"Ms. Harper." His handshake was firm. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for having me, Captain."
Silver threading through dark hair. Decades of smoke and difficult decisions were written into the lines of his face. I remembered him from scenes I'd covered over the years—Engine 295 fires that made the news, quotes I'd needed for articles. Always professional. Always cordial.
He led me through the apparatus bay. I tried not to look like I was searching for someone.
The rigs gleamed under fluorescent lights, red paint polished to a mirror shine. Equipment hung in precise rows—turnout gear, helmets, axes. The organized chaos of a firehouse that ran like clockwork.
The air smelled like diesel and industrial soap and something that might have been decades of sweat worked into the concrete.
Rodriguez's office was small, functional, cluttered with the detritus of command—commendations on the walls, photos ofcrews past and present, stacks of paperwork that never shrank no matter how many hours you put in.
I recognized the look. My desk at the Times had the same perpetual chaos.
"I wanted to thank you personally," Rodriguez said, closing the door behind us. "Your work on the Vickers case. The Lang investigation. You've done right by my people."
I thought about Shane Briggs running into a burning school. Defying orders. Risking everything for the woman he loved.
About Ava Rothwell standing in front of cameras and telling the truth about the Lang family even though it nearly destroyed her.
"I just wrote what happened," I said. "Your people are the ones who showed up."
Rodriguez studied me for a long moment. Whatever he saw, he seemed to approve.
"The arson case." He settled into his chair and gestured for me to take the one across from him. "Engine 295 is fully cooperating. Anything you need—access, records, interviews."
"I appreciate that."
"I've assigned one of my best as your liaison." He said it casually. Like it was nothing. Like he wasn't about to detonate a bomb in the middle of my carefully constructed professional distance. "I know you've worked with Engine 295 before, so you're already familiar with some of the crew. But for this case, you'll be working directly with Lieutenant Stone."
My heart rate spiked. I kept my face neutral.
Garrett.
"He knows fire behavior better than anyone in the department," Rodriguez continued. "If there's a pattern to these arsons, he'll find it. And he's discreet. Whatever you're investigating, it stays between you and him until you're ready to publish."
"That sounds fine." The words came out steady. Professional.
The mask I'd worn through countless difficult interviews, holding firm.
"Good." Rodriguez stood. "Why don't you come say hello to the crew?"
The common room was louder than I expected.
Laughter. Voices overlapping. The particular energy of celebration, though I couldn't immediately tell what they were celebrating.
Shane Briggs stood near the center of the room, surrounded by crew members clapping him on the shoulder—"about time" and "congratulations." Cake demolished on the table. Plates scattered. The easy chaos of people who trusted each other with their lives.
My eyes swept the room before I could stop them.
Looking for him.
Seated at the long table. Coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth. Gray-blue eyes locked on mine.
Garrett.
Eight years collapsed into nothing.
