“This is because of me,” I say quietly.
Aiden’s eyes soften, but his voice stays firm. “No. This is because someone committed arson and tried to escalate it. I didn’t cause that. Neither did you.”
“When do you have to go?”
“Now,” he replies. “They want to talk tonight.”
AIDEN
Internal Affairs rooms are designed to make people feel small.
No windows. Neutral walls. A table just wide enough to remind you where you’re supposed to sit, like a grade school desk. I’ve been in enough of them over the years to recognize the intent immediately. This isn’t about yelling or intimidation.
It’s about pressure. About making the weight of the procedure feel heavier than the weight of conscience. As if a room can make guilt larger.
As if I have anything to feel guilty for.
I sit with my hands folded in front of me and wait. There’s a paper cup of water on the table. If this were a criminal investigation, I wouldn’t drink it. Leaving a cup available encourages people to drink it. Which means picking up the cup, giving police your fingerprints, if they don’t have them on file already.
This isn’t a criminal investigation. I drink.
A clock spins on the wall, whining at a tone that cuts through the silence. The chair is wood, no cushion. Even thetable is shorter than it should be. Little things to irritate without pointing themselves out. It’s a smart play, I suppose.
Won’t change my answers.
Two investigators enter a moment later, files tucked under their arms, expressions carefully unreadable. Grant’s coworkers. He won’t be involved in this since we know each other. They introduce themselves-Broadstone and Kabougeris. Kabougeris flips open a folder and starts listing the violations without preamble.
Unauthorized access to evidence. Independent review of surveillance footage. Interference with an active arson investigation. Failure to maintain professional distance from a civilian involved in the case.
I don’t interrupt. I don’t argue. I let them finish.
Then, we sit silently. They’re waiting for me to fill the silence. They’re gonna wait a long time.
Finally, Broadstone cracks. “You’re a firefighter, Captain Sloan, not a detective. Not an investigator. What you did was outside the scope of your authority.”
I lift a shoulder. “I’m sure seems true.”
“You understand that these actions could warrant suspension,” Kabougeris continues. “Possibly demotion.”
“I understand,” I say again.
They study me for a moment, clearly expecting more. An excuse. A justification. Something that sounds like regret.
Broadstreet asks, “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’d do it again.”
The silence that follows is thick.
Kabougeris’s eyes go wide. “You’re serious.”
“I didn’t interfere to feel important,” I continue calmly. “I did it because there was a pattern everyone else hadn’t connected yet. Because a man had already committed arson once and wasescalating and the investigation was moving too slowly. People were in danger.”
Broadstreet snaps, “That doesn’t give you the right?—”
“I know what my rights are.” I will stay calm, no matter what they come at me with, because I know I did the right thing. “And I know what my responsibilities are. I chose the latter. Any real firefighter would do the same.”
The room tightens perceptibly. They exchange a glance, the unspoken conversation obvious. This is the part where they decide whether I’m reckless or principled. Whether I’m a liability or an asset.
