Excerpt of Hands On by Christina Crooks

The vintage rental house was old, but Ginnie didn’t expect
it to fall in on her. Houses didn’t do that. Not even during
Portland, Oregon’s famous rainstorms. And not even when
stupid exes marched back and forth on roofs, making stupid,
macho points.

Still, when the ceiling began to crack and sag ominously,
weighted down by debris Rick kicked loose, she had a sudden
premonition. “Get off my roof!” she yelled again, but this
time louder—good and scared. “It’s going to fall in!”

“Say you’ll come back to me, then!”

To Ginnie’s relief, she heard his voice moving toward the
edge of the house, toward the trellis he’d climbed in his
misguided attempt to harass her into returning to Los
Angeles with him. As if she’d ever consider it, no matter
what embarrassing, intimidating tricks he tried. But he’d
always been a mule-headed idiot, and mean to boot. Good
thing she’d finally figured it out before marrying him.

“I’ll be back, Ginnie! You’d better reconsider!” She could
just see him through the front window, sodden and hunched
against the rain as he scurried to the pricey gold Cadillac
Sport Wagon he loved so much.

She didn’t breathe easily until she saw the glow of its
taillights move away. Then, exasperated, she knocked her
long, unruly curls off her face. Her fingers caught in the
damp brown frizz caused by the wet weather. Or was it the
humidity?

A large, cold drop of water hit her forehead, splattering
wetly over her nose and cheeks. She wiped at it and stepped
backward, looked up.

The rental broker’s voice haunted her: “It’s a great find
for the neighborhood. They don’t build ’em like this
anymore. Better pounce quick, before someone else gets it.”

Ginnie laughed, watching as the wet stain on the ceiling
spread. She knew she’d been a bit naïve in her eagerness to
start a new life without Rick. The cute little Craftsman
bungalow had charmed her, despite its evidence of neglect.
Heck, the neglect had charmed her! The gently peeling paint,
the unfinished basement, the foliage-shrouded porch, the
untouched original ceilings, the dusty hardwood floors, the
yellowing crystal doorknobs… It was everything Rick’s modern
mansion wasn’t.

The rain pelted down with a thunderous sound. Ginnie’s gaze
went again to the large window above her thrift-store couch.
All she saw now was a gray sheet of water.

The rain pounded, a steadily increasing roar.

“It rains all the time in the Northwest,” Ginnie murmured
nervously, backing out of the wet living room to the
kitchen. “It’s famous for it. That’s all this is. A typical
rainstorm. The landlord will repair the roof and everything
will be fine.”

Her house groaned.

Suddenly, with a bone-rattling crack, the floor tilted.

Ginnie looked down and couldn’t believe her eyes. Her
kitchen’s quaint vinyl floor ripped open, and the pressed
wood beneath separated into two jagged edges.

Earthquake? Ginnie looked for a table to crawl under, then
remembered she hadn’t saved up enough money to buy one yet.

And she was no longer in California, land of earthquakes.
She was in Oregon, away from everything she’d known. Things
would be different here. They had to be different.

More of the floor sank, making her stumble backward. She
threw her arms out for balance, trying not to panic. So, not
an earthquake. What was it? It felt as if the bungalow was
actually coming apart.

It might crush her, along with everything that gave meaning
to her world.

She panicked after all. “The puppets!”

Ginnie ran, skidding across the living room’s slick wood to
the door leading to the basement. She flung it open and
raced down the narrow stairway, even as she heard a window
breaking above.

How long did these crazy rainstorms last, anyway?

Nothing could happen to her marionettes.

She flung her body over one of the trunks containing her
precious marionettes.

Pieces of plaster and sheetrock particles pricked her skin.

Her puppets and marionettes would not be destroyed.

“Over my dead body!” she shouted furiously at the house.

As if in answer, a subfloor support beam cracked loudly
enough to hurt her ears.

Suddenly more nervous than she’d ever been, she called out,
"Kidding?"

Then the house collapsed.

Harry flicked the wipers on his Aston Martin up to full
speed, but he could still barely see the road before him.
It wasn’t safe. If he wasn’t so familiar with the area, and
if
this task wasn’t so urgent, he’d turn right around and head
home.

But the house in question wasn’t far from his more upscale
home farther up the hill. And after getting that outrageous
news from Todd about Harry’s recently acquired property
management firm, the situation demanded immediate
investigation.

As a millionaire a few times over, and by now the owner of
so many real-estate-centric companies he didn’t bother
tracking them anymore, Harry Barrett Sharpe normally enjoyed
involving himself with the down-and-dirty work. Necessity
required sequestering himself in the catbird seat at the
very top more often than not, so he appreciated touching
base with the Joe Blows, joining the construction gang on
occasion to work with his hands, reminding himself of his
roots.

But this was different. Normally, middle-management matters
didn’t sink to such levels of dangerous incompetence.
Normally people’s lives weren’t at risk.

Not to mention leaving him wide open for a devastating
lawsuit.

The woman running the property management firm had been
criminally negligent. Sure, the administration, marketing
and financials of all his rentals were technically handled
and in the black. But the physical maintenance of his
structures required capital expenditures she’d chosen to
pocket instead. If her assistant Lara hadn’t clued in his
assistant, Harry wouldn’t now be driving through one of
Portland’s worst storms in a decade to check on the
tenant—one Ginnie Anderson—who should never have been
offered a lease on the small bungalow.

A half-hour ago, Harry had seen the home’s pictures, seen
the state of it. He’d seen the copies of advised repairs. So
many major repairs. The roofing and chimney problems worried
him most, especially in this rainstorm.

He cursed the rain. He cursed the irresponsible woman he’d
just instructed Todd to fire. He cursed the silly twit who’d
moved into the ramshackle home. He cursed again as his car
slid through a corner, but he corrected easily, some
instinct making him drive even faster.

When he reached the street, skidded to a halt behind the
small Volkswagen parked before the house and jumped out, his
first thought was that he’d overreacted. The house seemed
fine.

Harry wiped rain out of his eyes, his gaze focusing on the
sharp line of one section at the juncture of the flatter
roof to the steeply pitched dormer section. Was it darker?
Sagging? It was!

And that wasn’t all.

As he watched with growing horror, the chimney crumbled as
if it were the subject of a controlled demolition. Then a
thick section of wood trim ripped loose, the wind guiding it
through the yellow-lit kitchen window.

Lit. The tenant was home. The tenant was inside the house!

Without thinking, Harry immediately charged to the front
door, used the master keys he’d brought and ran inside.

He heard her cry out, “Over my dead body!” right before
pieces of the roof began to fall and an enormous thud from
somewhere below jarred his feet with a deep bass that
rattled his bones.

The basement.

Harry ran downstairs.