Chapter 17 - The Night the Workshop BurnedThe fire started at 2:08 in the morning.
My phone alarm woke me.
Not the smoke alarm.
The security system.
MOTION DETECTED — REAR ENTRY.
I sat up.
Before I could open the camera feed, another alert appeared.
CAMERA OFFLINE.
Then another.
SMOKE DETECTED.
I was out of bed before I understood I had moved.
I called 911 while pulling on jeans.
The dispatcher told me not to enter the building.
I knew that.
I repeated it to myself the entire drive.
Do not enter.
Do not enter.
Do not enter.
Orange light was already visible above the rooftops when I turned onto the rail-line street.
Fire trucks arrived almost simultaneously.
I stopped across the road.
And watched part of my life burn.
Flames pushed through the rear window.
Smoke rolled beneath the roofline.
A firefighter held me back when I instinctively stepped toward the street.
“My tools are in there.”
“I understand.”
“There’s propane—two small cylinders, cabinet near the back wall.”
He relayed the information.
I stood uselessly beneath flashing red lights.
Luke arrived.
Then Dad.
Then Rachel.
Nobody asked how she knew.
Probably Luke.
She walked beside me and took my hand.
I let her.
The fire department contained the blaze before it destroyed the entire building.
That was the good news.
The bad news waited until sunrise.
The rear half of the workshop was blackened.
Two major machines were destroyed.
Completed furniture awaiting delivery had been damaged by smoke and water.
My desk was gone.
The maple conference table I had been building was ruined.
I stood outside while the fire marshal worked.
A police detective arrived.
That frightened me more than the fire trucks.
At nine thirteen, the marshal approached.
“This doesn’t look accidental.”
My stomach dropped.
He explained what they had found.
A rear window broken from the outside.
An accelerant pattern near stacked scrap wood.
The electrical system showed no obvious origin point.
Someone had likely entered.
Someone had likely set the fire.
Luke swore.
Dad started pacing.
Rachel squeezed my hand.
I felt nothing.
Not at first.
Then something inside me turned hot.
Ben.
Mason.
The messages.
The rock.
The fake reviews.
The hearing.
I pulled away from Rachel.
Not angrily.
Because I needed space.
“Ethan,” Luke said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“No.”
I looked at the road.
For one terrible second, I imagined driving to Ben’s house.
Not with a tire iron.
I did not need an object this time.
The fantasy itself scared me.
Rachel moved in front of me.
“Look at me.”
I did.
“What do you want right now?”
I almost said justice.
That would have been a lie.
“I want somebody to hurt.”
She nodded.
No judgment.
Just recognition.
“What happens if you go find him?”
I knew what she was doing.
Making me say it.
“I become evidence for his story.”
“What else?”
“I lose the workshop.”
“What else?”
“My job.”
“What else?”
I looked at her.
“You.”
Rachel’s eyes filled.
“Maybe.”
That hurt.
It also helped.
I sat on the curb.
The anger did not disappear.
I simply refused to hand it the keys.
The detective took statements.
Elise provided the messages.
Rachel provided evidence from the café.
I gave him the workshop camera files.
The rear camera had gone offline before capturing a face.
But the cloud backup contained seventeen seconds from immediately before the signal ended.
A dark pickup.
One headlight slightly dimmer than the other.
A figure in a hood.
No plate visible.
Not enough.
Then Luke leaned over my shoulder.
“Play that again.”
The detective did.
Luke pointed.
“Sticker.”
On the lower corner of the truck’s rear window was a white oval.
Inside it, dark lettering.
The image was blurry.
But I recognized the shape.
So did Luke.
A Lake Cumberland marina sticker.
Mason had one on his truck the night of the party.
I remembered because I had stared at it while standing in that driveway, trying not to lose control.
The detective did not celebrate.
Neither did I.
It was evidence.
Not proof.
That evening, after everyone left, I stood across the street from the burned workshop.
Rachel remained beside me.
“I can rebuild,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if I want to.”
“That’s different.”
I nodded.
Smoke still drifted through the broken rear window.
For months, I had told myself I was learning how to build things nobody needed.
Now someone had tried to destroy the first thing I had built only because I wanted it.
May you like
And for the first time, I understood that rebuilding would not be about proving anything to Ben.
It would be about refusing to let someone else decide what survived.
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