While staring out the passenger side window, James spoke again.
"It's not only about you."
I didn't look at him. "What?"
"Your father." James's fingers flexed against his knee, tension working its way up his arm. "He's part of this. Central to it."
A sharp, ice-pick sensation drove between my ribs. I kept my eyes on the road. "He's been dead twelve years."
"Doesn't matter." James shifted, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at his burn. "To Raines, he's still alive in you. Still teaching. Still transforming."
I forced my grip to loosen on the wheel. "What the hell are you talking about?"
James hesitated long enough that I felt the weight of what was coming before he even said it.
"I found Raines's academy records." His voice dropped lower. "He was there during your father's last year as an instructor.The psychological evaluations and the incident reports paint a picture I should have seen sooner."
A cold stone settled in the pit of my stomach.
"A picture of what?"
"Obsession." James's jaw tightened. "Not only with fire behavior but with how your father understood it. Raines wrote about watching him during night drills, about how Graham moved through flames like—" He stopped momentarily and carefully chose his next words. "Like he belonged there."
I let out a harsh breath, gripping the wheel like it was the only solid thing in the world. "That's bullshit."
"Marcus—"
"My father was a firefighter. Not some kind of mystic."
"In Raines's journals, he describes your father as someone who'd transcended normal human limitations." James's voice wasn't clinical anymore. It was raw as if he were peeling away something fragile and exposing it to the air. "He believed Graham had achieved something profound through his connection to fire. Something beyond mere technical mastery."
"My father didn't achieve anything. He died. The fire won."
"That's not how Raines sees it." James turned slightly in his seat, watching me. "He wrote about transformation through flame. About chosen vessels and worthy inheritors."
My stomach twisted. "Spit it out. What are you saying?"
"Every fire and every message—they're not only about pushing your limits." James's fingers curled around the strap of his messenger bag, knuckles white. "They're about a legacy. About completing what he believes your father started."
I swallowed hard. "You should have told me sooner."
"I was going to." A hint of frustration entered his tone. "Before someone decided to set my bedroom on fire."
I gritted my teeth, eyes locked on the road, trying to steady the burn in my chest. "This ends now."
"Does it?" James's voice was low, radiating unearthly calm. "From where I'm sitting, Raines has been planning this since before your father died. Waiting. Watching. Learning which McCabe would prove worthy of the flame."
The city lights flickered over James's face, casting sharp shadows under his eyes. The smoke still clung to him, a constant reminder of how close the fire had come.
I took the next turn too hard and fast; the truck's tires scraped against the curb. My pulse pounded in my ears.
My response wouldn't be measured. It wouldn't be patient.
If Raines wanted me in the fire, then fine. I'd take him with me.
"Everything makes sense now." James's voice was still soft and low. "He's measuring you against your father's memory. Testing whether you're ready to become what he believes Graham almost achieved."
"And what's that?"
