"Oat milk with one sugar?" she asked, gesturing to the cup in front of me.
I looked up. "Yes. Thank you."
She smiled and retreated.
I stared at the coffee. At Garrett.
He'd ordered before I arrived. Remembered how I took my coffee.
Eight years, and he remembered.
Something cracked in my chest. I couldn't name it. Didn't want to.
"Thank you," I managed finally. "For agreeing to meet. For helping with this."
Garrett nodded once. Took a sip from his own cup. Black, no sugar. Same as always.
"It's my job."
Professional. Businesslike.
Like we were strangers who'd never shared a bed, a home, a future.
I pulled out my files. Spread them across the table.
"FDNY isn't telling the press anything," I said. "Five fires in three months. All suspicious, all matching a particular MO. Fire marshal thinks they're connected, but that's where my information ends."
I pushed the map toward him, pins marking each location.
"Accelerant type, ignition method, timing—they're keeping it locked down. No press briefings, no official statements. I need to understand why these buildings were targeted. There's a pattern—there's always a pattern—but I can't see it from the outside."
Garrett studied the map. His expression shifted—something flickering behind his eyes that I couldn't read.
"There's something you should know," he said. "Something that might be connected."
He slid a folder across the table. I opened it.
Inside: fire safety violations. Building inspection reports with dates highlighted, failures circled in red pen. Properties with repeated code failures that should have triggered condemnations but hadn't. Shell company registrations. Political donation records.
A web of corruption laid out in meticulous detail.
"You've been documenting this," I said slowly. "For how long?"
"Seven years."
The number landed like a blow.
Seven years ago, I'd been in DC, trying to piece myself back together. Seven years ago, I'd stopped returning his calls, stopped answering his letters, let the silence stretch until it became permanent.
While I was disappearing from his life, something had happened that mattered enough to spend seven years gathering evidence in secret.
I didn't ask. Not yet. I wasn't sure I had the right.
"Engine 295 is on the shortlist for closure," Garrett continued. His voice was steady, but I could hear the tension underneath. "They're calling it budget cuts. I don't believe that."
"You think it's connected."
"I think someone wants us quiet." His jaw tightened. "We report too many violations. Ask too many questions. The same people who let buildings rot until they become death traps would very much like the firehouse that keeps documenting those death traps to disappear."
