Page 10 of Tragic (Lark Cove 3)

“Shit!” I chucked the chisel in my throbbing hand across the shop. It crashed into a stack of wooden dowels along the wall, rattling them before falling to the ground.

The noise outside was driving me insane, and I couldn’t fucking concentrate.

I’d been in the middle of carving a notch into a maple board. The table I’d designed used various notches and grooves to fit together. Not only because they were sturdy but because they lent detail to this particular piece’s unique design. It was like a puzzle and each piece had to be made with precision.

This particular board had ten notches. Right as I’d been about to finish the last, a loud crash had boomed outside and made me flinch. The hammer I’d just raised came down at the wrong angle, moving too fast. It hit the end of my chisel, sending it too deep into the wood before skidding off and bashing my thumb’s knuckle.

Not only did my hand hurt, now I’d have to remake this piece and the nine other notches I’d just spent an hour carving.

I was already behind on this project because my client had changed their mind on the type of wood three times. By the time they’d finally settled on maple, my supplier had been on back order. I was in a rush to finish this table by the deadline, and mistakes would only set me back further.

I’d been making stupid mistakes like this for a week, all because of the fucking noise.

All because of my fucking neighbor.

It had been a month since that woman had shown up on my doorstep. I’d spent two days after her arrival dreading the idea of company up here. I’d gotten used to living up here alone. Even before my former neighbors had passed, they hadn’t been here much. So when she’d stayed away for weeks, I’d figured she’d given up.

I’d relaxed, glad I wouldn’t have to share this mountainside.

Then a week ago, right as the May flowers had begun to bloom, an Airstream had backed into her driveway.

After that, a construction crew had arrived. They’d been making noise ever since, starting at dawn and ending after dark.

Another crash sounded outside, forcing me up from my stool.

“Fuck, I give up.” I’d have to come back late tonight and pray I could focus.

I bent and picked up the hammer by my boot, taking it to my workbench, where each tool had its rightful place on the plethora of hooks and shelves. I hung up the hammer, then went to retrieve the chisel. It got placed in a drawer, third spot from the left.

My tools were priceless. I treated them arguably better than I treated myself. But along with my hands, they kept me fed.

When I’d finished trade school, I’d made the decision to invest in the highest-quality tools on the market. Like a painter used brushes and oils to craft beauty, I used calipers and carvers. Planes and spokeshaves. Files and rasps. They were all top-of-the-line. And my power tools, the saws and shapers and presses, were worth more combined than my truck.

To use them all effectively, I had to concentrate. To concentrate, I required silence.

Three years ago, that construction crew could have made all the noise in the world and it wouldn’t have bothered me. Back then, my shop had been in the middle of an industrial park. Traffic would continuously whiz by. Visitors from nearby businesses would stop by to bullshit and drink my strong coffee. I used to work with rock and roll turned up to eleven.

That was before.

Now, the only sounds I allowed in my shop were those from my power tools. I tolerated the forest’s noise but would close the overhead door if the wind blew too loudly in the trees or the birds chirped obnoxiously.

I’d grown accustomed to quiet.

If they couldn’t keep it down next door, I was going to lose my goddamn mind.

Maybe I already had.

What the fuck was she doing over there anyway? She had five guys over there, destroying the place. She was living in an Ai

rstream with the generator kicking on and off at all hours. Was she trying to make my life a living hell?

Since work was out of the question, I shut off the lights to the shop and locked the door. No one ever came up here and I hadn’t locked up in ages. But that woman and her minions made me nervous, and I’d decided last week not to take the chance that my tools would find themselves in the bed of someone else’s truck.

Who knew what kind of people she’d hired? Or what kind of person she was? She obviously didn’t have any boundaries. She’d come marching over to my property without an invitation last month. Then when I’d sent her as clear a get fucking lost message as you could get, she’d shouted at me through the door I’d slammed in her face.

Who did that?

“I’m not crazy,” I muttered as I walked up the small path that led to my house. “She’s the crazy one.”