Chapter 28 - The Ash in the Wind
We drove north, leaving the sprawling concrete labyrinth of Detroit behind. The rain had finally cleared, replaced by a brilliant, crystalline late-autumn afternoon. The sun hung low over the amber fields of central Michigan, bathing the highway in warm, honey-colored light.
We stopped at an overlook near the Grand River, just outside Lansing.
The wind here blew clean and sharp, smelling of pine needles, drying corn husks, and the cold promise of upcoming snow.
I walked to the edge of the wooden railing, holding Victoria’s letter in my fingers.
Aaron stood behind me, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. The quiet between us was no longer the suffocating, hostile silence of our penthouse in Detroit; it was the quiet of two survivors who had crossed a minefield together and reached the other side.
"She wanted me to keep the money," I said, looking down at the elegant, hateful handwriting. "She told me to use the passcodes and take the thirty-two million. She thought that was love."
"Do you want it?" Aaron asked, his voice neutral, completely devoid of judgment.
I turned to look at him. His jaw was lean and strong beneath his dark beard. His broad shoulders were squared against the wind. The man I had humiliated, the man I had called a burden in front of hundreds of people, had risked his life three hours ago to protect me from men with guns.
"I spent ten years letting her define what was valuable," I said. "And it almost cost me the only thing that ever mattered."
I pulled a small brass lighter from my pocket—the one Aaron used to light the wood stove in our farmhouse.
I flicked the wheel. The orange flame caught the corner of the cream stationery.
The paper curled, blackened, and burst into flame. I let it burn until the heat touched my fingertips, then released it into the gusting wind. The burning ash drifted out over the river gorge, scattering into thousands of gray specks that dissolved against the rushing water below.
Aaron stepped closer, wrapping his arms around my shoulders from behind. I leaned back into his chest, burying my face against his woolen collar, inhaling the scent of cedar smoke and pine that had become my true home.
"Let's go back to the farm," I whispered.
May you like
"The roof still needs two more bundles of shingles before the frost hits tonight," he answered softly, pressing his lips against the crown of my head.
***
