Page 97 of Flint’s Strike

I consider asking how a creature with eight—or is it nine?—brains manages not to overthink everything. Instead, I let the cold milkshake glass soothe the dull ache in my hands, and tell him a little about the last year of her life.

Visiting her in the memory care home every day after work. Trying—and failing—repeatedly to find small things that made her happy. Photos. Her favorite apron. Salsa made with another one of her award-winning recipes.

“In the end, it was strawberry milkshakes. Every time I brought her one, she’d smile. It didn’t bring her back—she was too far gone to recognize me at all—but she loved those strawberry milkshakes.”

My fries have gone cold, and the milkshake has lost its fight with the heat of my hands. I nudge the basket away and cover it with my napkin so I don’t have to look at the congealed gravy.

Nate moves half the club sandwich onto the plate holding his extra pickles, then nudges the sandwich plate toward me. “I had a big breakfast. If you don’t help me finish this, it’s gonna go to waste.”

“You know,” I say, picking up the sandwich and raising a brow, “keeping the pickles really undermines the generosity.”

He shrugs. “My pickles and I have made peace with your judgment.”

Laughing after what I just shared feels wrong. Or…maybe it feels exactly right.

Eliot

Four boxes of acoustic panels slide across the truck bed as I take a turn a little too quickly.

Fuck.

I knew I should’ve taken the Home Warehouse guy’s suggestion to add on some paracord or bungees to tie them down.

At least he didn’t ask me why I needed professional-grade soundproofing.

The neighbor on the other side of my bedroom wall works construction, and he’s out the door before five most mornings. When I got home yesterday, I found a note taped to my door.

Can you keep the volume down on the bedroom antics?

Umberto’s a nice guy. He helped me get my couch up the single flight of stairs when I moved in, and we shoot the shit for a few minutes when we see one another in the mail room. He deserves to sleep, and I…well…I ain’t gonna stop seeing Parker because she’s enthusiastic in bed. Or tell her to keep it down.

The bullpen is humming when I push through the double-doors. It’s late enough, everyone’s back from lunch. A few folks look up as I head for the conference room with my bag slung over my right shoulder and a drink carrier in my hand, but most of them at least try to look busy.

I stop at the door. Nate’s unwrapping a fresh box of highlighters while Parker frowns at her laptop.

“I’ve checked every single one of Ferris’s inspections for the past six months, and they’re all residential.” Her voice takes on a hint of relief.

“I knew these would come in handy,” Nate says, pulling a sapphire blue pen from the box. “Print out the list. I’ll cross-check with the Austin Fire Department.” He lifts his gaze, gives me a nod, and adds, “Or Flint can. Unless the two of you had plans to investigate one of the station’s other dark hallways. But if you do, warn me first. My eyes—and my wallet—still haven’t recovered.”

Parker turns toward me, her pale blue eyes soft and a brief smile curving her lips. “Hey. Didn’t think I’d—we’d see you today.”

“Tried workin’ from my office, but Kurt’s out, Richie, the new guy, had a doctor’s appointment, and my boss was makin’ noise about assigning me to a house fire out in West Lake Hills. Figured I could do more good here. What’re we cross-checkin’?”

I set the drink carrier in the center of the table. Nate side-eyes the soy milk latte with his name on it like he thinks I’m messing with him.

“I know better than to show up empty handed.” I pass the iced black coffee to Parker, and our fingers brush.

Nate pulls the paper off the top of the straw. “You’re lucky I can be bought.”

He slides a copy of the Aldrich inspection across the table. “We interviewed Todd Ferris this morning. He claims he only handles residential properties. And he said he was in Orlando the day this was filed. Had pictures to prove it and everything. We’re still checking them for signs of AI, but they seem genuine. Your mission—should you choose to accept it—is to verify none of the addresses he visited have gone up in flames recently.”

“I can make a couple of calls. Got a spreadsheet for me?”

Parker laughs so hard, coffee comes out her nose. “That’s like askin’ if water’s wet or if octopuses have nine brains.”

I’m about ninety percent sure I missed something important here. An entire conversation. Or several.

“Later,” Parker mouths.