I set my phone down and finished cleaning the kitchen, humming under my breath. Tomorrow's legal meeting was probably nothing more than another routine court appearance, the kind of administrative hassle that came with working in emergency medicine. DUI blood draws, accident reports, the occasional assault case — it was all part of the job.
Right now, all I wanted to think about was the woman who'd trusted me with her heart, who'd let me take care of her when she needed it most, who'd made my apartment feel like home just by being in it.
Everything else could wait.
chapter
twenty-three
I pulledinto the Station 2 parking lot at three in the afternoon feeling more centered than I had in weeks. The morning with Jimmy had done something to me — not just the physical intimacy, though that had been revelatory, but the simple act of letting someone else carry the weight for a few hours. Cap's words echoed in my head: permission to be happy. Maybe I was finally learning how to accept that gift.
The bay doors were open, and I could see C-shift's apparatus positioned with the kind of casual indifference that immediately set my teeth on edge. Engine 18 was parked crooked, not lined up with the bay markings. The front bumper had what looked like dried mud caked on it, and someone had left a coffee cup sitting on the running board.
Small things. But in the fire service, small things mattered.
I walked through the apparatus bay, doing my own informal inspection as I headed for the office. The crosslay hose bed looked like it had been packed by someone in a hurry — uneven folds, loose coupling connections, the kind of sloppy work that could cost precious seconds on a fireground. The SCBA brackets were empty, masks hanging loose instead of properly secured.
"L.T.!"
I turned to see Firefighter Danny Kozak from C-shift emerging from the equipment room, looking surprised to see me. Danny was a decent enough guy, but he'd absorbed the shift's culture of doing just enough to get by.
"Hey, Danny. How's the rig running?"
"Oh, fine, fine. No issues." He glanced back at Engine 18, and I could see him noticing the same things I was noticing. "We, uh, we had a pretty quiet shift. Just a couple lift assists and a fender bender on Highway 9."
"Good to hear." I kept my voice neutral, professional. "I'm just here to catch up on some paperwork. Don't mind me."
"Sure thing, L.T. Phillips is in the office if you need anything."
Lieutenant Ryan Phillips. C-shift's officer, and everything I never wanted to become. I found him in the station office, feet up on the desk, scrolling through his phone while some mindless reality show played on the small TV in the corner.
"Delgado," he said without looking up. "Heard you had a family emergency yesterday. Everything okay?"
"Thanks for asking. Just some personal stuff." I settled at the other desk, pulling up the incident reports I needed to review. "How was the shift?"
"Quiet. Easy money." Phillips finally looked up from his phone, his expression smug. "Sometimes I think you B-shift guys make the job harder than it needs to be. All that training, all those drills. Half the time we just sit here anyway."
I bit back my initial response, focusing on my computer screen. This was exactly the attitude that was poisoning the department. The idea that because you weren't currently fighting a fire, the job didn't matter. That preparation and professionalism were optional.
"Better to be ready and not need it," I said carefully.
"Sure, sure. But you've got to admit, some of you guys take it pretty seriously. Like it's life or death every day."
Because it is, I thought, but kept typing. Phillipsrepresented everything wrong with the modern fire service — the guys who saw it as a job instead of a calling, who forgot that citizens trusted us to be ready when their worst day happened.
I was deep into reviewing training records when I heard the rumble of another engine pulling into the bay. Not one of ours — the pitch was different, the timing wrong. I glanced out the window and felt my stomach tighten.
Engine 5. And climbing down from the officer's seat was Lieutenant Mark Santoro.
"Looks like you've got company," Phillips said, following my gaze. "Santoro. That guy's going places. Knows how to play the game."
I didn't respond, but my jaw clenched involuntarily. Phillips was right about one thing — Santoro did know how to play the game. The question was what game he was playing here.
I watched him walk into the station with the confident swagger of someone who owned every room he entered. He was handsome in a conventional way — square jaw, perfect posture, the kind of groomed appearance that looked good in department publicity photos. Everything about him screamed "future chief."
"Phillips," he called out as he entered the office. "How's C-shift treating you?"
"Can't complain. Easy living." Phillips straightened up slightly, the kind of automatic deference people showed Santoro. "What brings you to our little corner of paradise?"
