"Which means we need to find who." Shaw steps closer. "Dinner tomorrow. We compare notes, build the case, figure out who we're hunting."
"That sounds like it's crossing professional boundaries."
"It's two investigators working a case over a meal." Shaw's mouth curves slightly. "Unless you're worried you can't maintain professional boundaries."
The challenge is deliberate. Pushing to see if I'll back down.
"Tomorrow," I say, refusing to show reaction. "But this stays professional. We're comparing evidence, not having a date."
"Of course." But there's heat in his voice that has nothing to do with professionalism. "Just two investigators working a case."
"What time?"
"Seven. I'll text you the place." Shaw pulls out his phone. "What's your number?"
I recite it. My phone buzzes moments later.
Tomorrow. Seven. Ironside Bar. Don't be late.
"I'm never late," I say.
"Good." Shaw swings back onto his Harley. "See you tomorrow, Mira."
He rides away, rumble fading as he disappears down Harbor Street.
I unlock my car and slide into the driver's seat, but don't start the engine immediately. My body still remembers hours on the bike—Shaw's body against mine, the way he adjusted my grip to pull me closer, the hand on my knee, the thumb brushing my knuckles.
Tomorrow we compare notes and build the case. Tonight I need to figure out how to maintain professional distance when every instinct is telling me to close it.
The pattern is clear. Someone is targeting business owners, using the Brotherhood as cover. Whether that someone is within the club or outside it, I still don't know.
But I'm going to find out.
Even if Shaw Riley's dangerous presence makes that investigation significantly more complicated than it should be.
6
SHAW
After working closely together, Mira's professional mask is slipping.
She's bent over fire scene photos at the back table in the Ironside Bar, one hand worrying her lower lip while the other traces burn patterns with a pen she's not actually using to write. Afternoon light catches auburn highlights in her dark hair. She shifts in her chair, leaning closer to the photos, and I recognize the tell—she's processing information, building connections she's not ready to share yet.
I should be focused on the evidence laid out between us. Should be analyzing Sullivan's warehouse fire for patterns, comparing accelerant characteristics, building the case that will lead us to whoever's using my club as cover for arson.
Instead, I'm watching the way her teeth catch her lower lip when she's concentrating. The way her breathing changes when I move too close. The way she's started responding to direct orders without realizing she's doing it.
I've stopped pretending this is purely professional.
"The origin point bothers you," I say, breaking the silence we've been working in for the past hour.
She looks up, focus shifting from photos to me. "It doesn't match the others. Pete's facility, Beth's tattoo parlor, Danny's shop, Mike's restaurant—all clean work, almost textbook. But Sullivan's warehouse?" She taps the photo. "This looks messy. Rushed."
I move around the table to stand behind her, leaning over her shoulder to study the image. She stiffens—awareness, not fear—before deliberately trying to relax. Another response I've cataloged. She's hyper-aware of me, fighting it, and losing ground every day.
"You're right," I say, keeping my voice level despite the fact that I can smell whatever shampoo she uses. Clean, faintly herbal. "Pattern's different. Either we're dealing with a copycat, or the same person is escalating and getting sloppy."
"Or they wanted this one found." Mira leans forward, putting distance between us that feels intentional. "What if the others were meant to look like accidents? But Sullivan rejected the partnership. The arsonist had to know at some point the Brotherhood would be watching."
