Sloane was working late. New assignment from Marianne. I'd see her in the morning, breakfast together, maybe back to bed for a few hours.
The simple pleasures of a life finally clicking into place.
I ate my pasta and let myself be happy.
"Still no sign of her?" Brian asked.
"Diaz has units canvassing. Someone's bound to recognize her from the photo."
"Becks." Shane shook his head. "She was here for months. Bringing us food. Asking questions." He looked at me. "She asked about Emma's fire, didn't she?"
My jaw tightened. "Yeah. She did."
"And none of us thought twice about it." Brian set down his fork. "She played us." He paused. "I'm going to miss her lasagna, though."
Rodriguez shot him a look.
"What? I'm just saying."
"She played everyone." Rodriguez's voice was flat. "That's what people like her do. They find the cracks and slip through."
The table went quiet.
The way she'd smiled at me across the kitchen. The way she'd listened when I talked about the calls that haunted me. The way I'd trusted her with pieces of myself I didn't share with anyone.
She'd known. The whole time.
"She'll slip up eventually," Shane said. "They always do."
I nodded. But something in my gut felt wrong. Like I was missing something obvious.
The tones dropped at 11:03 PM.
Everyone moved. Chairs scraped. Boots on concrete. The practiced choreography of a thousand fires.
Gear on. Truck. Ninety seconds. Shane beside me. Brian across. Rodriguez up front, radio crackling.
"Structure fire. Twelve-alarm. Multiple floors involved."
Twelve alarms. Every available unit in the borough.
"What's the address?" Rodriguez asked.
The dispatcher's voice came back. Tinny through the speaker.
I heard the address before my brain processed it.
The New York Times building.
The truck lurched forward. Sirens spinning up. The city blurring past.
"Stone." Shane's voice was careful. "Sloane isn't there right now. Is she?"
I pulled out my phone. One missed call. One voicemail.
I pressed play.
Her voice. Shaking. Scared. Trying very hard to stay calm.
