"Yes." He carefully slid the letter into an evidence bag, his movements precise.
The professional mask was firmly back in place, but something had shifted between us. Like water finding its level, we'd settled into a new equilibrium. It wasn't quite professional distance or personal connection but something undefined and inevitable, flowing like the currents we'd soon face together in the pool.
The evidence bag crinkled softly as James sealed it. I found myself paying close attention to his tells—the tight line ofhis shoulders, how he adjusted his glasses though they hadn't slipped, and the slight hesitation before looking up from his task.
"I should get this to the lab. The paper analysis might help us narrow down suppliers." He stood, messenger bag clutched across his chest, then paused. "About tomorrow..."
"We don't have to." I kept my voice gentle. "If you've changed your mind—"
"No." The word came quickly, surprising us both. He took a breath, shoulders squaring. "No, I want to try. The physics makes sense, after all. And...and I trust your understanding of water. You read currents and analyze patterns similar to how I analyze evidence."
Something warm unfurled in my chest at his words. He trusted me implicitly. "Five AM. I'll meet you at the pool entrance. Bring coffee if you want, but no drinking it until after we finish."
The smallest smile tugged at his mouth. "Are you always this dictatorial with your students, Mr. McCabe?"
"Only the ones who've read doctoral dissertations on swimming biomechanics without ever getting wet." The teasing came naturally, and it was necessary after the weight of our earlier conversations.
His smile widened slightly, softening his academic edges. "I'll have you know that my dissertation earned the highest honors."
"Then I expect perfect form." I held his gaze, letting him see both the humor and the promise of patience beneath it. "Five AM."
"Five AM," he echoed, then turned toward where Michael was investigating burn patterns. He paused after two steps. "Marcus?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you. For understanding about..." He gestured vaguely, encompassing both the water and perhaps something more significant, less definable.
I watched him walk away, noting how his usual precise stride faltered slightly, crossing the wet patches left by the fire hoses. Even his uncertainty had its charm—how he maintained his dignity while carefully navigating the puddles like a cat pretending it meant to do precisely what it just did. He slung his messenger bag across his chest in a way that emphasized his slim build, academic and athletic all at once.
Tomorrow, I would teach him that water could be more than a source of fear. Understanding the physics was only the beginning of mastery. Some barriers could only be crossed by trusting someone else to guide you through the deep end.
For now, I had a case to work. A stalker to catch. A family to protect.
Somewhere in Seattle, someone was watching. Planning. Turning my daily routines into twisted art.
Still, for the first time since the case began, I found myself looking forward to tomorrow's pre-dawn hours for reasons that had nothing to do with training. Nothing to do with the case.
And everything to do with a professor who understood fluid dynamics in theory but had never learned to float.
Chapter four
James
The University of Washington's Intramural Activities Building loomed against the pre-dawn sky, its brick façade softened by wisps of late May fog. The swimming pool entrance sat offset from the main doors, marked by a simple bronze plaque and the sharp scent of chlorine that permeated even the outdoor air.
My coffee—third cup since waking at 3 AM—sat cooling and untouched on the concrete ledge beside me as I contemplated the entry card reader's steady red light. My fingers twitched slightly, an aftereffect of too much caffeine.
Thirteen minutes early. Enough time to assess every possible way this could go wrong and to calculate the exact volume of water waiting behind those doors. I could also revisit with stark clarity why I'd spent twenty years avoiding pools.
The scientific part of my brain helpfully noted that my elevated heart rate and tight chest muscles were textbook anxiety responses. The rest of me was too busy wondering what madness had made me agree to swimming lessons.
Familiar footsteps approached—the particular rhythm I'd come to recognize during our casework together. Marcus moved like someone who understood momentum and body mechanics on an instinctive level, each step placed with the precision that came from countless hours of training. Even without turning, I pictured the economy of his movement and how he never wasted energy on unnecessary motion.
"You could have waited inside." His voice was warm and friendly, absent the ever-present tension at fire scenes. "Though I appreciate the punctuality."
I turned, and my professional response died when I took in his fitted swim shorts and UW Athletics T-shirt. My brain helpfully supplied the precise musculature terms for everything the fabric revealed while my mouth went dry.
I was suddenly acutely aware of my attire—the modest black swim shorts I'd purchased yesterday from the campus store and the faded UW Research Department T-shirt I'd chosen because I could pretend it was armor.
