Page 1 of On Fire

Chapter One

Nic Silvano

Boston can get awfully humid in the summer, the kind of sticky, clingy, wet humid that makes you want to soak in a tub of ice. It’s seven and most of the other 9-to-5 tenants of the Hancock building are silently welcoming their night shift crew, usually digital analysts. Locking up the offices at Colton Security is not common—I’m not usually the last one out. In fact, we have our own night crew of analysts who work cybersecurity.

I don’t really want to walk the two blocks to O’Reilly’s. It’s still got to be about ninety out with the same number for humidity. The elevator door opens to the eleventh floor and closes on the first. I exit and wave to the guard at the front desk. She smiles and tosses me a nod before her eyes revert to whatever she’s reading on her phone.

It’s clear it’ll be a brutal night the moment I step outside. The Hancock building, a beautiful, coppery piece of architecture, picks up the pulse of the city like no other structure. At sixty stories, and 790 feet, it’s the tallest building in New England. Designed with the capacity to both reflect and disappear, 10,344 panels of mirrored windows were installed—twice. When they had to go in an replace them all, more than 5000 of the original windows were given to artists.

I’ve memorized all this from news stories. Pretty impressive. And my company is located here.

This muggy evening, the skyline is a burnt orange, and the building tosses it right back to the waterfront.

This city has always been about maintaining balance and is one reason why I like it. That's what I do, maintain balance. Even though her name has changed, everyone still calls her the Hancock. And somewhere on the 58th floor are two large steel weights, each seventeen feet long, running along her sides to help her maintain balance and not twist in the wind.

I’ve tried to avoid twisting in the wind my entire life.

I wish there was a breeze right now, though. I unbutton my suit jacket and shrug it off while crossing James Street, throwing it over one shoulder. It’s taken me a long time to find a place I can call home. And the Eastern seaboard is it.

I’m meeting Finn Colton and his fiancé, Claire Russo, for dinner. It's been a long time since we just socialized on my turf and not worked a case, and I'm looking forward to it. They live up the coast just north of Portland, but are down here visiting Claire’s youngest sibling, a brother. Travis Russo is a vet student at Tufts.

The O’Reilly’s is not eclectic and though trying to be an Irish pub, cultures are smudged, and the place is more of a bangers and mash joint where local beers are slung with an occasional elevated pinky. No white linens on the table, but it’s clean, boasts excellent seafood and a lively fiddler on Friday nights. That's what I'm feeling right now—scallops and some fancy finger work.

A blast of hot air makes sweat trickle down my back and it’s clear the tie has got to go too. I sneak a finger through the loop, tease it out, and slide it through my collar as I round the corner where the O’Reilly’s sits.

Finn and Claire approach the entrance, and he holds the door open a beat longer for me as Claire disappears behind the door after a quick wave. I trot to catch up and save on the AC.

Finn’s looks match his demeanor: cool and steady. Faded jeans and a lightweight blue cotton shirt rolled to his elbows, leave his gray eyes with a blue cast. He trims his hair shorter in the summer, but long enough to throw curls across his forehead. When we first met in the service, our commanding officer, a guy named Dirk Durgess, used to always get us mixed up, until he determined I was Italian, my hair was straighter, and I was slightly taller.

“I think I see some sweat there, partner,” Finn says grinning as I duck inside.

Claire is waiting for a hostess, her cheeks flushed pink and her belly announcing her presence as only a pregnant woman can. She throws her arms around my neck, rising on tiptoes to deliver a kiss on my cheek. I bend slightly to accommodate her.

“God, it seems like forever since I’ve seen you,” she says, stepping back.

“You look fantastic,” I say and give her arms a squeeze. With a glance down at her belly I ask, “May I?”

She nods.

Placing a hand on her abdomen, the next question is probably old, but I can’t help myself. “Have you felt the baby kick?”

As her face falls, I chide myself for bringing it up.

She shoots a concerned glance at Finn as he slips an arm around her shoulders.

Her shrug says one thing while the tremor in her voice reveals a real worry. “No. But I’m sure everything’s fine.”

“We have an appointment Monday when we get back to Portland for another ultrasound,” explains Finn.

“How many?” A bustling hostess dressed in black pants, white shirt, with a green armband whisks up three menus in her hand.

My hunger vanishes. Finn can’t lose another child. I want to pull him aside for a moment and talk, really see how he’s doing, but I have to fight the compulsion. This is not the place nor the time.

We are both trained profilers and can read each other like two well worn, thumbed books.

Sometimes we read each other too well.

His grin is thin and before I can say anything, he lets me know to shut up by tilting his head slightly to the left and throwing up three fingers in answer to the hostess’s question. In a bustle of efficiency, she escorts us through the packed pub and sets menus on a small table near the center of the dining area.