As they began packing up their materials, Erin was increasingly more aware she’d just agreed to extend her collaboration with Lena beyond the office.
Twenty minutes later, they were in Lena's car, heading east through Phoenix Ridge's outskirts with case files in the back seat and the radio playing softly between them. Erin had offered to drive, but Lena had already grabbed her keys, and now Erin found herself watching the landscape change as they navigated the winding road away from the coast.
Lena drove with controlled precision—her hands steady on the wheel, checking mirrors, and maintaining exactly the speed limit. It was reassuring evidence of the same careful attention to detail she brought to her investigative work.
"Webb's address is about another five minutes out," Lena said, breaking the quiet. Classic rock played low to fill the space, something with acoustic guitar. "Rural area, according to the GPS. It might be why he chose it."
"It’d be a good place to lie low," Erin agreed, counting the cars that passed them outside her window. They'd left Phoenix Ridge's coastal charm behind, trading ocean views for rolling hills dotted with oak trees. "Or to plan something without neighbors noticing."
The afternoon sun beamed through the windshield, casting shifting shadows across the dashboard as they wound throughan increasingly dense forest. Erin found herself thinking about the case and about Webb's detailed inspection reports and the way someone had used his meticulous documentation as a roadmap for destruction.
"Can I ask you something?" Lena's voice was careful but curious. "What made you choose to be a fire marshal over firefighting? Most people want the action on the front lines."
The question surprised Erin. She'd expected to discuss the case during the drive, not drift toward personal territory. "I thought about firefighting," she said slowly, watching the road wind around a patch of trees. "My father was a firefighter. Watching how he approached fire safety made me realize I wanted to focus on prevention rather than response." She paused. "Everyone else runs toward the flames. I wanted to understand what made them tick—the science behind how fires behave, why they spread, and what makes buildings vulnerable to flames."
"That's very methodical thinking," Lena observed. "Understanding the problem before trying to solve it."
"Exactly. Prevention requires patience most people don't have." Erin found herself relaxing despite the personal nature of the conversation. "I've always been the person who wants to know how things work before trying to fix them."
"It’s different from my approach," Lena said. "I tend to chase the problem and figure it out as I go."
"That's not wrong either. It’s just different."
The words hung between them, an acknowledgment that they were talking about more than fire safety. They drove in comfortable silence for several minutes, the road straightening as they moved through open country.
"Speaking of methods," Erin said, "how do you usually approach witness interviews? I'm thinking Webb's neighbors might be more willing to talk if we have a strategy."
"Depends on the neighborhood," Lena replied, shifting slightly as she navigated a curve. "In rural areas like this, people are usually either very helpful or very suspicious of authority. We'll have to read the situation."
"What's our cover story if he's actually there?"
"We’ll ask follow-up questions about his work at the inspection company as part of a routine investigation into building safety practices." Lena glanced over. "You'd be the technical expert consulting on fire safety protocols."
"That works. Keeps it professional and gives us reason to ask detailed questions about his inspection methods."
They passed a weathered sign marking the county line, and Lena checked the GPS. "Two more miles. You ready for this?"
"Ready," Erin said, though she felt a flutter of nerves. This was her first real field interview for a criminal investigation. "Do you think he'll be cooperative?"
"If he's innocent, probably. If he's not..." Lena shrugged. "We'll find out soon enough."
The road curved ahead, leading toward a cluster of small houses set back among the trees. Whatever they found at Marcus Webb's address, Erin had the feeling this case was about to take another direction.
The GPS announced their turn, breaking the spell. They pulled onto a gravel road leading through sparse housing—small properties separated by fields and distance. Marcus Webb's address was a modest ranch house set back from the road, with an overgrown yard and mail spilling from an overflowing box.
"Doesn't look like anyone's home," Erin observed as they parked.
The house had that abandoned quality. Newspapers were yellowing on the porch, weeds grew through sidewalk cracks, and the curtains were drawn tight. They approached the front door together, but their knocking brought no response.
They walked the perimeter, checking for signs of recent habitation. The backyard revealed a garden gone to seed and some metal patio furniture covered in rust. Through a gap in the curtains, Erin could see furniture covered in dust.
"He's been gone for months," Erin said as they returned to the car.
"Let's try the neighbors."
The nearest house was a quarter-mile down the road, where an elderly woman in gardening gloves looked up from her flower beds. She was friendly but had little useful information. Webb had kept to himself, then left abruptly sometime last year with no forwarding address.
"He seemed like a nice enough young man," she said, wiping dirt from her hands. "Quiet, though. Never caused any trouble."
