4. James
Chapter four
James
T he University of Washington's Intramural Activities Building loomed against the pre-dawn sky, its brick facade softened by wisps of late May fog. The swimming pool entrance sat offset from the main doors, marked by a simple bronze plaque and the sharp scent of chlorine that permeated even the outdoor air.
My coffee—third cup since waking at 3 AM—sat cooling and untouched on the concrete ledge beside me as I contemplated the entry card reader's steady red light. My fingers twitched slightly, an aftereffect of too much caffeine.
Thirteen minutes early. Enough time to assess every possible way this could go wrong and to calculate the exact volume of water waiting behind those doors. I could also revisit with stark clarity why I'd spent twenty years avoiding pools.
The scientific part of my brain helpfully noted that my elevated heart rate and tight chest muscles were textbook anxiety responses. The rest of me was too busy wondering what madness had made me agree to swimming lessons.
Familiar footsteps approached—the particular rhythm I'd come to recognize during our casework together. Marcus moved like someone who understood momentum and body mechanics on an instinctive level, each step placed with the precision that came from countless hours of training. Even without turning, I pictured the economy of his movement and how he never wasted energy on unnecessary motion.
"You could have waited inside." His voice was warm and friendly, absent the ever-present tension at fire scenes. "Though I appreciate the punctuality."
I turned, and my professional response died when I took in his fitted swim shorts and UW Athletics T-shirt. My brain helpfully supplied the precise musculature terms for everything the fabric revealed while my mouth went dry.
I was suddenly acutely aware of my attire—the modest black swim shorts I'd purchased yesterday from the campus store and the faded UW Research Department T-shirt I'd chosen because I could pretend it was armor.
The store's plastic tag still dangled from the shorts' pocket. I'd been too anxious about the morning to remember to remove it.
"I brought coffee," I managed, gesturing toward my abandoned cup. "Though you said that's against the rules."
"Good memory." He set his cup beside mine, keys jingling as he unlocked the pool door. "No more caffeine until after the lesson. Wouldn't want to interfere with your perfect biomechanical understanding of pool water."
The teasing in his voice drew an unexpected smile. "Are you mocking my dissertation, Lieutenant?"
"Never." His eyes crinkled at the corners as he held the door. "Though I am curious how someone writes seventy-thousand words about swimming without getting wet."
The pool area echoed with our footsteps, bouncing off high ceilings and empty bleachers. Early morning shadows gathered in the corners, making the water appear deeper and more ominous. The familiar scent of chlorine triggered tension in my shoulders.
Marcus noticed. He spoke softly. "We're starting at the shallow end, and we're not doing anything you're not ready for."
I forced my fingers to unclench from my towel. "I assume you have a methodical approach planned?"
"Of course." He gestured toward the pool edge. "The first step is sitting here, close to but not touching the surface. We get comfortable with the water's presence. No pressure, no expectations."
The ceramic tiles were cool and slightly rough beneath my palms as we sat by the pool. I focused intently on removing the price tag from my swim shorts, grateful for the mundane task, until movement beside me drew my attention.
Marcus removed his UW Athletics shirt with the efficiency of someone who'd done it thousands of times, each motion optimized through repetition. My research brain immediately began reciting the visible muscle groups inside my head—deltoids developed by countless freestyle strokes, latissimus dorsi shaped by years of butterfly kicks, and the specific adaptations of a body trained for both explosive firefighting power and endurance swimming.
A light dusting of dark hair tracked down his chest, and a scatter plot of small burn scars marked his left side. The scientist in me wanted to map each marking and understand the forces that had shaped this particular specimen of human anatomy. The rest of me needed to look away before he noticed my clinical observation had become something else entirely.
I forced my jaw to relax.
Hesitating with my hands at the hem of my shirt, I twisted my fingers in the worn cotton. Marcus had turned to set our towels on a nearby bench, offering me a moment of privacy that somehow made undressing feel more intimate instead of less.
