"He's running," Riley says, already moving toward the fire escape she must have clocked on ourway up.
"Pritchard, wait—" Orozco calls, but Riley's gone, boots pounding down the hallway toward the back stairwell.
I'm right behind her.
We burst through the fire exit to find Marsh halfway down the metal stairs, a wild-eyed man in a stained t-shirt and sweatpants. He sees us and freezes for a split second—long enough for Riley to close the distance.
"Daniel Marsh." Her voice carries the authority of someone who's spent years testifying in courtrooms. "Stop right there."
He doesn't stop. He swings at her instead—a clumsy, panicked punch that she dodges with surprising agility.
"Aiden!"
I'm already moving, catching Marsh's arm as he winds up for another swing and using his momentum to spin him against the railing. He struggles, but he's out of shape and I'm running on adrenaline and protective fury.
"Easy," I say through gritted teeth. "Stop fighting and this goes easier."
Marsh sags against the railing, all the fight draining out of him. The uniformed officers reach us, one pulling out handcuffs while the othertakes over restraining Marsh from me. Up close, he looks less like a criminal mastermind and more like a man who's been hollowed out by bitterness. Bloodshot eyes, three-day stubble, the sour smell of someone who's stopped taking care of himself.
"I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt," he gasps. "The buildings were empty. They were always empty."
"There was a security guard scheduled at last night's location," Riley says coldly. "He could have died."
"I checked! I always check!" Marsh's voice cracks. "Blackwood ruined my life. They lied about me, destroyed my career, took everything. I just wanted them to feel what it's like to lose something."
"So you burned down their buildings."
"They deserved it." But the words have no conviction. He sounds exhausted. Defeated. "They deserved worse."
Orozco steps forward, her voice flat and professional. "Daniel Marsh, you're under arrest for three counts of arson in the first degree." She nods to one of the uniforms, who begins reading him his rights.
I tune out the Miranda warning, focused instead on Riley. She's watching Marsh with an expression Ican't quite parse—satisfaction, yes, but also something heavier. Sadness, maybe. Or disappointment.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
"He's not a monster," she says, equally quiet. "He's just a man who let his anger burn hotter than he could control."
"That doesn't excuse what he did."
"No. It doesn't." She takes a breath, squaring her shoulders. "I need to process the scene at his apartment. Document any evidence before his lawyer starts making noise about chain of custody."
"Want company?"
She glances at me, and some of the tension in her face eases. "Yeah. I do."
The sun's fully up now, painting the shabby apartment complex in unforgiving daylight. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks. Traffic hums on the main road. Copper Ridge waking up to a Tuesday morning like any other, unaware that the fires that have been plaguing it are finally out.
We did it. We caught him.
But as I follow Riley up the stairs to Marsh's apartment, I can't stop thinking about what she said. A man who let his anger burn hotter than he could control.
That's all it takes, sometimes. One spark of rage, fed and nurtured until it consumes everything.
I look at Riley—brilliant, guarded, slowly learning to let someone in—and make a silent promise.
Whatever she's still carrying—the weight of her father's legacy, the fear of letting someone close—I'm not going anywhere. She'll figure that out eventually.
Chapter 9
