I looked at the files spread across the table. The scope of what he'd compiled. The years of work.
"But I can't prove it," he said. "Not without risking my career. If I go public with this, I'm the disgruntled firefighter with an axe to grind. The department buries it. The landlords' lawyers tear me apart."
He paused.
"Nothing changes except I lose my job and my crew loses their station."
"But if a journalist breaks the story..."
"Then it's news." His eyes met mine. Gray-blue, steady, intense in a way that made my breath catch. "Credible. Investigated. Coming from the New York Times instead of a firefighter who might have ulterior motives."
I understood. The same information, framed differently, could change everything. That was the power of the press—not creating truth, but giving it a platform.
"I need your help," he said. "Help me expose the corruption. Help me save Engine 295."
He paused.
"In return, I'll help you with the arson investigation. Everything I know."
Two cases. Two investigations. Working together for weeks. Maybe months.
With Garrett Stone.
The smart thing would be to say no. Protect myself. Keep my distance. Find another angle on the arson story—one that didn't require spending hours in the company of the man I'd never stopped loving.
But the story was too good. Both stories—the arsons and the corruption—were exactly the kind of investigations I'd built my career on. The kind that changed systems. The kind that mattered.
And maybe—maybe there was a part of me that wasn't ready to walk away again.
"Why me?" I asked. "There are other journalists. Other papers. People who don't have—" I stopped. Couldn't finish the sentence.
"Because you're the best." No hesitation. No qualification. "And because I've seen what you do for people. Shane. Brian. Ava. You don't just write stories—you fight for the truth, even when it's dangerous. Even when powerful people want you to stop." He paused. "That's what we need. Someone who won't back down."
I should say no.
"Okay. I'll do it."
His face changed — the mask loosening for half a second. Relief, I thought. Or hope. Both, maybe. The kind of expression he'd kill me for noticing.
Then it was gone. Locked down behind that control he wore like turnout gear.
"We'll need to meet regularly," he said. "Coordinate. Share information as we find it."
"I know."
"It might take months."
"I know."
We worked out the details. Meeting schedules—weekly at minimum, more often as the investigations progressed. Information sharing protocols. How to keep both cases from leaking before we were ready to publish.
Professional. Businesslike.
The careful choreography of two people pretending they didn't share a decade of history.
When we finished, I gathered my files.
The coffee had gone cold. The candle had burned down to a stub.
