Page 12 of Flint’s Strike

If I can get out of here for the weekend before Nate does, there’s a chance he’ll detail the car himself before he gets a chance to demand I do it for him.. It’s not a good plan, but it’s the only one I’ve got.

That and the secret stash of wet wipes in my bottom drawer.

Ten minutes later, the only evidence I was elbows deep in a charred shell of a building is the black smear on my thigh.

I run my finger over the edge of the El Paso Comfort Food mug on my desk. It chipped ten years ago, so it’s only good for holding pens now, but I still keep it next to my monitor, always in view. It was the last place my mama worked before she got sick. She always had a pack of wet wipes on her.

Nate raps on my door. “AJ’s ready for us. If you wanted coffee, you’re too late now.”

I push back from the desk, tossing the last wet wipe into the trash. “If I want coffee? I swear, sometimes, I don’t think you know me at all.”

My partner produces a Department of Public Safety mug from behind his back and offers it to me. “Your lack of faith is noted.”

“You have snacks too?” I accept the cup, give it a quick sniff, and take a sip anyway. Motor oil is better than fumbling my report to AJ.

“Sorry. Only one expired granola bar per person, per day. Please see the terms and conditions you agreed to upon accepting this partnership,” he deadpans. “Additional snacks require upgrading to Hardison Plus Max Commercial-Free Edition for an extra $29.95 per month.”

“I can’t decide if that’s a bargain or a rip-off.”

When we reach his door, AJ’s behind his desk, a file open in front of him. He spins a pen slowly between his fingers, his eyes unfocused.

“Cap—Chief,” Nate says, because neither of them have fully committed to the promotion yet.

AJ’s mouth twitches, and he huffs a quiet laugh. His gaze tracks over us, checking for damage without making it a whole thing. For a moment, he looks like he should be standing next to us rather than sitting behind that desk. But then he blinks and his whole demeanor changes.

“Took you long enough,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Y’all get lost?”

“Nate drives ten miles an hour under the speed limit at all times. It’s a miracle we made it back before our shifts were over.”

“Defensive driving is a lifestyle choice,” he mutters. “One you’d appreciate if you’d ever tried it.”

“Enough,” AJ grouses, though he’s smiling. “Got an update for me?” He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving a few of the strands sticking up. He looks tired.

“One fatality.” I set my coffee mug on his desk and pull out my notebook. “Jerry Hollis. Fifty-four. He was on site for ninety minutes after his shift. We don’t know why yet.”

“Could he have set the fire?” AJ asks.

My hands start to shake, so I shove them into my pockets to keep them out of sight. All I can see are those grooves in the back of the door. “Doubtful,” I manage. “He was locked inside a utility room on the second floor. If he was responsible, he probably would have had an escape plan.”

Nate gives me the side-eye, but I ignore him.

“You hear from the fire marshal yet?” AJ asks. “Texas Department of Insurance should have sent someone.”

“Eliot Flint. We did a walk-through together,” Nate says.

“He’s good.” AJ nods, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Quiet, but good. Worked with him a time or two. He give you any jurisdictional bullshit?”

"No. He stayed out of our way, we stayed out of his.” I reach for my mug, take a sip of coffee, and immediately regret it.

Nate snorts quietly.

AJ looks at him. “Do I want to know?”

Neither of us say a word.

“All right.” He closes the file. “Keep me posted if this turns into anythin’ other than an exercise in futility.” He spins the pen once more, then sets it down. “And the cookout starts at four tomorrow.”

“The…what?” Nate asks.