Vans with satellite dishes. Reporters jockeying for position behind the yellow tape. The school fires had become a story now as the pattern emerged. The public was demanding answers. Parents were demanding protection for their kids.
Brian went to give a statement. I hung back, watching the crowd, when I noticed Garrett go still beside me.
Not tense. Not alert. Frozen in place.
I followed his gaze to the press line. A woman with a recorder was interviewing one of the bystanders. Tall, maybe five-seven, dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
She moved with purposeful efficiency, the kind that said she had somewhere to be and wasn't wasting time getting there. Tailored pants, a blazer despite the heat, a leather messenger bag slung across her body, and press credentials layered over each other.
She looked like every other serious journalist I'd ever seen.
Except Garrett looked like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
"Stone." I kept my voice low. "You good?"
He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked toward the engine without a word.
I watched him go. In three years, I'd never seen Garrett rattled. The man ran into burning buildings without flinching. Pulled bodies from wreckage and slept fine that night. Nothing touched him.
But one look at a reporter, and he couldn't get away fast enough.
I turned back to the press line. The woman was wrapping up her interview, thanking the bystander with a quick nod. She was good, I could tell. The kind of journalist who asked sharpquestions and didn't accept easy answers. Her press badge said New York Times.
She turned to leave. Her gaze swept the scene one last time. Paused, just for a moment, on the spot where Garrett had disappeared.
Something flickered across her face, gone before I could place it.
I filed it away. Whatever history existed between Garrett and the Times reporter, it was his business. But I added it to the growing list of things I didn't understand about the quietest man on my crew.
The next morning, right after shift change, I drove straight to Maya’s school.
I couldn't shake the image of those tiny desks warped by heat. The picture books turned to ash. The reading corner where beanbag chairs had melted into shapes no child should ever see.
Four schools. All in Queens. All elementary or middle. Whoever was doing this had a pattern, a purpose—and they were getting bolder.
Maya's school was fifteen minutes from last night's fire. Same district. Same type of building. Same kids who deserved to feel safe when they walked through those doors.
I found her in her classroom during her lunch break, red pen in hand, a half-eaten sandwich forgotten beside a stack of quizzes waiting to be graded. She looked up when I knocked on the doorframe, and her face softened into a smile that made my chest ache.
"Hey." She set down her pen. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you." I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. "And I wanted to talk to you about something."
Her smile faded. She could read me too well already. "What's wrong?"
"There was another fire last night. School in Sunnyside."
"I saw it on the news this morning." She folded her arms across her chest. "That's four now."
"Yeah." I leaned against one of the tiny desks, trying to look casual and failing completely. "They're getting closer, Maya. Same district. Same type of schools."
"You think our school could be a target?"
"I don't know. But I don't like the pattern." I rubbed a hand over my jaw. "Promise me you won't take any chances. If something feels wrong—even a little—you get out first and ask questions later."
She studied me for a moment. Whatever she saw in my face made her expression soften.
"I promise." She uncrossed her arms."I'll pay attention. I'll be smart about it."
