Wise Moves. Mary Burton

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СКАЧАТЬ to protect the hardwood floors. We’ll contain the mess as much as we can.”

      “Right.”

      “Where’s your fuse box, Kristen?”

      “Basement. Far right corner.”

      “Great. Be right back. Might want to shut off the computer if it feeds into this circuit.”

      “Oh, yeah, right.”

      She quickly shut down the computer. Seconds later the lights in the reception area went out. The bright April sunshine shone through the large front window and provided enough light to see.

      Cambia came back through the reception area and went to the room marked for demolition. Kristen followed. He shoved his large hands into well-worn gloves and started lightly tapping on the wall with his hammer. He looked confident and relaxed.

      She enjoyed watching him work. “What are you doing?”

      “Looking for the studs—the supporting wood under the drywall. As I knock on the wall I can tell by the sound if I’m close to one.”

      In the last nine months, she’d washed dishes, mucked out stalls, even tried to waitress, but she’d done nothing in construction and knew zero about it. “Oh.”

      She spread out the drop cloth, careful that it covered all the hardwood in the entry hallway. Sheridan had had the floors redone just a year ago and had been worried that Cambia would damage them.

      He put on his safety glasses and tossed Kristen’s to her. “Let’s get rolling.”

      “Ready.”

      “You stand clear, Miss Kristen. A hunk of drywall might hit you and we want to keep you safe.”

      She stepped back. “Got it.”

      “When I give the okay you can start collecting debris. For now just wait.”

      “Okay.”

      He lifted the hammer over his head and smashed it into the wall. The resounding crack sounded like gunfire and made her jump.

      Cambia turned. “That noise scare you?”

      “No, no, I’m fine.”

      Who was she kidding? She would never be fine.

      Cambia drove the sledgehammer, taking another hunk out of the wall. The energy of the strike reverberated through the hammer’s wooden shaft up into his arms. Since Nancy’s death, he’d been filled with pent-up rage and he’d wanted nothing more than to destroy everything in sight.

      He remembered when his sister had first come to the foster home. He’d been thirteen, had lived in the home for two years and had fallen into a routine. Nancy had been ten years old. She’d had a broken arm and had been so afraid when she’d arrived. But instead of cowering, she’d given everybody, especially him, so much sass. At first he couldn’t stand to be around her, but Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, who’d raised fifteen foster kids over the years, had been patient. In time, her anger had faded and she’d started to lighten up.

      He’d found out later that Nancy’s father had broken her arm. He’d been drunk and had hit her with his car when he’d zoomed out of their driveway. Eventually, the Bennetts got full custody.

      Dane shoved out a breath. When Nancy had first died, he had played it by the book, going after Benito by conventional means. For months he’d waded through red tape as he’d tried to get to the monster. But he’d run into brick wall after brick wall and his frustration had grown steadily. A tremendous amount of effort and nothing to show for it.

      But now, for the first time in a very long time he was doing something tangible. And it felt good. He hit the wall again and again. Within minutes an entire section had been stripped away. A sheen of sweat dampened his brow.

      “So what did that wall do to you?” Kristen asked.

      He took a moment to collect himself before he turned and faced her. She leaned on the doorjamb, her arms crossed under full breasts.

      He wiped his gloved hand over his sweaty forehead. “Like you said, Kristen, time is money. The sooner I get this down the sooner you can start hauling debris out.”

      She studied him an extra beat as if she wasn’t sure what to make of him.

      He knew he had to lighten up, let go of the anger. He’d worked hard to make her relax around him. “Go ahead and put on those work gloves. I’ll be ready for you in a minute.”

      Kristen nodded and pushed her hands into the gloves. “I’ll get a broom.”

      “Sure.”

      When she disappeared, he moved to the door to make sure he hadn’t scared her off. To his relief he heard her steps down the hallway as she returned.

      He returned to hitting the wall. Soon, there was a pile of drywall that needed clearing and his arms ached.

      When she reappeared with the broom, he said, “Have at it.”

      He wasn’t quite sure what she’d do with the pile. By the looks of her she’d never done a day of manual labor in her life—Elena sure hadn’t.

      But without a word, Kristen started to collect the larger pieces in her arms. He picked up an armload himself and followed her out the back. Outside, she slid the side door of the battered red Dumpster and dumped her armload of fractured drywall inside it. Her once pristine shirt was covered in white drywall powder, as were her arms. However, without complaint she headed back inside for another load.

      The two worked for the next hour, clearing out debris. When they’d removed most of the large pieces, he knocked more down. She carried more.

      By four o’clock, they’d stripped the wall to its bones. And he could see that Kristen was tired. Her face was flushed, and sweat stained the front of her shirt.

      “Let’s take a break,” he said.

      She frowned. “But we aren’t finished.”

      “The wall isn’t going anywhere and I could use some water. You got a kitchen in this place?”

      “In the back. Follow me.”

      As they moved up the center staircase of the shotgun-style row house, he noted she moved with her shoulders back, her hips swaying gently with each step. For the first time, he got a glimpse of the money and fine education Elena Benito had known.

      Maybe she was the one.

      “You move like a dancer,” he said as they entered the small kitchen. Elena Benito had loved to dance. She took him to a small apartment furnished with a bed and kitchen table.

      Her hand on the kitchen cabinet, she hesitated. “I don’t dance.”

      He heard the hesitation in her voice. “Could have fooled me.”

      Long, delicate fingers wrapped around two white mugs that read Yoga Studio. She turned on the tap, waited СКАЧАТЬ