"The water's perfect," he said, still not looking at me. "They keep it at exactly 81 degrees for morning training sessions."
The casual fact offered something for my brain to latch onto. I recited the thermal conductivity coefficients of water under my breath as I finally pulled my shirt off, exposing myself in a way that had nothing to do with bare skin. Despite regular running, I remained researcher-slim, all angles where Marcus was sculpted, curved muscle.
When I glanced up, I found him watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. His eyes lingered for a moment on my shoulder, where an old rock-climbing scar interrupted my body's otherwise unremarkable terrain.
"Ready?" he asked softly, turning to face the water. His hand settled warm against my lower back, steadying me as we sat side by side at the pool's edge and finally dangled our feet in the water.
"Define ready," I managed, intensely aware of every point of contact between us—his palm against my skin and our shoulders barely brushing. Our legs aligned, perfectly parallel, with our feet disappearing beneath the pool's surface.
"Ready means trusting me to keep you safe." His thumb moved in a small arc against my spine. "Tell me about wave propagation patterns since that's your comfort zone."
The gentle understanding in his voice made it easier to breathe. I focused on the water lapping against the pool wall, trying to ignore how his hand hadn't moved.
"Wave propagation patterns result from the interplay between surface tension and gravitational forces," I began, latching onto the familiar terminology. I raised my right foot, and my toes skimmed the water's surface, creating tiny ripples that spread in precise mathematical arcs.
"Each disturbance creates a wave train, with amplitude decreasing as energy dissipates according to the square of the distance traveled. The fascinating part is how multiple wave sources interact, creating constructive and destructive interference patterns that—"
My voice caught as Marcus slid into the water beside me, the motion so fluid he barely disturbed the surface. The wave patterns from his entry spread and collided with the ripples from my feet, creating the interference patterns I'd been describing.
He turned to face me, water streaming from his shoulders. Observing how the droplets clung to his muscular chest made me completely forget the rest of my wave theory lecture.
"The thing about fluid dynamics," he said softly, moving to stand between my knees, "is that eventually you have to trust the water to hold you."
"I trust physics," I managed. "Water is merely hydrogen and oxygen in a particular molecular arrangement that—"
"James." His hands remained steady, waiting. "Trust me instead."
Looking back, I couldn't say what made me reach for him—the patience in his voice, the early morning quiet, or maybe how he made science sound like poetry. Something shifted in my carefully ordered world when his fingers closed around mine—warm despite the pool's chill.
The water embraced my legs as Marcus guided me into the shallow end, each ripple sending tiny shockwaves through my nervous system. My mind frantically calculated the pool's volume in gallons, liters, cubic meters—anything to avoid focusing on my memories of dark quarry water.
"Stay with me," Marcus murmured, his hands steady at my waist. "What's the Reynolds number for laminar flow?"
The familiar equation anchored me. "Less than 2300 for internal flows, though the transition point varies depending on—" My breath hitched as water brushed my chest.
"Keep going." His voice remained gentle but firm. "The equation, James."
"R equals density times velocity times hydraulic diameter divided by dynamic viscosity." The words tumbled out as Marcus's hands shifted, one supporting my shoulders while the other curved beneath my knees.
"Good. Now, we're going to try floating. Like in your dissertation—neutral buoyancy occurs when—"
"The upward buoyant force equals the downward gravitational force." My fingers dug into his bicep as he began lowering me backward. The muscle flexed beneath my grip, solid and reassuring. "Though individual body density variations affect—"
"Breathe." His palm was warm against my spine, fingers splayed to distribute support. A water droplet clung to his eyelashes as he leaned over me. "Let your head rest in my hand. The water wants to hold you up—you only have to let it."
The pool surface rose around my ears, creating a muffled cocoon of gentle splashing and distant echoes. Marcus's face hovered above mine, features soft with concentration.
