Page 18 of Flashpoint
"I'll wait."
"You don't have to?—"
"Riley." His voice is soft but firm. "I'll wait."
Three hours later, I've photographed every inch of the second floor, collected fourteen samples for lab analysis, and documented enough evidence to confirm my initial suspicion: this fire was deliberately set.
The accelerant pattern suggests someone splashed liquid—probably gasoline, based on the smell—in a rough circle around the reception area before igniting it. Amateur work, honestly. Aprofessional would have been more careful about distribution, would have created a pattern that looked more natural.
This feels angry. Impulsive. Personal.
The question is: personal against whom? The graphic design studio that occupied this floor, or someone else entirely?
I bag my samples carefully, label each one with location and time, and make notes about chain of custody. Defense attorneys love to attack evidence handling. I've never given them the opportunity.
Aiden is still waiting when I emerge from the building, leaning against his truck with two cups of coffee that he must have procured from somewhere. The night has gone cold, and I'm suddenly aware of how exhausted I am—the adrenaline of investigation fading into bone-deep fatigue.
"From the 24-hour place on Maple," he says, offering me a cup. "Not as good as mine, but it's hot."
"Thanks." The coffee is mediocre, but I drink it anyway, grateful for the warmth.
We stand in silence for a moment, watching the last of the emergency vehicles pack up. The building looms dark and wounded behind us, yellow caution tape marking it as off-limits until my investigation is complete.
"Arson," Aiden says. Not a question.
"Almost certainly. I'll need the lab results to confirm, but the evidence is pretty clear."
"Any connection to the warehouse?"
"Too early to say." I take another sip of subpar coffee. "Different accelerant pattern, different building type, different ownership. But the timing is... notable."
"Two arsons in less than two weeks."
"Could still be coincidence." But my gut says otherwise, and my gut is rarely wrong about fire.
Aiden shifts closer, and I'm suddenly very aware that we're standing in a dark parking lot at 1 AM, and the last time we were alone together, we almost?—
"About earlier," he starts.
"We don't have to talk about it."
"I think we do."
"I think I need sleep and a shower and about sixteen hours before I'm capable of having that conversation." I meet his eyes, hoping he can see that I'm not deflecting—just genuinely at capacity. "Rain check?"
"Rain check." His mouth curves into a small smile. "But I'm holding you to it."
"I'd expect nothing less."
We stand there for another beat, the air between us thick with everything unsaid. Then Aiden opens the passenger door with exaggerated chivalry.
"Your chariot awaits. Again."
"You're ridiculous."
"You've mentioned."
I climb in, and he closes the door gently before circling to the driver's side. The truck's interior is warm, and as we pull away from the scene, my eyes start to drift closed despite my best efforts.
