Page 1 of What Remains of Grace

1

The Call

The street was quiet when Jenna pulled into the neighborhood. As quiet as suburban Atlanta ever got, just before dawn, before the day started moving. A row of nearly identical brick homes glowed hazily under the early light, their lawns trimmed while sprinklers hissed softly. She parked in front of the third house on the right, one of her renovation projects, and killed the engine.

This was her favorite part of the day: the drive in before sunrise, an audiobook murmuring through her speakers, and coffee hot enough to sting. For an hour or so, she could believe that the world was orderly, predictable, and fixable, before the traffic thickened, the phone began buzzing, or anyone needed her to make something right.

She stepped out into thick, already humid air and grabbed her clipboard from the passenger seat, the chemical smell of fresh caulk and old drywall hitting her as she unlocked the door and stepped inside. The site was still, just the way morning jobs always were before the trucks began pulling in. No compressors, no radios, no hammering. Her crew would start trickling in soon, but Jenna liked getting there early. It gave her time to see everything before anyone could explain it away.

Inside, the house was in that in-between stage, floors gleaming, walls newly patched, and every surface still smelling slightly of paint and sawdust. Sunlight caught on floating dust, making the air look heavier than it actually was. The new cabinets were in, pale maple against fresh Sheetrock, but even from across the room, something felt off. She crouched, squinting along the line of the uppers, and frowned. Not level. Not even close.

She sighed, setting her coffee down on the counter. Of course, it wasn’t right.

Pulling her phone from her pocket, she hit Mark’s number, and he picked up on the second ring.

“Morning, boss,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep.

“Hey,” she said, pacing as she talked. “I’m at the Brookhaven job. I thought you said the cabinets were fine.”

“They are, it’s the hinges. The doors look crooked, but—”

“It’s not the hinges.” She stopped at the end of her pacing line, staring hard at the wall. “The whole run is off. Looks like the laser was set low.”

A pause. Then a resigned exhale. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Bring your level.”

He chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t dream of showing up without it.”

Jenna smiled despite herself. That was the thing about construction: something was always wrong. Nothing ever went exactly as planned; lumber bowed, deliveries ran late, and walls hid surprises you didn’t want to find. But she liked that about it. Problems had solutions. Things broke, and you fixed them. Life didn’t usually work that way, but buildings did.

Then her other phone buzzed. The Florida number. It was rare for someone to call her personal line this early.

Jenna’s stomach tightened when she saw the name: Aunt Marilyn.

Her aunt never called. They kept up through text messages, Facebook posts, and the occasional birthday or Christmas card, but phone calls were rare. She immediately worried about her mom, though if something were wrong, Grace would’ve called. Her sister always called.

She hesitated, thumb hovering over Decline, then answered. “Hey, Aunt M. Everything okay?”

The silence stretched too long. When her aunt finally spoke, her voice was thin and trembling.

“Jenna . . . honey, something’s happened . . . it’s Grace.”

Jenna straightened instinctively, pen halfway to her clipboard. “What about her?”

“She—” Her aunt’s voice wavered. “She collapsed at the bakery this morning. They took her to the hospital, but—”

Jenna’s grip on the pen tightened. “But what?”

Her aunt’s words were tumbling over each other: something about stress, her condition, the divorce, her cardiologist’s warnings. But Jenna couldn’t hear any of it.

A sound came through the phone, limp and broken. “She’s gone, sweetheart.”

The world stopped.

Coffee sloshed over Jenna’s hand, but she didn’t feel it as the air thickened around her.

“What?” The word cracked. “No, she—no, Aunt M, she’s not.”