Riley's out of the truck before I've fully stopped, her face lit orange by the firelight. She's already scanning the scene, that brilliant brain cataloging details faster than most people can process what they're seeing.
"Same accelerant signature," she says, almost to herself. "I can smell it from here."
"You can identify accelerants by smell from fiftyfeet away?"
"This one's obvious. Gasoline and something else. Chemical undertone." Her jaw tightens. "He's escalating."
Fire crews are already working—Engine 19 among them, I notice, which means my team got called in for mutual aid. I spot Whitaker on the deck gun and Johnson running hose lines, their movements precise despite the chaos.
Today's my Kelly day—scheduled day off in the rotation. Part of me wants to suit up and join them anyway. That's my crew. My job. But tonight, I'm here as something else—partner, support, whatever Riley needs me to be.
I follow her toward the perimeter where Captain Vasquez stands, her silver hair tucked under her helmet, face streaked with soot.
"Gentry," Vasquez nods to me, then turns to Riley. "Building was supposed to be empty. Old manufacturing plant, scheduled for demolition next month. But we've got reports of a possible occupant—security guard who may have been doing rounds."
Riley's head snaps toward her. "Someone's inside?"
"Unconfirmed. We're doing a search now, but the structure's compromised. Third floor is already collapsed into thesecond."
"The previous fires were all empty buildings," Riley says, her voice tight. "He's been careful about that. Hitting targets after hours, when no one's around."
"Maybe he didn't know about the guard," I say.
"Or maybe he stopped caring."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. If the arsonist has escalated from property damage to potential murder, this just became a very different case.
"I need to get closer," Riley says. "As soon as the scene is safe, I need access."
"Pritchard—" Vasquez starts.
"I know the protocols, Captain. But this is the third fire in two weeks, and if there's a victim inside, this becomes a homicide investigation. I need to see the point of origin before the scene degrades any further."
Vasquez studies her for a moment, then nods. "As soon as we've cleared the structure. Not before. Here," she hands her the helmet that she’s wearing, “take mine.”
Riley nods tightly, takes the helmet, and moves toward the perimeter tape, positioning herself as close as safely possible. I follow, because that's what I do now—where she goes, I go.
The fire roars. Glass shatters somewhere inside, sending a shower of sparks into the night. I watch Riley's face in the flickering light, see the intensity of her focus, the way her mind is already working the case even as the building burns.
"Daniel Marsh," she murmurs. "It has to be him. The timing, the targets, the escalation pattern—it all fits."
"We haven't even talked to him yet."
"No. But I will." Her hands clench at her sides. "If someone died in there because I didn't put this together fast enough?—"
"Hey." I step in front of her, blocking her view of the flames. "You identified the connection, found the suspect, built a profile. That's not failure—that's exceptional work."
"Exceptional work doesn't matter if people die."
"You can't prevent every fire, Riley. You can only catch the people who set them."
"That's not good enough."
"It has to be. Because the alternative is burning yourself out trying to be omniscient, and that helps no one."
She stares at me, green eyes reflecting firelight, and for a moment I think she's going to argue. Then her shoulders drop a fraction.
"I hate that you're right."
