Harper stiffens. “About what?”
The other detective speaks this time. “We’ve been following up on the fire at your bar. We have some questions.”
“And a potential lead,” the first adds. “A name that came up—Marcus Chen.”
HARPER
The firehouse feels different when the police are standing in it.
It’s still loud, still full of motion and chaos, but the presence of two detectives changes the temperature of the room. Conversations lower. The crew keeps working, but their attention keeps sliding back to us like magnets snapping to metal. I’m acutely aware of Mason at my side, his small fingers curled into the hem of my shirt, his helmet slipping slightly as he shifts his weight.
This is exactly what I didn’t want him to see. But maybe if he sees them working toward a solution, he’ll feel better about the fire.
Not that I want him wrapped up in all this. I’m just not sure which is the better option for his mental health. Ignorance or information.
The detectives’ voices are calm, practiced, the kind of calm that’s meant to keep people steady while they ask questions that make everything worse. They don’t rush me. They don’t push. It’s like they’re taking Mason into account.
Mason’s watching the dalmatian again, thankfully distracted, but he’s not oblivious. He knows something serious is happening. He always does.
Detective Harris—the tall one—says, “This could take a while.” Then his gaze dips to Mason.
I can’t tell if he wants to talk about this without my son around, or if he’s genuinely being considerate, but I’ll take his advice. “Understood. Give me a minute.” I pull my phone out and text Carlie with quick, efficient fingers.
Can you come grab Mason? Aiden’s firehouse. Please.
And then it hits me that I don’t know if she’s at work or not. But her response comes almost immediately.
On my way. Fun aunt rescue mission engaged.
Relief loosens something tight in my chest.
The detectives start with the basics. My name. The bar. The date of the fire. Then they move where I knew they would. “Marcus Chen,” Detective Yellowstone says. “You terminated his employment?”
“Three months ago.”
“For cause?”
“I caught him stealing from the register. Multiple times.” I swallow. “I had it on camera.”
They exchange a look and nod. “How did he react?”
“Not good. He said I was ruining his life. He made some vague threats.”
“What kind of threats?”
I hesitate. My stomach twists. “Nothing specific. On his way out, he shouted that I’d regret it. Social media stuff about getting revenge on people who screw you over. He tagged the bar’s social pages so we’d see it.”
Aiden stiffens beside me. I can feel it without looking at him.
Detective Harris asks, “Did you report these threats?”
“No,” I admit quietly. “I didn’t think he’d actually hurt anyone. People say things online all the time.” Saying it out loud makes it sound thin, and Detective Harris’ expression tells me I’m an idiot for not taking it seriously.
But Detective Yellowstone looks unperturbed. “You didn’t do anything irresponsible by not reporting vague posts. If we were called to investigate every online threat, we’d never get anything done.”
The reassurance helps, but it doesn’t absolve me of my part in this. Guilt settles in, heavy and insistent. I should have done more. I should have taken it seriously. I should have protected my business better.
I should have protected my kid better.
