Her parents, who'd given her an ultimatum and then followed through on it. David, who’d promised to take care of her and then slowly, systematically proved he wasn’t up to the task. The tiny apartment in Flushing. The two jobs. The night classes. The years of doing it alone because everyone who should have stayed had left.
And still, after all of that, she'd built a life, raised an incredible kid, and showed up every day for other people's children because she knew what it felt like when no one showed up.
I'd wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt.
Standing by the entrance of her building, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes, close enough to smell her shampoo,something floral and soft. She’d been looking at me like she was waiting for me. Like maybe she wanted it too.
I'd leaned in. Pressed my cheek to hers instead. Felt her breath catch, felt her lean into me for just a second, felt my hand come up to cradle the back of her head like it belonged there.
And then I'd walked away.
Because she'd asked for friendship. Because she'd trusted me to respect that. Because pushing her before she was ready would make me no different from every other man who’d taken what he wanted without caring what it cost her.
But God, I wanted more.
I wanted to wake up next to her.
I wanted to kiss her good morning over terrible coffee.
I wanted to come home after a brutal shift and have her be the first thing I saw.
I wanted to build something real with her, something that lasted, something that looked like what my parents had.
I wanted to be hers. I wanted her to be mine.
The wanting was a constant ache now, lodged somewhere beneath my ribs, constant and unrelenting. Every text from her made it worse. Every late-night phone call, where I could hear the smile in her voice. Every moment I spent in her apartment, watching her grade papers or laugh at something Zoe said, feeling like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I was in deep. Deeper than I'd ever been with anyone.
And I had no idea what to do about it—except want her anyway.
The fires were getting closer.
Too close.
Fourth school in three months. This one was P.S. 122 in Sunnyside, an elementary school three blocks from a park where kids played soccer on weekends. Empty, thank God. But fully involved by the time Engine 295 rolled up, flames clawing out of the second-floor windows, smoke billowing black into the night sky.
We worked the scene hard. Knocking down flames, searching rooms, praying we wouldn't find a body. The heat was brutal, the kind that seared through your gear and made every breath feel like swallowing fire. By the time we got it under control, I was drenched in sweat, my lungs burned, and my shoulders ached from hauling hose.
They found the message spray-painted on the gymnasium wall. The fire hadn't reached it yet.
LET THE SYSTEM BURN.
Same handwriting. Same accelerant. Same rage.
Garrett photographed the scene for the investigation file.
I stood next to Brian in what used to be the library, both of us staring at the wreckage. Tiny desks were warped by the heat. Picture books had been reduced to ash. A reading corner where beanbag chairs had melted into unrecognizable shapes.
"He's escalating," Brian said quietly.
I nodded. The gaps between fires were getting shorter. The locations were closer together. Whoever was doing this wasn't slowing down.
They were building toward something.
I thought about Maya’s school. P.S. 147. The arsons were getting closer. Fifteen minutes from here. Same district. Same type of building. I needed to see her. Needed to make sure sheunderstood this wasn't just news anymore. It was close. Too close.
The press arrived as we were finishing up.