A rivulet traced the line of his throat, following the curve of his collarbone before disappearing into his chest hair. My analytical mind desperately held onto the details rather than focus on Marcus's body and how it affected mine.
"You're thinking too hard." His thumb brushed my shoulder blade in small circles. "Stop calculating density coefficients and feel the water supporting you."
"How did you know I was—"
"You get this little furrow right here." His free hand touched briefly between my brows, leaving a cool drop of water that tracked toward my temple. "Same one you get analyzing evidence. Try keeping your eyes open—look at me instead of the ceiling."
The overhead lights created a halo effect around his head, beads of water in his hair catching the fluorescent glare like tiny prisms. His hands held me with precisely calculated pressure—enough support to make me feel secure without actually keeping me afloat. The water lapped at my sides in a gentle rhythm, and I realized my body was starting to find its natural balance point, as my research had always claimed it would.
Through the liquid distortion, I watched another droplet gather at the edge of Marcus's jaw. It hung suspended for a moment before falling to join the pool's greater mass, and something about the trajectory triggered a connection in my research-oriented brain.
"The warehouse fires," I blurted, nearly destroying my tentative float. "They form a pattern around—"
"Steady." Marcus's hands tightened fractionally, keeping me afloat. "Share your breakthrough after we get you comfortable in the water."
"But the geographic distribution matches—" Water lapped at my ears, muffling my voice.
"Trust me, the evidence will wait five minutes." Amusement colored his tone. "Focus on how your body wants to float naturally as your beloved physics equations predict."
He was right, of course. Beneath my panic, I sensed the water's inherent buoyancy. Marcus's hands provided minimal support now, only gentle guidance as I found my balance.
"See?" His voice had dropped lower, intimate in the echoing space. "Your body knows what to do."
I managed a shaky nod, transfixed by how the overhead lights brought out golden highlights in his green eyes. Another rivulet rolled down his neck, and this time, I couldn't pretend my increased heart rate was entirely due to water anxiety.
"The fires create a five-point pattern," I explained ten minutes later, reluctantly vertical again but still chest-deep in the pool. Marcus's hand rested lightly on my shoulder, ostensibly spotting me but somehow acting more like an anchor. "Each location corresponds to a major intersection point in your training routes."
"Show me." He guided us toward the pool wall where I'd propped my tablet in its waterproof case. My fingers left wet marks on the screen as I pulled up the map.
"The warehouse here." I traced the location. "It's where your cycling route crosses the Burke-Gilman trail. The gym was your strength training base. This art supply store that burned before the warehouses—you run past it every Tuesday and Thursday."
Sprinkles fell from my hair onto the screen. Marcus leaned closer, his chest brushing my shoulder as he studied the pattern. "And these two? They haven't burnt, right?"
"Right. It's the coffee shop on your recovery run route and the abandoned factory where you typically end your long rides." I fought to keep my voice steady. "They're creating a pentagram effect with your station at the center."
Marcus's breath raised goosebumps on the back of my neck. "You figured this out while floating?"
"Sometimes a change in perspective helps pattern recognition." I gestured toward the map. "They're turning this into a grand performance piece. The timing chips melted at the gym scene weren't random debris."
"They were props." Marcus's voice roughened. "Part of the installation."
"Exactly. They're-" My phone's sharp ring shattered the moment. Sarah's name flashed on the screen.
Marcus's hand slipped from my shoulder as I answered, but he stayed close as I listened to Sarah's report.
"They found more timing chips at the gym scene," I said, my voice flatter than intended. I watched Marcus stiffen, his hands tightening around the towel draped over his neck. "Deliberately arranged in concentric circles. Not only from your recent races, but Sarah says some date back four years."
Marcus froze. No quick exhale and no clenched jaw—just a sharp, unnatural stillness.
"Four years." His voice was quiet, but something in it made the hairs on my arms rise. His fingers drifted absently to his ankle, where triathletes typically wore the small transponders. "Every race I've ever finished. Every milestone."
