He smirks. “Because she’s here.”
A nugget of hope lodges in my throat. “Yeah. She is.”
“Don’t screw this up again, Sloan.”
“I’ll do my best not to.”
He gives me a look that says he hopes I mean it, then steps away, already pulled back into his day.
Mason comes barreling back toward me, breathless. “Aiden!”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Can I be a firefighter when I grow up?”
Not sure what Harper’s vote is on the matter. As worried as she was last night, I can’t imagine her being okay with Mason’s firefighter dreams. So, I answer with a diplomatic, “You can be anything you want.”
“Even if my daddy says I should be a countant?” Mason asks seriously.
I blink. “A what?”
Harper laughs softly. “An accountant. David says that because Mason has a head for numbers, that’s what he should do.”
I crouch down so I’m eye level with him. “You’re going to be amazing no matter what you choose,” I tell him. “You could be a firefighter, a dog walker, a?—”
“What’s a dog walker?” Mason asks immediately.
“Someone who walks dogs for a living.”
His eyes light up. “Like Argyle?”
“Exactly like Argyle.”
“I wanna do that!” he declares. “I can walk him right now!”
Argyle chooses that moment to yank free of Benny’s loose grip and trot straight toward Mason, tail wagging dangerously.
I reach out automatically. “Careful. Argyle’s a little crazy. I’ll help you.”
Mason beams up at me like I just offered him the greatest gift imaginable. Behind us, Harper wipes at her eyes quickly, smiling in a way that makes my chest ache. And for the first time in longer than I want to admit, the idea that this could be something real doesn’t feel like a lie.
It feels like hope.
But the moment breaks with the sound of tires on concrete.
I hear it before I see it, the low roll of a vehicle pulling up outside the bay doors, the cadence wrong for apparatus or supply trucks. Conversation around us slows, attention shifting instinctively toward the entrance. I straighten without thinking, eyes already tracking the movement.
A marked police cruiser comes to a stop just beyond the open doors. Two officers in suits—detectives, maybe—step out, both of them scanning the space the way people do when they’re here on business and don’t care who notices. They spot me almost immediately. One of them lifts a hand and starts walking in our direction.
Harper feels it too. I see her posture change before she looks up, her hand tightening briefly on Mason’s shoulder. He’s still grinning, oblivious, helmet crooked, Argyle tugging gently at the leash while Benny laughs nearby.
I move without thinking, stepping closer to Harper, angling my body just enough that Mason is slightly behind me instead of between us.
The detectives stop a few feet away. The tall one asks, “Captain Sloan?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Detective Harris, this is Detective Yellowstone. We were hoping to speak with you,” he says, then glances at Harper. “And Ms. Lane.”
