minutes, and I wasn’t about to keep her waiting.

The hot water hit my shoulders like a promise, washing away three days of grime and a little of the lingering fog in my head.I stood there longer than I needed to, letting the steam curl around me as I focused on the simple rhythm of breathing—in, out.I felt warm, clean, and settled.

After the shower, I wiped the steam from the mirror and stared at my reflection.I looked as if I’d been in a bar fight—not that I’d ever been in one.The cut on my forehead wasn’t deep, but the bruises around it were turning an ugly shade of yellow and green.My eyes were bloodshot, with smudged darkness around them, and I didn’t bother checking the bruises on my chest, though I could feel them every time I moved.The seat belt had done its job, but not without leaving a mark.

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