The refinery fire had killed Dad five years ago. Now, I was staring at its ghost—flames captured in black and white forensic reports scattered across the table.
I traced the burn patterns with my finger, searching for something, anything, that tied them to our current arsonist. I'd been staring at them for hours, searching for connections while the station's night shift moved through their routines beyond a closed door.
The report provided details about the accelerants—ignition points, containment speed. Cold facts. But the fire itself was something else—calculated and meticulous. It was the work of a twisted artist. Dad would have understood.
I reached for my coffee and hesitated.
The lid was off.
I frowned. I always snapped it on tight—habit. But now, the plastic top sat slightly askew, like someone had touched it and placed it back close enough to make me second-guess myself.
I glanced toward the station door. It was locked. The night shift was still working, voices carrying down the hall. Nothing was unusual.
And yet.
Icy fingers gripped my spine. It wasn’t the coffee. It was the sensation I’d endured for weeks now—that slow, creeping certainty that someone had been in my space.
Someone was there watching my life unfold, studying my training—how I moved, breathed, and recovered. That someone knew me better than they should.
The coffee smelled normal. Probably nothing.
Still, I didn’t drink it.
"You’re still here."
James’s voice cut through my thoughts, grounding me. I looked up—he stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, files in hand, tension in his squared shoulders.
The Harrison Gallery files he carried looked heavy enough to explain the tension. Even at such a late hour—11:30 PM—he still wore an academic suit, although the shirt was slightly rumpled.
"Thought you'd be home by now." I sat up too fast, and the room tilted for half a second. I exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the table before James could notice. "It's almost midnight."
His gaze flicked to my coffee mug, then back to me. "When's the last time you slept?"
"I'm fine." I kneaded at the back of my neck, trying to work out a knot that had been there for hours. "Did you find something?"
James didn’t look convinced, but he let it go—for the moment.
"These finally came out of storage." He dropped the stack of files on the table near me. "I've been seeing parallels in my dreams. I needed to know whether they were real."
Something in his voice—not quite steady—pulled me to my feet. "You didn't have to tackle this alone. Not tonight."
"Actually, I did." He crossed to the table, each step carefully measured. "The similarities... I had to be sure before I brought them to you."
I grabbed his shoulder as he picked up a folder and began to remove its contents. My fingers dug into the coiled tightness. "You're tense."
"I'm fine." That didn't stop him from leaning into my touch. "Let me show you what I found."
The Harrison case photos fanned across our table like autopsy shots, each one documenting another stage of calculated carnage. James arranged them with the precise attention to detail I'd come to expect. Once he had them laid out, he fidgeted with one of the manila folders.
The crime scene markers in the photos were the usual garish yellow, somehow obscene against the charred remains of what had once been a gallery. What had once been people.
James's index finger hovered above a photo showing elaborate burn patterns. "Look at how they spread the fuel. Nearly a carbon copy of the warehouse fires."
His hands drew my attention. He tapped his right index finger against his thumb before identifying each new detail. A trace of espresso lingered in the air between us.
James reached for another photo, his wool suit jacket catching against my cotton department t-shirt. Neither of us moved to break the contact. "It wasn't random destruction."
"No, they wanted to impress with their skills." The parallels made my jaw tighten. "It was someone showing off their technique."
