5. Marcus
Chapter five
Marcus
T he refinery fire had killed Dad five years ago. Now, I was staring at its ghost—flames captured in black and white forensic reports scattered across the table.
I traced the burn patterns with my finger, searching for something, anything, that tied them to our current arsonist. I'd been staring at them for hours, searching for connections while the station's night shift moved through their routines beyond a closed door.
The report provided details about the accelerants—ignition points, containment speed. Cold facts. But the fire itself was something else—calculated and meticulous. It was the work of a twisted artist. Dad would have understood.
I reached for my coffee and hesitated.
The lid was off.
I frowned. I always snapped it on tight—habit. But now, the plastic top sat slightly askew, like someone had touched it and placed it back close enough to make me second-guess myself.
I glanced toward the station door. It was locked. The night shift was still working, voices carrying down the hall. Nothing was unusual.
And yet.
Icy fingers gripped my spine. It wasn’t the coffee. It was the sensation I’d endured for weeks now—that slow, creeping certainty that someone had been in my space.
Someone was there watching my life unfold, studying my training—how I moved, breathed, and recovered. That someone knew me better than they should.
The coffee smelled normal. Probably nothing.
Still, I didn’t drink it.
"You’re still here."
James’s voice cut through my thoughts, grounding me. I looked up—he stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, files in hand, tension in his squared shoulders.
The Harrison Gallery files he carried looked heavy enough to explain the tension. Even at such a late hour—11:30 PM—he still wore an academic suit, although the shirt was slightly rumpled.
"Thought you'd be home by now." I sat up too fast, and the room tilted for half a second. I exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the table before James could notice. "It's almost midnight."
His gaze flicked to my coffee mug, then back to me. "When's the last time you slept?"
"I'm fine." I kneaded at the back of my neck, trying to work out a knot that had been there for hours. "Did you find something?"
James didn’t look convinced, but he let it go—for the moment.
"These finally came out of storage." He dropped the stack of files on the table near me. "I've been seeing parallels in my dreams. I needed to know whether they were real."
Something in his voice—not quite steady—pulled me to my feet. "You didn't have to tackle this alone. Not tonight."
"Actually, I did." He crossed to the table, each step carefully measured. "The similarities... I had to be sure before I brought them to you."
I grabbed his shoulder as he picked up a folder and began to remove its contents. My fingers dug into the coiled tightness. "You're tense."
"I'm fine." That didn't stop him from leaning into my touch. "Let me show you what I found."
The Harrison case photos fanned across our table like autopsy shots, each one documenting another stage of calculated carnage. James arranged them with the precise attention to detail I'd come to expect. Once he had them laid out, he fidgeted with one of the manila folders.
The crime scene markers in the photos were the usual garish yellow, somehow obscene against the charred remains of what had once been a gallery. What had once been people.
James's index finger hovered above a photo showing elaborate burn patterns. "Look at how they spread the fuel. Nearly a carbon copy of the warehouse fires."
His hands drew my attention. He tapped his right index finger against his thumb before identifying each new detail. A trace of espresso lingered in the air between us.
James reached for another photo, his wool suit jacket catching against my cotton department t-shirt. Neither of us moved to break the contact. "It wasn't random destruction."
"No, they wanted to impress with their skills." The parallels made my jaw tighten. "It was someone showing off their technique."
"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 in the 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, a dispatcher'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 his art ." 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."
The raw concern in his voice hit harder than any of the threatening letters. My hand moved to cup his jaw, needing him to understand. "Then we use that. His obsession with perfection makes him predictable. You're already seeing his patterns, James. Help me stay ahead of them."
The words settled into the late-night quiet. Neither of us moved, caught in the weight of the revelation. My hand had found its way to his back again, my fingers pressing against the warmth beneath his sweater.
He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into the touch, slightly, enough that I noticed.
"We've got time," I murmured, my voice softer. "We've got your insight, the whole team—"
"He's been watching you for years." James’s voice was almost a whisper, but the weight of it settled in my chest. "Learning your patterns, your limits. How you push through pain, and how you train…" His fingers rested on my chest, right above my heart. "Everything that drives you, he's turning into his art."
His palm was warm, pressing against the steady rhythm of my pulse. I exhaled, slow and measured, as if trying to will him into that same steadiness. He didn’t move away. Neither did I.
"James," I said, barely more than a breath. "Look at me."
His eyes lifted, dark and searching, stripping away every practiced layer of distance I’d ever seen him wear.
"I can’t watch you become his gallery piece." His voice cracked on the last words, and his fingers curled slightly into the fabric of my shirt. "Can't lose someone else because I missed the signs."
The space between us disappeared by inches. His breath, uneven, skimmed my jaw, and I—I knew—that if I leaned in, if I just—
The radio's sudden burst of static made us both jump. "Engine 17, Battalion 3, respond. Reported structure fire, 1800 block Harrison Street." The dispatcher's voice echoed around the incident room, shattering our moment.
We broke apart as emergency tones sounded through the station. Down the hall, the night crew's boots thundered against concrete. The familiar controlled chaos of a call response pulled me back to duty and discipline.
"Harrison Street." James's voice was tense. "That's where—"
"The coffee shop on my recovery route." The realization hit as I reached for my turnout gear.
"Marcus." His hand caught my arm. "This is part of his performance. He's escalating, pushing for a reaction."
"Then we don't give him one." I squeezed his shoulder, already moving toward the apparatus bay. "Document everything. Look for his signature elements."
"Be careful." The words followed me into the hall. "Please."
The cold night air clawed at my skin as I stepped onto the apparatus floor. I flexed my fingers against the weight of my gear, trying to shake off the sensation of James’s hand still pressed against my chest, his words still scraping against my ribs.
"I can’t lose someone else."
The station doors groaned open, revealing a city wrapped in midnight stillness. Somewhere out there, flames licked at brick and steel, chewing through the night, waiting for me to step into their light.
Three weeks. That’s all we had.
Three weeks until the arsonist finished what he started.
I climbed into the engine, bracing against the rumble as the sirens split the night. My breath was shallow, adrenaline already burning through my veins.
James was still inside, examining crime scene photos, looking for answers buried in soot and bone. He was trying to crack the pattern before it cracked me.
And we both knew the truth.
He’d spent years studying me—watching me sweat, push, and bleed. He'd been there taking notes through every training run and every time I pushed past my limits.
And now he wanted to see me burn.
I gritted my teeth, my grip tightening around my gear straps as the engine lurched forward. The station blurred behind us, swallowed by the dark. Ahead, the fire was waiting.
So was he.
I wasn’t sure which would get to me first.