A flicker of movement—a muscle twitch in his jaw, barely perceptible. "They weren't studying me," he said slowly. "They were collecting me."
The words sat heavy between us, thick as chlorine vapor in the warm air.
I pulled up the crime scene photos on my tablet, zooming in on the burned chips—small, round, and melted just enough that they almost looked organic. Like bone fragments. Like something human that had been caught in the fire.
"They took the moments that mattered most to you," I said, studying the arrangement. "Turned them into an exhibit. You're the subject of a performance piece."
His breath came a fraction too sharp, but he recovered fast, wiping his face with a towel like he could scrub the unease away. "What about the pattern?" he asked, forcing his voice level. "They're arranged in circles?"
"Concentric rings, like ripples spreading out," I confirmed. "Like water disturbance patterns."
A dry, bitter laugh escaped him. "Of course. Of course, they'd take the thing I use to ground myself and turn it into a goddamn artistic statement." His grip on the towel tightened. "They're showing me they understand. They know what makes me push forward."
"And they're rewriting it in fire," I murmured.
A silence stretched between us—heavy, electric. Then Marcus exhaled slowly and deliberately like he was pacing his breathing through a tough swim lap.
Water rippled around his shoulders as he shifted. I focused on the raw honesty in his voice. "What drives you to do it? The training, the races?"
He was quiet for a moment, absently creating small currents with his hands. "After Dad died, I needed something I could control. Something where the outcome depended entirely on my own discipline and choices. I couldn't stay focused on college, so I left and followed in his footsteps, but that wasn't enough. In firefighting, sometimes you do everything right, but things still go wrong. In training..."
He met my eyes. "The water doesn't lie. The road doesn't care who your father was or what legacy you're trying to live up to. It's just you and your own limits, choosing to push past them one stroke and one mile at a time."
"And now they're taking those moments," I said, understanding dawning. "Each melted chip isn't litter or debris. They're collecting pieces of your journey and turning them into..."
"Props in their performance piece." Marcus's voice turned raw. "They're not only studying my routines; they're obsessed with what the training represents. It's my discipline and transformation." He dragged a hand through his wet hair. "They want to understand what drives me and makes me push through pain toward the finish lines. And they're turning that drive into a twisted art form."
The implications sent a chill through me despite the warm pool water. Marcus must have noticed because he touched my shoulder and gripped it gently.
"We should get the team together," he said quietly. "Review everything with this new perspective."
As we climbed out of the pool, I was vulnerable again, water streaming off us, no longer holding us in its protective embrace. Marcus reached for my towel, handing it to me with a gentleness that made me sigh noticeably. We dried off in loaded silence, the weight of the case settling back around us like a heavy coat.
"I'll text Michael and Matt." Marcus pulled his shirt over his still-damp shoulders. "See if Miles can clear his morning schedule."
I nodded, struggling with my own shirt. When I looked up, Marcus was watching me with an expression that made my breath catch—concern and something darker, more protective.
"James." He stepped closer, voice low. "Thank you. For doing this today. For seeing the patterns we all missed."
Before I could form a properly professional response, he pulled me into a brief, fierce hug. For once, my brain didn't supply muscular terminology or force calculations—it simply stopped, overwhelmed by Marcus's solid reality. His hand curved around the back of my neck with the same steadying pressure that had kept me safe in the water.
The morning air had already cooled his skin, but warmth radiated from the points where we connected. My arms came up automatically and wrapped around his neck. When he pulled back, his eyes had the same focused intensity he'd shown while teaching me to float—like nothing else mattered at that moment except making sure I was steady.
Ten minutes later, I watched him walk to his truck, noting how his measured stride carried a new tension. The morning sun caught the remaining water droplets in his hair.
The drive to the station would take exactly twenty-three minutes in morning traffic. I had that long to rebuild my professional distance and focus on the case rather than the lingering warmth of chlorine-scented skin against mine. Based on current evidence, I calculated my chances of success at approximately zero.