The door wasn’t even latched, the frame splintered and broken where the firefighters had broken in.

Michael didn’t want to go inside. He could see blackened walls and melted carpeting from here, and he didn’t have any desire to get a closer look.

He felt like such a wuss. Suck it up.

Tyler touched the door frame and picked at a few splinters. “We should go back up the street to Eighty-Four Lumber and get some plywood. Board this up while we’re here.” He gestured at the shattered windows. “Those, too.”

The fire marshal had said the same thing, but Michael shrugged. “I doubt there’s much worth stealing now.”

“Still. You don’t want animals in here.”

Valid point. They went back to Tyler’s truck. They were a mile down the road before Michael realized that maybe Tyler had needed a breather, too.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long to get plywood and supplies, because they were driving around the barriers again less than fifteen minutes later. Michael was better prepared this time, and the nausea didn’t hit him as hard.

They stacked the plywood and materials on the front porch, and then Michael stood there, facing the front door for a second time.

This was stupid. He’d gone through this door a million times. He’d already seen the damage; it wasn’t like it would suddenly be worse.

But somehow now was different. Staring at this damaged door hammered home just how little he had left.

Nothing. You have nothing.

This was so much worse than looking at the charred bookcases. Michael put a hand on the door and pushed it open.

The foyer still reeked of smoke and melted synthetics. Light poured through the front windows, displaying all of the damage in full color. Footprints were everywhere, but Michael had no way of knowing if they were all from that first night, or if someone had been in here since.

Tyler stepped up beside him. “Wow.”

Michael pushed through. He needed to keep moving or he’d collapse into a pile of despair. His shoes crunched on grit as he made his way through the dining room—where everything was a mere shell of what had been there. Table? Chairs? Burned and blackened. One of his brothers had left schoolbooks out, and they were just as unrecognizable as the rest of the room.

When he’d been fourteen, Michael’s mother had wanted the room painted in alternating stripes of high-gloss and flat maroon paint. Michael remembered measuring and taping lines on the wall with his father before breaking out the rollers.

Now, he couldn’t have told where the stripes began or ended. Everything was just black.

Tyler pointed at the destroyed books on the table. “I hope that’s not your landscaping stuff.”

The words spurred Michael into action. “No. That’s all in the kitchen.”

Luckily, the kitchen was somewhat better. Smoke damage extended in here as well, but instead of black walls, they faced a gray haze over everything.

Almost everything: the counter where he usually kept his laptop sported a familiar-sized rectangle of clean granite, untouched by soot.

His laptop was gone. So were the two binders where he kept invoice copies and paper records.

“Fuck!” Michael slapped the countertop. A crack split and tore across the stone surface before he could stop it.

Tyler raised his eyebrows. “I’m going to assume you didn’t just misplace stuff?”

“No,” he ground out. Michael wanted to hit something. Someone. He had no idea whether his things had been stolen or if the cops had taken them for evidence against him, but he’d never be able to contact all his customers without his records.

And he’d thought he had nothing five minutes ago.

A common thief wouldn’t have taken his notes. This had to be the cops, right? He wondered if David Forrest would be able to pull strings and get his laptop back.

Because Michael could totally afford to keep paying the guy seven hundred and fifty dollars an hour to do things like chase down his laptop.

He ran a hand across the back of his head and drew a long breath. “Let me see if I can find the keys to the SUV. Then we can get out of here.”

But he couldn’t find the keys. They might have been burned, or lost, or seized like his work stuff. No way to know.

At this point, Michael didn’t even waste energy being surprised or disappointed. He walked back to the front porch and picked up a piece of plywood and a hammer.

Tyler didn’t say a word. He simply did the same.

The physical labor helped ease some of his rage. His thoughts funneled down to each whack of the hammer. He slammed every nail into the plywood with enough force to crack the window frame behind it. Tyler matched him, nail for nail—though without the rage.

It was funny, but Michael had always thought of Tyler as a do-nothing slacker, but the guy kept pace and worked hard beside him.

Once the windows were covered, Michael picked up another piece of plywood and held it against the door frame. He brushed sweat from his forehead and placed another nail.

“Wait.” Tyler grabbed his arm before he could swing the hammer.

“What?”

“Just wait.”

Michael glanced over, but Tyler was already yanking the plywood out of Michael’s hands and dropping it to the porch.

“What are you—”

“Your house.” Tyler shoved past him, through the door. “It’s on fire.”

CHAPTER 20

The front of the house was dark and untouched, but Michael could smell the smoke as soon as they were through the door. He followed Tyler, who strode through the dining room with clear purpose, stopping short as soon as he entered the kitchen.