Page 11 of Flint’s Strike

“Match, cigarette, det cord, spark from a cell phone… But yeah. That’s the gist of it. The lab will confirm.” My left knee pops again when I twist to capture the burn patterns from another angle. I ignore the brief flash of pain.

“How long does it take? From pour to ignition? How long would the unsub have been in the building?”

“Depends on the accelerant and the ignition method. Could have been seconds. Could have been minutes. Hell, even an hour.”

She’s processing that, and I’m trying not to notice the way her jaw tightens when she's thinking. Or that this close, the scent of her shampoo tempers the harshness of the air around us.

“You always this thorough?” she asks.

“Yup. Been an investigator for five years now. Before that, I was a firefighter.” I straighten, camera still in hand. “You learn pretty fast that the details matter.”

She holds my gaze for a brief moment. “Good to know.”

Something shifts in the air between us. An acknowledgement that we’re both here to do the same job, just from different angles.

“I should let you finish your walk-through,” she says.

“Okay.” We stare at one another for too long before she turns and strides over to her partner, who’s photographing the north wall.

Except I can still feel where she was standing. Like the space she occupied has a different temperature than the rest of the room.

Well, shit.

I force myself to look back at the charring pattern, the way the wood grain’s exposed where the heat was most intense. This is what I’m here for. Not the blond-haired, blue-eyed Ranger with something broken underneath all that control.

I take three more photos, adjust the angle, take another two. Professional. Methodical. Then move to the next origin point, crouch down, and lift the camera again. There’s accelerant residue to collect, burn patterns to document, a timeline to reconstruct. A man died here. And I’m going to make sure whoever’s responsible pays for that crime.

I’m halfway through photographing the third origin point when I catch myself glancing back at Captain Elmore.

Focus, Flint. And get to work.

Unsub

I know how this looks. The irony of it all.

I tried to find another way. I spent years trying. This…isn’t me. Not the person I want to be. Or thought I was. But by the time I set the first fire, I was out of options. Had been for a very long time.

The building was supposed to be empty. I checked and double-checked. I don’t know how I missed him—the security guard. I knew his schedule. He should’ve been long gone.

I don’t expect anyone to forgive me. Especially not Jerry’s family. But you have to know I thought I’d accounted for everything. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I need that to be clear. I wanted the exact opposite.

Chapter Three

Parker

The door to AJ’s office is open when we get back. Makes me wonder if he’s not buried, or just pretending he’s not buried. His new position gets him home on time most nights, but it comes with a hell of a lot more public relations bullshit than he expected when he accepted the promotion.

Stepping in front of the cameras, talking to City Hall… He even coordinates with the Austin Police Department—though that relationship is held together with duct tape and mutual resentment after they botched the initial investigation into Grace’s kidnapping. They really sunk their battleship when they tried to take over the case again after she was found in Mexico with no memory of her life or AJ.

He’s good at PR, too. Really good. Getting Grace back, suggesting Grace let Emi interview her on Channel 5 only three weeks later, and shutting down the Cordova Cartel gave him more than goodwill with the press. It turned him into a fuckin’ legend.

Our jobs got a hell of a lot easier after that. His…not so much. But he’d never say that out loud.

Nate and I head for our separate offices—a perk that came with the promotion. I drop my bag next to my desk, and a small puff of soot escapes when it lands. Shit. Nate’s upholstery might never forgive me for today. At least my boots are mostly clean. Well, no dirtier than they were this morning.

I scrub my hands over my thighs and curse at the black smear left across the denim. Snagging a tissue from the box on my desk, I try to clean it off, but only make it worse. Nate’ll definitely notice that. I pat my pockets like they might hold a miraculous solution, but all I find is more soot and regret.

I stare at my reflection in the darkened computer screen, and regret turns into alarm. There’s a faint smudge on my cheek, another across my forearm, and my nails look like I lost a fight with a fountain pen.