Page 121 of What Remains of Grace

Ninety-five thousand dollars. In one night.

From the people who’d eaten their cupcakes and sat at their tables and apparently decided that was worth paying forward.

She felt Cole’s gaze on her and turned.

He stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, shirt sleeves rolled. When their eyes met, his mouth curved.

“Not bad for a surprise party, huh?” he said quietly.

She walked over, carried more by momentum than intention. “You did this,” she said. “You and Emmie and half the town.”

“We did this,” he corrected. “They did this. Grace did this. Every birthday cake, funeral cookie, and cinnamon roll to celebrate a soccer win did this. We just gave them a time and a place to show up.”

She looked around at the emptying bakery, at the little donation box still half-full of crumpled bills and folded envelopes, at the posters on the wall and the string lights in the window.

“It’s not the twenty-five percent,” she said softly.

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

“We still have to convince a judge to recognize the renovations. To credit the work. To reduce his cut.”

“We do,” he said. “This didn’t make the problem go away.”

Her chest tightened. “Then why does it feel like it did?”

“Because for the first time since this started, it’s not just you and Emmie standing in a kitchen with an envelope,” he said. “It’s you, Emmie, and a town full of people who just proved they’re willing to stand between you and him.”

Something in her loosened. Tears burned hot at the back of her eyes. “Hey,” he said, softer. “Look at me.”

She did.

“I know you don’t trust miracles, but this isn’t one. It’s work. It’s people. It’s strategy. But it’s also . . . momentum. Judges like to see that. So do lawyers. So do exhausted bakery owners who need a reason to keep going.”

“You always do this,” she said, her voice thick. “You always make me believe this is . . . survivable.”

“Good, because it is.”

She shook her head, half-laughing, half-crying. “You’re the best stress reliever ever.”

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low. “I can think of a few other ways to handle your stress.” She bumped her shoulder against his, heat blooming in her cheeks at the implication.

Around them, the last of the volunteer crew started stacking chairs and clearing tables. Emmie darted by, wrapped Jenna in a quick hug, and whispered, “We did it,” into her ear before disappearing again to argue with Mr. Delaney about whether the history boards could stay up permanently.

Jenna watched her go, this girl who had lost so much and still somehow found the energy to wage war in glitter pens and poster boards, and felt a swell of fierce love.

They hadn’t won. Not yet.

There were still hearings ahead, motions to file, numbers to argue over. There was still a man out there who thought he could put a price tag on her sister’s life and name it “fair.”

But tonight, standing in the warm, exhausted heart of The Blue Cypress, with ninety-five thousand dollars in pledges, crumbs on the floor, and the echo of laughter still hanging in the air, Jenna didn’t feel defeated.

She felt backed. She felt seen. She felt, for the first time since the knock on the door, like the story might not end with them losing everything.

“We’re not done,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“No,” Cole agreed. “We’re just getting started.”

And for once, the idea of starting again didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like a fight she might actually be able to win.