(Post #8) The Aftermath: Coffee, Forensics, and Crumbled Ceilings

I woke up after what felt like a blink—three hours of sleep at most. The sun was shining, but I was still in that disorienting haze, wondering if last night had been a bizarre nightmare. Nope. Not a dream. My phone buzzed, and reality slapped me back into the here and now.

Cathy was calling, her voice calm despite the chaos she had just read about in my text. "Are you okay?" she asked, a little too composed for someone hearing that part of their house had literally gone up in flames. I gave her the rundown, mentioning the insurance people and the investigators needed her to get in touch ASAP.

Her response? A slight chuckle. "You know, when I said don’t call unless the house is on fire, I didn’t mean literally." She wanted to know, how on earth did this happen? At that point, I was wondering the same thing.

She asked if I was okay with her handing over my details to the insurance people and investigators. Of course, I agreed. Little did I know that this meant I’d become the go-to person for every burning (no pun intended) question until she could get back. And when was that? Well, that’s another story.

I mentioned that the Fire Warden told me he hadn’t heard any smoke alarms and asked her what the deal was with the dome security camera directly above the entrance door to the house/office. Turns out, the camera was more for show—it wasn’t real. As for the smoke alarms, she wasn’t sure. Not the best news.

She agreed with my decision to stay at the hotel and seemed genuinely concerned about my safety. However, she still asked if I could return during the day to manage, well... everything. I asked my daughter to come up and stay with me for a couple of nights, and she was a tremendous help in keeping me calm. At least with her there, I managed to get a few decent nights of sleep and had someone to assist me if I needed to head back to the log cabin. Cathy thanked me more times than I could count, but all I could think was, 'Please hurry back.' Unfortunately, getting a flight right away? Not happening, according to her."

And so began my week as the unofficial liaison. First on the list? The insurance adjuster. He was kind and soft-spoken, which I desperately needed, as I tried to piece together every detail. He asked if he could tape our conversation, and I agreed. I went through my story about the outages, noises and how Cathy had introduced me to the locals at the general store before she left—maybe someone overheard she’d be gone for six months and that I’d be there... alone. But he didn’t seem too concerned about the general store observation.

He did, however, ask if I had the keys to Cathy’s loft. I told him that the office had a bunch of keys, and one of them was likely for the loft, but Cathy never said anything about my needing access to it so I could not say for sure if there was a key there. His questions kept coming: How did I know Cathy? How had I ended up in this job? Did Cathy have family? Each one made me feel more like a detective than a victim. The questions finally ended, and he said he would be in touch.

The next day, I got to play a guest star in my very own episode of CSI. Two forensic investigators arrived, white suits and all, unloading their gear with the precision of a TV crime drama. They introduced themselves and asked if I’d be around for more questions. Oh, I’d be around alright—where else was I going?

With permission to collect my personal belongings, I ventured back into the house. It was... bad. The smell was overpowering, and I had to wear a mask to avoid breathing in the aftermath of a fire. The upper floor had taken the worst of it, but even the main level was in ruins. I waded through the waterlogged office, debris everywhere. I saw the office computer and couldn’t help but laugh darkly—so many hours spent learning that system, now buried under rubble.

The kitchen and dining room were no better. The ceiling had collapsed, burying everything. It was heartbreaking, but I had to stay focused. I grabbed what I could from the bedroom and bathroom, leaving the kitchen behind. Then I made one last glance at the laundry room. You know, the one I spent hours organizing? It was a disaster. Shelves toppled, everything ruined.

Arms full of what little I had salvaged, I headed to one of the cottage suites to dump everything there. On my way, I ran into the security guard. "Need a hand?" he asked. I thanked him but kept moving, too exhausted to even process all that had happened. He watched me like a hawk.

The forensics duo arrived at the log cabin as promised, and we sat around the large dining room table. I felt so small sitting there with them. They were far more serious than the insurance adjuster, grilling me with questions—some of which caught me off guard, and I didn’t have clear answers for.

All I could think about was escaping, taking a nap, and pretending for just a moment that this wasn’t my reality. But there was no escaping it—the questions kept coming, and they expected answers. I felt completely overwhelmed.

This is a photo of the upper loft floor now in the dining/kitchen area

Next: Post 9 The Moment I Knew It Was Time To Go