"So go get her. Show up at her parents' house, talk to her?—"
"And what? Drag her back against her will?" I finally looked at him. Let him see whatever was showing on my face. "She made a choice. I have to respect that, even if it hurts like hell."
"Even if she's wrong?"
"Still."
Shane was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out and gripped my shoulder. Solid. Grounding. The way he'd beengripping my shoulder for over a decade, through every crisis and heartbreak and near-miss that came with this job.
"She'll come back," he said. "She loves you too much to stay away forever."
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him.
But two weeks of silence had made me wonder if wanting something badly enough actually mattered.
The tones dropped around midnight.
Engine 295, Ladder 118, Battalion 7. Structure fire, 847 Vernon Boulevard, Long Island City. Multiple calls reporting flames visible.
I was moving before the dispatcher finished speaking, muscle memory kicking in, the familiar weight of my gear settling onto my shoulders. The station erupted into motion. Boots hitting the floor, doors slamming, the rumble of engines roaring to life.
Shane was already behind the wheel when I swung into my seat. Garrett was beside me, face set in that focused expression he wore on every call. Captain Rodriguez was in front, radio in hand, already coordinating with dispatch.
The engine screamed out of the bay and into the night.
I watched the city blur past the windows—streetlights and storefronts, the occasional late-night pedestrian turning to watch us pass. Normal. Routine. Another call, another fire, another chance to do the job I'd trained my whole life for.
I tried to focus. Tried to push thoughts of Ava aside and be present for the job. That's what she would want. That's what the crew needed.
"What do we know?" Captain Rodriguez's voice cut through my thoughts.
"Restaurant fire," Garrett said, checking his tablet. "Bellini's. Older building, looks like it's been there for forty years. Caller reported flames visible through the front windows, heavy smoke."
Restaurant fire. We'd handled dozens of these.
I stared out the window and let my mind go blank. Just another night.
We turned onto Vernon Boulevard. And I saw it.
Flames licking through shattered windows. Smoke poured into the night sky, thick and black against the city lights. An old building, brick and wood, already half-consumed by fire burning too hot, too fast.
Accelerant. This fire wasn’t an accident.
The engine rolled to a stop. Rodriguez was already barking orders, the crew moving with practiced efficiency. I jumped down from the truck, scanning the scene the way I'd been trained—entry points, ventilation, structural integrity.
Then I saw it.
Black sedan. Parked across the street. The same sedan that had been trailing Ava for months.
Charles Rothwell's security.
Here.
I'd seen it dozens of times over the past months, always parked near our building or trailing a few cars behind when Ava drove to work. Charles Rothwell's security detail. The car that had been keeping her safe.
The car that should be in Manhattan right now, parked outside her parents' townhouse.
Not here. Not at a burning restaurant in Long Island City at midnight.
