"Yes, but..." James set down the photo he'd been holding, his hand shaking now. "I missed it then. Caroline—my witness—she tried to warn me about the gallery's new investor. She worried about how he talked about transformative art and purification through fire. I dismissed it as anxiety about the threats, but..."
The photo slipped from his grasp. I caught him as his professional composure cracked, feeling the full force of the shaking he'd been suppressing. His forehead pressed against my shoulder as years of carried guilt finally broke free.
"She trusted me," he managed, voice breaking. His fingers curled into my shirt, academic composure finally shattering. "I should have seen it. All the signs were there. Caroline tried to tell me, but I was too focused on the details to see the overall picture and hear what she was saying. Too caught up in the science to see the art until..." His breath caught in his throat. "Until he turned the gallery into his masterpiece. With her inside."
James's entire body quaked, years of carried guilt pouring out against my chest. I curved one hand around the nape of his neck, thumb brushing the soft hair there, while my other arm held him steady.
"Listen to me," I murmured against his temple. "You're seeing it now. Everything you learned then—the patterns, the artistic elements, and the way he thinks—it's helping us understand this case. Helping us get ahead of him." I felt him draw an unsteady breath. "You're turning that pain into protection. That matters, James."
He pulled back enough to look into my eyes, and the raw honesty there stripped away all his careful academic distance. Tears ran down his cheeks, but his gaze held mine with fierce intensity. "I can't miss the signs again. Not with you. I won't survive watching him turn someone else I—" He stopped himself, but I heard the weight of the unspoken words.
My thumb brushed moisture from his cheek before I could think better of it. "I'm right here. Not going anywhere."
His hand pressed against my chest, as if needing to verify my solid presence. "The patterns are escalating," he whispered.
I covered his hand with mine where it rested above my heart, letting him feel its steady beat. Letting him anchor himself inthe present moment rather than past regrets. His breathing gradually steadied.
"Show me what else you found in the Harrison files," With those words, I gave him the space to rebuild his professional armor while keeping my hand at the small of his back.
"The patterns are escalating. Each fire is more elaborate and more personal. And these timing chips from the gym scene..." He turned back to the photos. "They tell a story I couldn't see before."
His finger traced the concentric circles in the image. "Each ring represents a different race season. Personal records, qualifying times, training milestones. Like we suspected when Sarah shared the details, he's been following your progress for years, long before the first warehouse fire."
James's voice dropped lower. "Look at the precision, the almost ritualistic placement. He's treating these like sacred objects—artifacts of your transformation through training." He reached for another photo. "It's the pattern I missed in the Harrison case—an obsession with change, with capturing moments of becoming..."
"James." I caught his wrist, feeling his pulse race beneath my fingers. "This isn't the same."
"No." Fear threaded through his voice—not for himself, I realized, but for me. "It's more sophisticated. More focused. He's not merely documenting your routines, he's..." He broke off, staring at the gallery photos with new intensity. "Wait. The sight lines..."
He spread the Harrison photos across the table, professional focus overtaking memory's ghosts. I recognized the shift—how he used research like I used training, pushing through pain toward purpose.
The station's night silence wrapped around us, broken only by the soft sound of photos being rearranged. In the distance, adispatcher's voice murmured through the radio, reminding me of how late we were working. The familiar sounds of equipment checks and computer updates created a deceptive aura of normalcy.
"The performance builds in stages." James slowed the cadence of his speech. "Technical demonstration first, proving mastery. Maybe that was Harrison. Then artistic elements emerge, each installation more elaborate—the warehouse fires. Finally..." His hands paused. "Finally, he creates his masterpiece. His transformation of the ordinary into the eternal."
"How long?" My voice sounded distant to my own ears.
"Based on the recent progression..." He swallowed hard. "I'd say three weeks or so."
"Until what?" I asked, though I already knew.
James turned to face me, all pretense of professional distance stripped away. "Until he tries to make you his masterpiece."
"God," I breathed, the pieces clicking together. "The Coeur d'Alene 70.3."
James's hand tightened on my shirt. "What?"
"The race. It's exactly three weeks out." I moved back to the timeline we'd created, pointing to the date. "Look at the escalation pattern. Each fire's been tied to my training—the warehouse near my swim spot, the gym where I do strength work, next might be the coffee shop I pass on my recovery route. He's building to something bigger."
"A triathlon would give him everything he wants." James's analytical focus sharpened despite the lingering rawness in his voice. "Hundreds of spectators, media coverage, multiple transition areas to stage hisart." He swallowed hard. "And you, pushing your body to its limits. The perfect canvas for his masterpiece."
"The run course loops through the sculpture park." My jaw tightened as another connection formed. "Past three different galleries."
"His chosen medium meets your world." James turned to face me fully, fear and determination in his expression. "Marcus, you can't race. The risk—"
"If I pull out, he'll find another venue. Another way to make his statement." I grabbed his shoulders, feeling the tension coiled there. "At least this way, we know where and when. We can be ready."
"Be ready?" A humorless laugh erupted. "He's had years to study you and plan this. The race is his perfect stage—you'll be focused on performance, vulnerable during transitions, and following a predetermined route." James's voice cracked. "It's everything he needs to turn you into his final exhibition."
