The next two hours blurred into smoke and heat and the systematic clearing of apartments.
I kicked in doors. Checked bedrooms, bathrooms, and closets. Found an elderly woman on the fourth floor who'd been too scared to move, carried her down three flights of stairs while the building screamed around us.
No deaths. The arsonist was timing for minimum occupancy, still choosing their moments carefully.
But it was escalating. Bigger buildings. Faster timeline. Whoever was doing this was getting bolder.
Or more desperate.
After the fire was contained, after the residents were accounted for and the investigators had taken over, I stepped away from the chaos and pulled out my phone.
Sloane answered on the second ring.
"Another one," I said. "Atlantic Avenue. Same pattern."
A pause. The sound of movement on her end—papers rustling, a chair scraping back.
"I'll meet you there."
She arrived within the hour.
I spotted her ducking under the tape, messenger bag slung across her body, press credentials catching the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles.
Professional. Focused. Already scanning the scene with those sharp green eyes that missed nothing.
I was supposed to be checking equipment. Supposed to be focused on the job, on the aftermath of another fire in another building that should have been condemned years ago.
Instead, I was watching Sloane Harper cross the scene toward Detective Diaz.
They spoke near the command post, heads bent together, voices too low for me to hear. Diaz had her notebook out. Sloane gestured toward the building, then pulled something from her bag, a folder, probably the documentation we'd compiled. Diaz took it, flipped it open, and nodded.
Two women working the case. Building the connections. Pulling at threads that someone had tried very hard to bury.
I shouldn't have felt proud. This wasn't about me.
But watching Sloane work, watching her do what she did best, something loosened in my chest.
I forced my attention back to the equipment. Coiled hose. Checked valves. Went through the motions while the rest of the crew finished packing up.
By the time I looked back, Diaz had left, and Sloane was alone near the perimeter tape, reviewing her notes, the flashing lights painting her face in alternating red and blue.
I should have stayed with the crew. Should have climbed into the rig and gone back to the station without a word.
Instead, I crossed the scene toward her.
"Hey," I said, stopping close enough that I could smell her shampoo over the smoke and ash.
She looked up. Smiled. "Hey. Good work tonight."
"We got everyone out. That's what matters." I glanced back at the building, at the blackened windows and the water damage. "Same pattern?"
"Same pattern. Diaz is running the names against your victims list." She tucked her notebook into her bag. "We're getting close, Garrett. I can feel it."
"Yeah."
I was looking at her mouth. I shouldn't have been looking at her mouth.
The moment stretched. The noise of the scene faded—the radios, the idling engines, the voices of the crew.
