"Have a good day."
I return to the truck and pull away before he can recover enough to protest. My hands are steady on the wheel, pulse barely elevated. Controlled application of force, nothing excessive, no lasting damage.
Exactly what they taught us in Recon.
Mira is silent for a long moment. When she finally speaks, her voice is carefully neutral. "That was assault."
"That was controlling a situation."
"You hurt him."
"I made sure he understood boundaries. There's a difference." I glance at her. "You uncomfortable?"
"I should be."
"But you're not." I can see it in the way she's looking at me—part calculation, part something else. Fear, maybe. Or interest. Hard to tell which.
She doesn't answer, just stares out the window as we drive toward the harbor.
The silence between us is different now. Heavier. She's seen what I'm capable of, and she's processing what that means for her investigation.
Good. Let her process.
The drive to The Anchor takes fifteen minutes through morning traffic. Mira keeps her attention fixed on the window, and I let her think. Sometimes the best interrogation technique is silence—people fill it with their own doubts and questions, doing the work for you.
The Anchor sits on the southern edge of the harbor, blackened and destroyed. Fire tape surrounds the perimeter, and the smell of smoke hangs heavy despite the ocean breeze.
I park and grab my investigation kit. Mira has her own equipment—camera, notebook, measuring tools. Professional investigator ready to document evidence against us.
We approach the structure in tense silence. Roof collapsed, walls blackened, windows blown out. Adjacent buildings untouched—controlled burn, professional execution.
"Fire started here." I point to the origin area in what used to be the kitchen. "Multiple pour patterns, accelerant used for rapid spread. But look at the burn patterns. Controlled. Deliberate. Whoever set this knew exactly what they were doing."
Mira examines the patterns herself, taking photos, making notes. Thorough work, I'll give her that.
"How long for fire crews to respond?"
"Four minutes. Fast response, but the fire was already well-established."
"Security cameras?"
"Mike had one outside. Fire destroyed it, and the footage was corrupted."
"Convenient."
"Or planned. Someone who knows how to destroy evidence would know to take out cameras first." I watch her work. "You're looking for proof of fraud. You should be looking for proof of targeting."
"I'm looking for the truth."
"No, you're looking for confirmation of what you've already decided."
She straightens, meeting my eyes across the ruined restaurant. "I follow evidence, Mr. Riley. Not assumptions."
"Then follow all of it. Not just the pieces that make us look guilty."
We spend the next hour going through the scene. She asks questions, challenges my conclusions, documents everything. Despite our hostility, she's good at her job. Catches details, thinks critically, doesn't accept my explanations without verification.
Under different circumstances, I might respect that.
