“Is there anything about this fire that sticks out to you?’
“Yeah. Lockhart.”
“Is it just because the fire is in the garage?” Walker interrogates.
Tad shakes his head. “No. Same burn pattern, same accelerant, and same point of origin.”
Walker straightens his spine. “Thanks, Tad. I’ll start working things from my end.”
Tad gives Walker an appreciative nod and returns to his team.
Walker and I pace away, taking ourselves out of earshot.
“But Derek Holt...” He starts, staring at the concrete as if it holds all the answers.
“Was never setting garages on fire,” I finish for him.
“That means Evergreen Falls has,” Walker corrects himself, “hadtwo arsonists.”
“What are the odds of that?” I question out loud with a frown.
“Less than one percent,” Walker responds. “And they’re usually juveniles, so we’re either looking for a teenager or an anomaly.”
“If this is a repeat of Evan Lockhart’s house, then we should sweep the house,” I suggest.
Walker and I are mulling over new theories when we hear, “Blake!”
The way Santiago shouts her name causes the blood to drain from my face.
Walker and I break into a sprint for Blake. There’s no hesitation, no pause. I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t need to.
I will always show up for the woman I love.
Santiago kneels next to Blake in the grass on the side of the house, examining her hand. Dark red liquid drips onto the freshly fallen white powder.
We dropped to our knees beside them, ignoring the freezing snow soaking the knees of my pants.
“What happened?” Walker questions frantically.
“I'm fine, I promise,” Blake claims.
“Santiago, go get the first aid kit from my truck. Levi, give me your jacket.” Walker directs.
Without question, Santiago and I spring into action. He runs off toward Walker's truck, and I rip off my coat. Walker uses it to apply pressure to her wounds.
Blake lets out a hiss of pain.
Santiago returns, crashing down to his knees and opening the container. He hands Walker the supplies he needs.
Lifting a little bit of fabric from her skin, Walker examines the state of her hands. “Shit,” he curses.
I peek at her hand, and my stomach contracts into a tight ball. A large gash crosses her left palm, and a few smaller ones along her fingers.
“That’s it.” Walker shakes his head, frustrated. “You’re done. No more crime scenes for you.”
“Done?” Blake’s brows rise. “It’s just a cut.”
“He’s right,” Santiago agrees.
