"Not yet." James set his napkin aside, his hands steady as he folded it with precise corners. "He's shaping him. Breaking him down, piece by piece, to build him into something new. Every fire and photo is part of a transformation process. Our arsonist sees himself as an artist, and Marcus is his masterpiece in progress."
"And you know this how?" Michael's voice turned skeptical.
James's hands remained perfectly still on the table, but something shifted in his eyes. It was a shadow I recognized from late-night conversations and the moments when his professional mask slipped enough to show the scars beneath. "Because I've seen it before."
The table fell silent except for the soft tick of Ma's ancient kitchen clock and the distant whisper of traffic on rain-slick streets. Even Matthew, who could talk through a four-alarm fire, held his breath.
Michael studied James for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, just once. Not acceptance—not yet. It was an acknowledgment of a shared understanding.
Ma broke the moment by sliding another helping of short ribs onto James's plate. "Mangia," she said firmly. "You're too skinny to fight monsters on an empty stomach."
The ghost of a smile touched James's lips, and some of the strain drained from his shoulders. He picked up his fork, but I noticed he kept his free hand where Michael could see it. It was a professional courtesy.
I reached under the table and found James's knee, squeezing once. It was a silent thank you for standing his ground and understanding what my family needed to hear.
Around us, dinner slowly resumed its normal rhythm. Something had shifted—as subtle as a change in wind direction. Michael might not fully trust James yet, but he'd recognized something in him—the same steel core that let him walk into burning buildings and face down monsters wearing human skin.
The real question was whether that would be enough when the flames finally reached our door.
***
Seattle's evening rain painted the streets in liquid neon, traffic lights bleeding red and green across my windshield. The drive home settled into silence, broken only by the rhythmic sweep of wipers and the soft patter of water against glass. Through the side mirror, I watched my childhood home recede until it was a warm glow in the gathering dark, like the last embers of a campfire.
James sat utterly still in the passenger seat, his hands folded precisely in his lap. To anyone else, he might have appearedcomposed and professional. I'd learned to read the subtle language of his unease.
We were halfway down Lake Washington Boulevard before he finally exhaled, a long breath that addressed the weight of the entire evening. "Your family is intense."
"They're alright." I guided the car around a gentle curve. "You survived."
A slight bit of laughter escaped him. "Barely. Michael's still deciding whether or not to use me for target practice."
"If he was gonna, he'd have done it before dessert." I glanced over, seeing how the passing streetlights painted shadows across his face. "Ma's tiramisu is sacred ground. No bloodshed allowed until after coffee."
That earned me a real laugh, soft but genuine. "Your mother is... remarkable."
"That's one word for her." I smiled, remembering the way she'd kept filling James's plate, muttering in Italian about too-skinny professors who didn't eat enough. "Pretty sure she's already planning next Sunday's menu to fatten you up."
"I noticed." His voice softened. "The way she runs that kitchen... it's like watching a conductor with an orchestra."
"More like a general commanding troops." The comparison jogged another memory. "Dad used to say she could have run the entire fire department with a wooden spoon and her marinara recipe."
The mention of my father settled between us. James's hand moved, hesitated, then settled on my thigh. Not demanding, just... present. Anchoring.
Rain drummed steadily against the roof of my truck. We passed the spot where the Burke-Gilman Trail curved away from the lake, where I usually turned on my morning runs. It was the same route our arsonist photographed, tracking my patterns.
James's fingers tightened slightly on my leg as if he could read the direction of my thoughts. Maybe he could. He'd gotten eerily good at that lately.
"You know what Michael was really asking," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.
I nodded, keeping my eyes on the rain-slick road. "He wanted to know if you could handle it. If you were strong enough to face what's coming."
"And what do you think?"
The question hung in the darkness between us. I thought about how he'd met Michael's stare without flinching and spoken the truth without hiding behind academic language. He carried his scars with a grace that made mine feel less lonely.
I spoke carefully. "I think that you're a lot stronger than any of us first assumed. Including me."
James turned to study my profile. Analyzing, always analyzing, but there was something else there, too—something warm and wondering.
