Thanks, Cole. Really. For everything.
I type:Anytime. I mean it. If you need anything, you can call me.
I will. Goodnight.
Goodnight, Rachel.
I sit in my truck for another ten minutes, staring at that message thread like it holds answers to questions I’m not ready to ask.
Jake’s little sister. Off-limits. Unavailable. Dealing with enough without me adding complications to her life.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is green eyes wide with fear and the way she wrapped her arms around my neck like I was the only solid thing in her collapsing world.
My phone buzzes one more time. Theo is in the group chat with Marco and me.
So, we’re all going to pretend Cole’s not completely gone for Rachel Morgan, right? That’s the play here?
Marco responds immediately.He’s not subtle.
I’m perfectly subtle,I type back.
You carried her out of a burning building and then gave her your personal cell number,Theo points out.That’s the opposite of subtle.
I gave it to Jake to give to her, for emergencies.
Right. Emergencies.Even through text, I can hear Theo’s amusement.Like “I need someone to carry my groceries” emergencies or “I can’t reach the top shelf” emergencies.
Me:Go to hell, Park.
Theo:Already there, boss. Already there.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and start the engine. The station disappears in my rearview mirror, but I can’t shake the feeling that tonight changed everything.
Rachel Morgan is back in Millbrook Falls.
Someone tried to kill her.
And I’m the idiot who can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me when I carried her out of the building.
Chapter three
Chapter 3
Marco
The café is still smoking when I pull up at six in the morning.
Not actual flames, just residual heat meeting cool air, creating wisps of gray that curl up from the blackened shell-like ghosts. The fire department cleared out around three a.m., according to the report Cole texted me. Structure’s compromised but stable enough for investigation. I’ve got maybe four hours before the owner shows up, asking questions I don’t yet have answers to.
Phoebe’s already here, leaning against her sedan with two coffee cups and that expression she gets when she’s about to tell me things I won’t like. She’s wearing sensible shoes and her workjacket, brown hair pulled back in a ponytail that makes her round face look even younger than twenty-six.
“Morning, sunshine.” She hands me a cup. Black, no sugar. “You look like hell.”
“Didn’t sleep.”
“Obviously.” She pulls out her tablet. “Got the preliminary reports from the fire marshal, three points of origin, all in the storage room. Burn patterns suggest liquid accelerant, probably gasoline, based on the vapor residue samples. This wasn’t an accident.”
I take the tablet and scroll through the photos. The V-shaped char marks on the walls tell the story plain enough. The fire burned up through the floor, spreading quickly because someone wanted it to. Three distinct pour patterns across the storage room floor, each one leading to a different section of the café.
