"There's something else." A final page waited beneath the training log, written in red ink.
"Today's lesson was necessary. Feeling your panic, watching you fight for air—it helped me understand. Your strength isn't in resisting pain, but in how beautifully you move through it. Soon you'll see how fire can purify, how it strips away everything but the essential truth of flesh and will.
You're almost perfect."
My heart hammered so hard I thought it might crack a rib.I exhaled sharply, but the air caught—a phantom tightness in my throat, choking.My fingers clenched before I could stop them, crumpling the edge of the envelopewith a grip too tight and too unsteady.
"Marcus."Sarah's voice sounded distant, as if it were coming through water.Something firm pressed against my lower back—Captain Walsh's hand, grounding me.
The paper crackled in Sarah's gloved hands as she slid it into an evidence bag. Walsh and Barrett watched me, their concern a tangible weight against my skin. The medical smell from the envelope had permeated my truck's interior, turning the familiar space into something foreign and clinical.
"You're staying with one of us tonight." Walsh's tone left no room for argument. "No discussion."
I already knew I wouldn't sleep, regardless of where I lay my head. I'd spend the night listening to the silence, noting every creak and shuffle, knowing that somewhere in my city, someone was watching. Planning. Waiting.
The sun slipped behind Seattle's skyline, painting the clouds in colors that reminded me too much of flame. My phone buzzedagain—probably Michael checking why I hadn't responded about dinner. Or James, wanting to analyze the new evidence.
James, who would see patterns in this that I couldn't. Who would understand the psychological implications of someone turning my training journal into a roadmap for my destruction.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and the call was already gone. My thumb hovered over James's name.He'd see what I missed. He'd know what this shift in language meant—what the arsonist was trying to tell me.
But what else would he hear?
Would he hear the way my breath had gone too shallow after reading the last line? Would he pick apart my silence the way he dissected burn patterns and accelerant residue?
Would he hear how much I wanted him to say my name?
My thumb brushed the screen, a fraction of pressure away from dialing—then I shut it off.I stuffed the phone deep in my pocket as if that could silence the impulse.
I couldn't call him.Not tonight.
I forced myself to take a slow and deliberate breath.This wasn't about him.This was about self-control.And I needed to hold onto what was left of mine.
Michael emerged from the gathering shadows of the apparatus bay. "He's staying with me." The set of his jaw said it wasn't up for discussion. "Barrett can process your truck with the evidence team."
I started to protest, but Captain Walsh cut me off. "For once in your life, Marcus, don't argue. Someone breached our station. Our equipment. This isn't about your independence anymore."
The ride to Michael's crossed every training route I'd mapped over the years. Streets I'd memorized through footfalls and tire rotations were suddenly foreign from the passenger seat of his SWAT vehicle. For each intersection, how many times had theywatched me pass? How often had they counted my cadence and measured my pace?
Michael didn't attempt conversation. His attention shifted systematically between mirrors, his hands maintaining a textbook position on the wheel.
We caught every red light on Aurora. Each stop gave me too much time to study the faces in neighboring cars and wonder if someone was noting my presence here instead of on my usual evening route. The medical smell from the envelope had followed me, mixing with the vehicle's standard-issue interior to create something that reminded me of emergency rooms and evidence storage.
"Matt's already at my place," Michael said finally, taking the turn onto his street with precise calculation. "He's got his med kit. Wants to check your O2 levels."
"I don't need—"
"Humor him." Michael's grip tightened on the wheel. "We all cope differently, remember? You swim laps. I clean my weapons. Matt checks vitals."
His words spoke of years of watching each other process trauma through practiced rituals. I was silent, watching shadows stretch across familiar pavement and wondering which ones held observers taking notes on my deviation from routine.
Chapter eight
James
Steel and concrete made the stairwell in Marcus's building ring with harsh acoustics—functional, unadorned, like the man himself. My footsteps marked thirty-seven stairs to his third-floor unit, each one an opportunity to remind myself this was about the case. About evidence. Nothing more.
We'd agreed to meet to discuss the latest data, and I'd rehearsed what I'd say about Sarah's analysis. I practiced keeping my voice steady when talking about the geographical patterns emerging from our data. I'd perfectly organized everything in my messenger bag—lab reports, satellite maps, behavioral profiles.
