"Good girl." His voice drops to that register that makes heat spike through me despite the adrenaline crash. Not patronizing. Not diminishing what I did. Just pure approval from someone who understands exactly what it takes to fight when fear wants to freeze you. But the anger isn't entirely gone—it's still there in the tension of his grip, the tightness around his eyes. "You did good. But don't do it again. Next time you need something, you tell me. Or Cole. Or any of the brothers. Someone goes with you. That's not negotiable."
I lean into him, letting his solid presence ground me back in the present instead of replaying those seconds when Sullivan's hand locked around my wrist. Shaw's arms come around me, holding tight enough to feel real, his heartbeat steady against my ear.
"You left him there?" His tone isn't judgmental. It's tactical assessment.
"Calling the police meant waiting. It meant giving him more information he could use." I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "I made the decision that kept me safer."
"Smart." Shaw's hand cups the back of my neck, thumb brushing the tension knotted there. "But Sullivan went after you directly. That changes things. It fixes his place at the top of the suspect list, and it means he's not just setting fires anymore—he's targeting you specifically because you're getting close."
"We're getting close." The correction matters. Partnership matters. "This investigation isn't just mine anymore."
"No. It's not." Possessive edge slides into his tone. "Which means anyone coming after you is coming after me. The Brotherhood protects its own."
My throat tightens. There's a sense of belonging here. The fierce certainty that Shaw's protection doesn't come with conditions or demands that I play helpless. I told him I disabled Sullivan and he called it impressive.
"What now?" I ask.
"Now we figure out why Sullivan's desperate enough to risk a direct assault." Shaw releases me but stays close. "He's escalating because we're getting too close to something. Financial records, maybe. Or connections we haven't identified yet."
I shake off the adrenaline crash and pull my laptop closer. Financial data I've been analyzing all week sits in carefully organized spreadsheets, patterns emerging from transactions and timing that should tell me something useful if I can just see the connection.
"Cascade Services," I say, pulling up their records again. "The cash withdrawals we noticed earlier. They line up with fire dates, but look at this." I highlight a pattern. "Each withdrawal happens exactly six days before a fire. Not a week. Not five days. Six days every single time."
Shaw leans over my shoulder, reading the data. "Planning window. Six days gives time to scout locations, acquire accelerants, set up logistics."
"And look at the amounts." I pull up another spreadsheet. "They're not consistent. First withdrawal was smaller—less than five thousand. But each subsequent withdrawal increased."
"Escalation." Shaw's finger taps the screen. "Whoever Cascade is paying, they're charging more for bigger targets or riskier jobs."
"Or Sullivan's getting greedier." I flip to background research I compiled on Richard Sullivan himself. "He's not just Cascade Services' owner—he's personally bankrupted two previous companies. Lost everything both times. This is his third attempt at building a business, and he's hemorrhaging money faster than the first two combined."
"Desperate man with a pattern of failure." Shaw's expression goes cold. "Sees Brotherhood businesses thriving while his fails repeatedly. Decides if he can't succeed, nobody connected to us will either."
"It's more than jealousy though." I pull up financial comparisons. "Every business that burned had recently rejected Cascade Services' proposals. Pete's storage facility turned down Sullivan's bid for security systems. Mike's restaurant rejected his offer to supply kitchen equipment. It's not random selection—Sullivan's specifically targeting businesses that told him no."
"Revenge arsons." Shaw straightens. "Professional enough to avoid immediate detection, but motivated by personal grudges rather than financial gain."
My phone buzzes. A text from what is probably Sullivan’s number:
You should've stayed out of it.
I show Shaw the screen. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't grab the phone or demand I block the number. Just reads it, processes the threat, and makes tactical decisions.
"He's mobile." Shaw pulls out his own phone, thumb moving fast across the screen. "If Sullivan's texting, his knee isn't as damaged as you thought, or he's got help."
"Or he's using voice-to-text while lying in a parking lot planning his next move." I screenshot the message and forward it to my work email. Even if I don't call the police tonight, this evidence matters.
Shaw's already texting, coordinating with someone. Brotherhood communication network activating in response to direct threat against someone under their protection.
"We need to move fast," Shaw says, ending whatever message he just sent. "Sullivan's getting reckless. Direct assault, threatening texts, escalating fire intensity. He's spiraling toward something bigger."
"Like what?"
"Like burning down the Ironside Bar with everyone inside." Shaw's voice goes flat. "Or targeting businesses when they're occupied instead of empty."
Cold fear trickles down my spine. Shaw's right. Pattern analysis shows clear escalation: property damage to arson in occupied buildings to direct physical assault. Sullivan is not de-escalating—he is building toward something catastrophic.
"Then we stop him before he gets there." I close my laptop and meet Shaw's eyes. "Financial records prove Cascade Services funded the fires. My company has documentation linking Sullivan to fraud across multiple claims. The Fire marshal has physical evidence from every scene. We have enough to build a criminal case that puts him away for decades."
