“Sarah has functioning taste buds.”
I grab a beer from the cooler and position myself where I can see most of the yard without being obvious about it, an old habit from the Marines. Always know your exits. Always track movement.
Rachel sets the potato salad on the food table and immediately gets pulled into a conversation with three of Jake’s friends. She’s good at this. Social. Easy. Laughing at the right moments, asking questions that keep the conversation flowing.
Tommy runs past with two other kids, chasing each other with water guns.
“Tommy Morgan, you spray Mr. Henderson, and you’re grounded until college,” Rachel calls out.
Henderson, another of Jake’s colleagues, grins. “Let the kid have fun. I could use a cooling off.”
“Don’t encourage him. He’s already a menace.”
But she’s smiling when she says it, relaxed in a way I haven’t seen before. Not the terrified woman I interviewed after the fire. Not the stressed single mother worried about custody battles. Just… Rachel. Comfortable in her own skin.
Cole moves closer to her. Casual. Like he just happens to be walking past to grab more chips. But I notice the way he looks at her when he thinks no one’s watching.
Theo abandons his conversation on the porch and heads straight for Rachel’s orbit, too.
They’re not subtle. Not even close.
“You planning to join the party or just observe from the shadows like a creep?” Jake appears beside me with a plate of burgers that somehow survived his cooking attempt.
“I’m participating.”
“You’re lurking. There’s a difference.” He shoves the plate at me. “Eat. Socialize. Pretend you’re human for five minutes.”
“I am human.”
“Debatable.”
One of the marine biology guys—middle-aged, friendly face—approaches with his hand extended. “You must be Marco. Jake talks about you all the time. I’m Paul. I work with Jake at the research facility.”
I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Jake mentioned you’re a fire investigator. That must be intense work.”
“It has its moments.”
“Were you military before that? You’ve got that look.”
Here we go.
“Marines. Six years.”
“Afghanistan?”
“Yeah.”
“My nephew served there, too. Helmand Province. Came back different.” Paul’s expression softens. “Must’ve been rough.”
I don’t want to talk about this. Don’t want to think about sand and heat and the sound of explosions that still wake me up some nights.
“It was a long time ago,” I say, which isn’t true but sounds final enough to end the conversation.
Except Paul doesn’t take the hint. “Jake said you got out and went straight into fire investigation. That’s quite a career shift.”
“Seemed like a good fit.”
