Marcus's hand slipped from my shoulder as I answered, but he stayed close as I listened to Sarah's report.
"They found more timing chips at the gym scene," I said, my voice flatter than intended. I watched Marcus stiffen, his hands tightening around the towel draped over his neck. "Deliberately arranged in concentric circles. Not only from your recent races, but Sarah says some date back four years."
Marcus froze. No quick exhale and no clenched jaw—just a sharp, unnatural stillness.
"Four years." His voice was quiet, but something in it made the hairs on my arms rise. His fingers drifted absently to his ankle, where triathletes typically wore the small transponders. "Every race I've ever finished. Every milestone."
A flicker of movement—a muscle twitch in his jaw, barely perceptible. "They weren't studying me," he said slowly. "They were collecting me."
The words sat heavy between us, thick as chlorine vapor in the warm air.
I pulled up the crime scene photos on my tablet, zooming in on the burned chips—small, round, and melted just enough that they almost looked organic. Like bone fragments. Like something human that had been caught in the fire.
"They took the moments that mattered most to you," I said, studying the arrangement. "Turned them into an exhibit. You're the subject of a performance piece."
His breath came a fraction too sharp, but he recovered fast, wiping his face with a towel like he could scrub the unease away. "What about the pattern?" he asked, forcing his voice level. "They're arranged in circles?"
"Concentric rings, like ripples spreading out," I confirmed. "Like water disturbance patterns."
A dry, bitter laugh escaped him. "Of course. Of course, they'd take the thing I use to ground myself and turn it into a goddamn artistic statement." His grip on the towel tightened. "They'reshowing me they understand. They know what makes me push forward."
"And they're rewriting it in fire," I murmured.
A silence stretched between us—heavy, electric. Then Marcus exhaled slowly and deliberately like he was pacing his breathing through a tough swim lap.
Water rippled around his shoulders as he shifted. I focused on the raw honesty in his voice. "What drives you to do it? The training, the races?"
He was quiet for a moment, absently creating small currents with his hands. "After Dad died, I needed something I could control. Something where the outcome depended entirely on my own discipline and choices. I couldn't stay focused on college, so I left and followed in his footsteps, but that wasn't enough. In firefighting, sometimes you do everything right, but things still go wrong. In training..."
He met my eyes. "The water doesn't lie. The road doesn't care who your father was or what legacy you're trying to live up to. It's just you and your own limits, choosing to push past them one stroke and one mile at a time."
"And now they're taking those moments," I said, understanding dawning. "Each melted chip isn't litter or debris. They're collecting pieces of your journey and turning them into..."
"Props in their performance piece." Marcus's voice turned raw. "They're not only studying my routines; they're obsessed with what the training represents. It's my discipline and transformation." He dragged a hand through his wet hair. "They want to understand what drives me and makes me push through pain toward the finish lines. And they're turning that drive into a twisted art form."
The implications sent a chill through me despite the warm pool water. Marcus must have noticed because he touched my shoulder and gripped it gently.
"We should get the team together," he said quietly. "Review everything with this new perspective."
As we climbed out of the pool, I was vulnerable again, water streaming off us, no longer holding us in its protective embrace. Marcus reached for my towel, handing it to me with a gentleness that made me sigh noticeably. We dried off in loaded silence, the weight of the case settling back around us like a heavy coat.
"I'll text Michael and Matt." Marcus pulled his shirt over his still-damp shoulders. "See if Miles can clear his morning schedule."
I nodded, struggling with my own shirt. When I looked up, Marcus was watching me with an expression that made my breath catch—concern and something darker, more protective.
"James." He stepped closer, voice low. "Thank you. For doing this today. For seeing the patterns we all missed."
Before I could form a properly professional response, he pulled me into a brief, fierce hug. For once, my brain didn't supply muscular terminology or force calculations—it simply stopped, overwhelmed by Marcus's solid reality. His hand curved around the back of my neck with the same steadying pressure that had kept me safe in the water.
The morning air had already cooled his skin, but warmth radiated from the points where we connected. My arms came up automatically and wrapped around his neck. When he pulled back, his eyes had the same focused intensity he'd shown while teaching me to float—like nothing else mattered at that moment except making sure I was steady.
Ten minutes later, I watched him walk to his truck, noting how his measured stride carried a new tension. The morning sun caught the remaining water droplets in his hair.
The drive to the station would take exactly twenty-three minutes in morning traffic. I had that long to rebuild my professional distance and focus on the case rather than the lingering warmth of chlorine-scented skin against mine. Based on current evidence, I calculated my chances of success at approximately zero.
Chapter five
Marcus
