Garrett scanned the article.
"He's in prison. Has been for a decade."
I hated myself for not remembering sooner.
The case had been buried under a decade of other stories—Crane's targets in Brooklyn, not Queens. I hadn't thought to look for the connection until the MO matched exactly.
"But what if they're connected? What if our arsonist learned from him? Or knew him?"
"You think he had an accomplice?"
"I think it's worth asking." I closed the laptop, my mind already racing ahead. "Crane was meticulous. Obsessive about choosing targets. If someone was working with him, or if someone studied his methods…"
"They'd know exactly how to replicate his work."
"And improve on it." I stood. Started pacing. "Crane got caught because he escalated too fast. Our arsonist is patient. Controlled. They learned from his mistakes."
Garrett watched me pace, that crease between his brows deepening.
"I could request an interview, see if he'll agree to meet." I grabbed my phone, already composing the email in my head. "He's at Sing Sing. I've done prison interviews before—they know me there."
"You want me to come with you?"
The question was casual. The look in his eyes wasn't.
"I'll be fine." I managed a small smile. "Not my first prison interview. Besides, you'd have to take time off shift."
"Right." He nodded slowly. "Okay."
But I could see it, the protectiveness he was trying to tamp down.
Part of me wanted to let him.
But I'd been doing this job alone for a long time. I could handle one prison interview.
We worked for another hour, building the connection between Crane's old case and our current investigation. By the time Garrett's phone buzzed, we had a solid theory and a list of questions I'd ask when I got to Sing Sing.
Garrett glanced at the screen, and his expression eased.
"Crew's going out for drinks tonight," he said. "You should come."
His crew. His people. The family he'd built in the years I'd been gone.
"It's just drinks," he added, reading my hesitation. "Brian and Ava will be there. Rodriguez and Maria. Shane and Maya."
"I don't want to intrude?—"
"You're not intruding." His voice was soft. Sincere in a way that made my chest ache. "They want to meet you. Properly. Not just at fire scenes and crime scenes."
I thought about it. Stepping into his world. His life. The spaces he'd filled without me.
"Okay," I said. "I'll come."
The bar was a firefighter joint through and through.
Flags on the walls. Photos of crews going back decades. A jukebox in the corner playing something country. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone, where the bartender started pouring your usual before you made it to your seat.
Garrett's hand found the small of my back as we walked in, guiding me through the crowd. The touch was casual. Automatic.
