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The building was huge by local standards—three stories, all wood except for the concrete slab and some rusted iron crossbeams. Desiree kept low, crossing behind the assembled firefighters. She set her kit at the edge of the collapse zone and walked the perimeter, eyes already tracking the fire’s progress. This wasn’t a routine trash fire; the main structure was gone, flames crawling up the side.

Brandon had command—she could hear his voice giving orders. “Kimble, hold the east side, keep that wall standing. Ruiz, get the tankers on the corner, back up Engine 1. No interior, it’s all exterior defense.”

That’s when Desiree saw Brandon, a silhouette in the haze, helmet off, hand slicing through the air as he signaled orders. He was good at this—no wasted motion, just a no-nonsense calm that made his crew do their jobs better. She couldn’t help but admire that about him.

She told herself she wasn’t staring, that she just wanted to make sure the scene was secure before she got to work. But she continued to watch him far longer than she needed to.

“Focus on your job, Garcia,” she scolded herself. “Don’t get distracted.”

She worked her own grid along the south wall, flagging points of interest with little red stakes and snapping photos from a safe distance. The pattern was familiar—the worst of the burn started low, then climbed in a narrow line up the timber. The wind direction should have pushed the flames west, but the main run was north to south. That proved this fire was deliberate.

Fifteen minutes in, she’d made a complete circuit, tagged every anomaly, and was planting a marker in a spot near the north foundation when she heard Brandon’s voice behind her.

“Ruiz, give me a hand on this side—” He stopped mid-sentence. “You seeing this pattern, Garcia?”

She nodded. “I see it.”

He moved toward her, boots kicking up ash. “Doesn’t match the wind,” he observed.

“No. It doesn’t.” She squatted and leveled her camera at the scorch, the lens catching a faint shimmer on the char—a petroleum sheen, not quite burned off.

“Same as before?” Brandon inquired.

“Looking that way,” she told him, but she’d know for sure when she got the samples to the lab.

She could feel the presence of him beside her like static on her skin. Neither said anything else, the roar of the fire and the hiss of the hoses filling in the silence between them.

They reached the base of the old stairwell, now a pile of cinders. Desiree pointed with one of her flags. “This is part of the ignition point. Same pour pattern as before.”

He growled under his breath. “So, we have another arson.”

Desiree nodded. “The pattern says he wanted it to burn hot, but slow enough so he could escape before anyone noticed.”

She pulled out the measuring tape and started mapping the radius of the pours. He held the end for her, hands steady as they calculated, tagged, and documented in sync—her calling out numbers, him repeating them back. It was almost a dance, the way they moved around each other, not quite touching, but close enough to catch each other’s rhythm. For a brief minute, Desiree forgot about the kiss, the crew around them, everything but the need to get the pattern down perfectly.

They reached the far end of the pour trail together, shoulders almost touching, where Desiree found the partial ignition ring. Unlike the last two, this one hadn’t burned away completely. The edge was fused to a piece of iron, the rest caked in powder.

She used forceps to pick it up. Held it in the space between them.

He looked at her, then at the evidence in her hand. His jaw went tight, a pulse in his cheek. “This will help.”

Desiree bagged the ring carefully and wrote the label with her name and date. Next, she packed her kit, tucked the evidence into the side pocket, and glanced up at the cotton gin’s skeleton remains. The fire had mostly burned out, the main beams charred and barely holding on.

The circle came back to the front, rolling hose, kicking over embers, shouting to each other in the half-giddy way that meant nobody got hurt, and the worst was over.

She was halfway back to the fire truck when she heard Brandon say from behind her, “We need to go over all of this together.”

She turned and nodded once. “We can discuss this back at the station.”

He didn’t smile, didn’t thank her. Just nodded back, then headed to help Kimble with the last hose.

Desire climbed into the engine and closed the door just as Kimble strolled over, a coil of yellow line over his shoulder, and surveyed the perimeter with a practiced squint. “So,” he said, voice low and a little too casual, “what’s going on with you and the Chief? You two have a fight or something?”

Desiree crossed her arms over her chest. “Nothing to fight about.”

Kimble glanced over at his boss, then back to the hose. “If you say so.” He let the moment hang, but when Desiree didn’t add anything, he shrugged and walked away.

Once they were back at the station, Desiree headed for the conference room. Brandon wasn’t far behind her, and he didn’t bother with pleasantries. Instead, he jumped right in with his questions. “When you questioned the witnesses, did anyone mention seeing a vehicle? Anything out of place?”