"I know. It's one of my most annoying qualities."
A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "One of many."
"Now you're just being mean."
Riley's radio crackles. Vasquez's voice: "Search team's coming out. No occupant found. Building's clear."
The relief that floods Riley's face is immediate and profound. Her whole body sags slightly, the tension draining out of her.
"No victim," she breathes. "Thank God."
What happened to the security guard, then? Must have finished his rounds early or never started them. Either way, we got lucky.
Riley's already refocusing, shifting from relief back to investigation mode. "I need to talk to whoever manages this property. Find out if the guard was scheduled, if anyone knew the building would be empty tonight."
"You think the arsonist knew?"
"I think he's been too careful to suddenly get sloppy. Either he had inside information, or he got lucky." Her jaw sets. "I don't believe in luck."
The fire takes four more hours to fully contain. By the time Vasquez clears Riley for scene access,dawn is breaking over Copper Ridge in shades of pink and gold that seem obscene against the blackened skeleton of the building.
My crew has been released back to the station—they did good work tonight. I should probably head home too, but the idea of leaving Riley alone at a crime scene doesn't sit right.
"You don't have to stay," she says, reading my mind as she pulls on her evidence collection gear.
"I know."
"You've been up all night."
"So have you."
"I'm used to it."
"So am I." I lean against the hood of my truck, arms crossed. "Stop trying to get rid of me, Pritchard. It's not going to work."
She pauses, gloves half-on, and looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. "Why are you like this?"
"Like what?"
"Stubborn. Supportive. Annoyingly present."
"It's a gift."
"It's something." But there's warmth under the exasperation, and she doesn't tell me to leave again.
For the next two hours, she moves through thewreckage with methodical precision. Photographs everything, collects samples, documents details I wouldn't notice in a hundred years. Every few minutes she murmurs observations into her recorder, building a picture of what happened here from the ashes up.
Watching her work is fascinating. The focus. The precision. The way she reads the scene like it's a language only she speaks.
Around eight, she emerges from the building with soot on her face and a grim expression that tells me she's found what she was looking for.
"Same accelerant pattern as the other two," she confirms. "Same MO. Same signature. This is definitely our guy."
"Marsh."
"He's our strongest lead." She strips off her gloves, tossing them into an evidence bag. "The pour pattern started near the main entrance—same as the commercial building. Whoever's doing this is consistent. Which means they're either cocky or compulsive."
"Can you use that?"
