"Got a minute?" I asked.
He nodded. "Yes, sir."
We moved to the side of the truck. I exhaled heavily, running a hand down my face. "I came down too hard. It wasn't your fault," I admitted.
Evan blinked, surprised by the admission. "It's okay, Lieutenant. I should've been more careful with the connection."
I shook my head. "No, I brought other shit to the table. It wasn't on you."
It wasn't much of an apology, but it was more than most of my crew had ever gotten from me. Evan relaxed a bit.
"I appreciate that, sir. I'll keep working on speed and technique."
I nodded. "Good. You're doing fine."
We joined the rest of the crew. I knew they were curious about our conversation, but I ignored it and climbed into the captain's seat.
"Back to the station," I ordered.
Later, the station settled into a quiet evening. Half the crew was on meal prep duty in the kitchen, and the other half took advantage of the downtime to call home or catch a power nap. I leaned back in my chair, rolling my shoulders to release tension, attempting to take up permanent residence in my mind. Instead,the memory of Gisselle Daniels popped up, standing at my station, looking at me like I was someone worth thanking.
Through the closed door, I heard distant sounds of my crew. Usually, I found their camaraderie grating when I was trying to work. Tonight, it emphasized the hollow space around me, the deliberate distance I maintained between myself and them, between me and everyone.
I returned to filling out the report in front of me, which concerned a kitchen fire from last week. The radio on my desk crackled, startling me from my concentration.
"Dispatch to all Goodwin Grove units. Be advised, Fire Marshal Winters is requesting department assistance with a possible arson investigation. 247 Riverside Drive. Abandoned commercial property. No active fire, scene secure. Winters is requesting a fire department representative to conduct a joint investigation tomorrow morning, 0800 hours."
My hand stalled on the page, the word arson cutting through like a quiet knife. "Engine 791, acknowledging dispatch. I will coordinate with the Fire Marshal in the morning," I responded automatically, not sure why my voice betrayed me.
The radio went silent again, but the damage was done. My focus was shattered, replaced by the visceral memory of another arson case years ago, the warehouse fire that had taken Reggie from us.
My palms sweatedas I arranged my plans on the mahogany conference table. This wasn't my first rodeo presenting to skeptical clients. Lord knew I'd faced plenty of doubtful older men in Columbus, but something about this meeting had my stomach in knots. Maybe because Goodwin Grove wasn't just another client, it was my home, the place I'd chosen to rebuild my life. And if the side-eyes from the council members shuffling into the room were any indication, they weren't thrilled about a newcomer redesigning their precious community center.
"All set up, Ms. Daniels?" Mayor Thompson asked, her silver bob swinging as she peeked her head through the doorway.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm ready when you are," I replied, checking my blouse wasn't doing that gaping thing between the buttons.
The council members entered one by one, a total of seven. I clocked them all as they entered. They looked at me as if I had plans for a strip club rather than a community center. Mayor Thompson took her seat at the head of the table, all business efficiency in her navy pantsuit.
"Let's call this meeting to order. As you all know, we've hired Taylor Design Group to reimagine our community center, and today, we'll be hearing from their lead architect, Gisselle Daniels."
She nodded in my direction, and seven pairs of eyes were on me. I blew out a slow breath, channeling the same calm I'd maintained while waiting to be rescued from that fire.
"Good afternoon. I'm excited to share my vision for your new community center. As you can see, I've maintained the historic facade of the original structure while introducing modern elements to create a more welcoming, accessible space." I unveiled the first large-format print of the exterior building.
I pointed out how I would preserve the building's century-old brick exterior while showing the interior as an open, multi-functional space. The glass atrium would flood the center with natural light, and the reclaimed wood accents honored the town's logging history. This wasn't any design. I'd spent weeks researching Goodwin Grove's architectural heritage, walking the streets, and absorbing the character of the place I now called home.
"The multipurpose rooms can be configured for everything from senior yoga to teen movie nights. The cafe area here will serve as a social hub, encouraging gatherings and community?—"
"Excuse me. This looks very metropolitan. I'm concerned it's not in keeping with our town's character," an older man with wire-rimmed glasses interrupted, adjusting them as if they helped him see through bullshit better.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I'd heard this same criticism in different forms throughout my career — the implication that a Black woman couldn't possibly understand the "character" of predominantly white space.
"Actually, Councilman…" I paused, waiting for him to fill in his name.
"Whitaker, Harold Whitaker. My family has been in Goodwin Grove for four generations."
Of course it had.
