Chapter 23
The money for the new unit came as an insurance advance — the first real check in the whole mess, and it arrived on an ordinary Tuesday in a plain white envelope.
Jessica explained it over the phone. "ClearView's insurer is advancing the replacement cost now, rather than waiting for the final accounting. The advance gets charged against what Gloria and ClearView owe. You don't pay anything. You just pick the unit and the installer."
"I already picked," I said. "Diego."
"Then call Diego."
I called him that afternoon. He answered on the second ring, and when I told him what I needed, he went quiet for a moment.
"Scott," he said, "are you sure? I mean — after everything, you still want me touching your house?"
"You're the only person I trust touching my house, Diego. That's the whole point."
He laughed, but it sounded thick. "Okay. Okay, then. I'll bring the catalog tomorrow. Top of the line, like the settlement says. And I'm not charging you a dime for the install — the settlement covers it, and anything it doesn't cover is on me."
"Diego —"
"Don't argue. You listened to me about the camera. That's worth more than an install fee."
He came the next morning with a binder full of options and a tape measure. We stood in the side yard, looking at the spot where the old unit sat — dented, rattling, still running out of pure spite.
"We're going bigger," Diego said. "Not the same size. One tier up. Your house, your square footage, the way the sun hits that side in the afternoon — you were undersized before, which is part of why it struggled. The new one won't even notice August."
"How long?"
"Two weeks for delivery. One day to install. I'll pull the permits — and this time, I'll photograph everything. Every wire, every bolt. If anyone touches this unit, we'll know."
Installation day came on a clear morning in early fall. Diego arrived with a helper and a flatbed truck, and by noon the old unit was on the truck bed, strapped down like a patient on a gurney.
"You want me to take the cover?" the helper asked, nodding at the dented panel.
"No," I said. "That stays."
The new unit went in where the old one had been. It was bigger, quieter, and so clean it looked wrong next to the weathered siding. Diego wired it himself, checked every connection twice, and then stood back with his hands on his hips.
"Start it up," he said.
I went inside and turned the thermostat down. The unit hummed — not rattled, hummed — and within minutes, cold air started moving through the vents. Real cold air. The kind I'd forgotten my house could make.
I stood in the hallway with my eyes closed, just feeling it on my face.
Diego came in, wiping his hands on a rag. "Well?"
"It's cold," I said.
"That's the idea." He handed me a folder — a thin one, not like my mother's stacks. "Warranty, maintenance schedule, my cell number. You call me before you call anyone, ever, for anything on this unit. And I'm coming back in a month to check the connections. No charge."
"Diego, you don't have to —"
"I know I don't have to. I'm going to anyway." He looked at me steadily. "Somebody messed with your home, Scott. I'm going to make sure nobody ever does it again without me knowing."
After he left, Linda Porter came over with a plate of cookies. She stood in my hallway, felt the air on her face, and laughed.
"It's like a refrigerator in here," she said.
"I know," I said. "I'm still getting used to it."
She looked at the thermostat, then at me. "You did good, Scott. All of it. The camera, the folders, not backing down."
"I just wanted my house back," I said.
"You got it back," she said. "And then some."
That night, I slept with a blanket. A blanket — in my own house, in September, because the air was too cold without one. I woke up at 3 a.m., my old waking hour, and lay there in the cool dark, listening to the quiet hum of the new unit through the wall.
It didn't rattle. It didn't strain. It just worked.
I thought about all the nights I'd lain awake in the heat, listening to the old unit die by degrees, wondering what was wrong with me, with the house, with everything. I thought about the hammer at 6:04 in the morning. The email at 8:00. The months of paying for repairs on damage someone else was causing.
And I thought about my mother, who'd left me this house and her labeled folders and the stubborn belief that a home is worth fighting for.
The new unit hummed through the wall, steady and sure.
For the first time in a year, my house was cold — and it felt like the beginning of everything being right again.