I settled into my chair, powered on my laptop, and was three emails deep when Mira appeared at my desk.
"Charlton wants you." She jerked her thumb toward the corner office. "Now."
Marianne Charlton had been at the Times for thirty years. Covered Watergate as a cub reporter. Broken stories that brought down senators and CEOs. Survived every wave of layoffs, buyouts, and digital pivots that had decimated the industry.
At sixty-two, she had silver hair she refused to dye, reading glasses she refused to admit she needed, and a gaze sharp enough to cut through bullshit at fifty paces.
She was the best editor I'd ever worked for.
"Close the door." She didn't look up from the file in front of her. "Sit."
I sat.
"We have a situation." She finally met my eyes and slid a folder across the desk. "Serial arson. Five fires in the last three months, all suspicious, all matching a particular MO. Fire marshal thinks they're connected, but FDNY isn't sharing details with the press."
I opened the folder.
Crime scene photos. Incident reports. A map with pins marking each location. Buildings scattered across different neighborhoods, different boroughs. At first glance, nothing obvious connected them—different owners, different property types, different tenant demographics.
But serial arsonists didn't pick targets at random. There was always a pattern.
Always a reason.
I flipped through the photos.
Charred interiors. Collapsed ceilings. The particular devastation fire leaves behind—not just destruction but erasure. Everything that made a place someone's home was reduced to ash and memory.
"What's the MO?" I asked.
"That's exactly what they won't say." Marianne's mouth thinned. "Accelerant type, ignition method, timing—they're keeping it locked down. No press briefings, no official statements beyond 'investigation ongoing.' Which means they're either protecting something or they have nothing."
"And you want me to find out which."
"I want you to get inside." She leaned forward. "You've built relationships with the FDNY before. The Vickers case. The Lang investigation."
My stomach dropped.
Shane Briggs, who'd reached out about the Vickers story and become something like a friend. Brian Torres and Ava Rothwell, who'd trusted me with the Lang investigation. I'd managed to work with Engine 295 twice without dealing directly with Garrett. Shane for Vickers. Brian and Ava for Lang.
Careful. Strategic. Professional.
But a case this big, this complex, requiring this much access?—
"Use whatever connections you have," Marianne said. "Get me inside this investigation."
I closed the folder. "I'll see what I can do."
The apartment was dark when I got home, but the kitchen light was on.
Pierce.
I'd forgotten he was coming over. Or maybe I hadn't forgotten so much as pushed it to the back of my mind, where I'd been pushing a lot of things lately.
The case files in my bag felt heavy. My brain was still churning through leads and angles and the particular dread of knowing I couldn't avoid Garrett Stone forever.
"Hey, babe." Pierce emerged from the kitchen, dish towel over his shoulder, and kissed my cheek. "Rough day?"
"Just long." I dropped my bag by the door. "Something smells good."
