Burn Patterns (First in Line #1)

6. James

Chapter six

James

T oxic water pooled black in the hollow bones of the first warehouse to burn, carrying dissolved remnants of accelerants, and God knew what else. The evening rain had driven away the day shift investigators, but something about the scene had gnawed at me until I'd asked Marcus to return.

Now, we crouched in the building's skeletal remains. Our flashlight beams cut through sheets of rain that carried the sharp bite of melted wiring and scorched metal.

Rain hammered against the umbrella Marcus held above us, creating a private sphere defined by the steady drum of water against nylon. He'd positioned himself to block the worst of the wind, angling the umbrella's shelter over my hands as I executed my examination.

The gesture was purely practical—protecting evidence from further water damage—but something about the careful way he maintained the shelter made my pulse pound. He held the umbrella firm against anything the weather could dish out.

"The flow changes here." I drew a defined circle in the air above scarred concrete, acutely aware of how Marcus shifted with my movements, keeping me covered.

Water ran down his sleeve where he'd left his shoulder exposed to better shield my work. It was a small sacrifice that impacted me deeply.

He moved again, causing his turnout coat to scrape against broken cement. We'd been clearing debris from one particular corner for an hour, following my hunch about secondary burn patterns. The rain plastered Marcus's shirt to his shoulders, causing the wet fabric to cling to well-trained muscle.

"There's something wedged behind this support beam." His light caught on paper edges, barely visible through the twisted metal. "Must have been hidden by the hot spots earlier."

He discovered journal pages that came apart in fragments—sodden paper stuck to chunks of debris, protected from the initial fire by a collapsed section of wall. I used my gloved hands to piece them together beneath the truck's emergency lights, where the rain couldn't further damage our evidence.

The pages came apart in my hands like wet skin sloughing from bone. The cheap paper had partially melted. I focused on the handwriting that matched our second letter.

"The composition's deteriorating." My voice echoed against the warehouse's exposed steel bones. "No more archival materials or artistic presentation. This is raw—torn from a cheap spiral-bound notebook. The arsonist pressed a ballpoint pen hard enough to emboss the fibers."

Marcus crouched closer, his flashlight beam steadying over a particularly dense section of text. The rain ran in rivulets down his neck and soaked into his collar.

It would leave traces of smoke that even hours of showering might never quite wash away. He still smelled of chlorine beneath the smoke and must have come straight from training to meet me.

"Purification through immersion," he read. "Through flame, through the marriage of opposing elements. The language is a little different."

"More immediate. More—" I broke off as his hand settled at my back, grounding me as my light caught another passage:

"... every morning he cuts through dawn mist like a blade through silk, each stroke perfect, precise, purifying. Twenty-seven strokes per minute, always consistent, like a metronome of flesh and will. "

Bile rose in my throat. "The imagery is... intimate in its detail."

The warehouse's broken walls groaned in the wind, rain driving sideways through shattered windows. We'd moved closer to the fire truck's shelter, evidence bags spread across its hood beneath the strobing emergency lights. Each page revealed more of our arsonist's deteriorating mental state—precise documentation giving way to obsessive rambling.

"The paper's degradation suggests recent hiding, but the entries themselves..." I inhaled, filtering through the overlapping chemical signatures beneath the rain's metallic tang—soot, accelerant, wet cellulose.And something else. Something sharp, almost sterile.

I frowned, adjusting my grip on the evidence. "These chronicle weeks of observation. Pages and pages of documented sessions, each one more detailed than the last. Hidden here deliberately for us to find."

Marcus caught my hesitation. "What is it?"

"There's an antiseptic component.Not bleach. Something finer. A solvent, maybe, or industrial ethanol. It wasn't here before the fire."

The realization settled like a stone in my gut.

"You think they came back?" Marcus's voice was quieter.

"Maybe. Or they accidentally left something behind we weren't supposed to notice. Hid it here with what they placed deliberately for us to find."

"For you to find," Marcus corrected quietly. "They knew you'd see the pattern change. Knew you'd come back."

The implication sent ice through my veins. I looked up to find him watching me with an expression that made my carefully maintained professional distance waver. Rain beaded on his eyelashes, tracking down his cheek in paths my fingers ached to trace.

"You should get backup here." My voice sounded distant. "If they're watching, anticipating our movements—"

"They're not here." Years of experience gave weight to Marcus's certainty. "This was staged. Another piece of their performance."

I turned back to the evidence, but Marcus's proximity followed me like a heat signature. The truck's emergency lights caught the wet sheen of his skin. My scientific mind fractured between analyzing evidence and measuring the precise distance between us.

"The perfect vessel requires tempering . " The words scraped my throat as I read. "Like steel through water and flame, each element leaving its mark until the transformation is complete. " I took a deep breath. "They're not just studying you anymore. This is—"

My hands shook as I lifted another section into the light. Water dripped from my gloves onto pages already warped by rain. The ink had run in places, creating macabre patterns that reminded me too much of blood in water.

"His form through flame will be my masterpiece," I forced out. "Pure as his strokes through dawn water, perfected through months of discipline. I've watched him grow stronger, watched his technique refine like steel being tempered. Soon, he'll be—" The words blurred as Marcus stepped closer.

His voice was just as steady as when we'd been together at the pool. "James, you're freezing."

"I'm okay." It was a lie. "We need to analyze the residue on the paper. The chemical composition might—"

His thumb brushed my cheek, ostensibly wiping away the rain. He constructed the gesture so carefully that my work-focused walls cracked. I looked up to find him watching me with an expression that stripped away years of professional armor.

"You're not fine." His hand didn't move from my face. "And neither am I."

The warehouse's broken walls disappeared behind the curtain of rain. Each point of contact between us sent sparks through my nervous system.

"Marcus." His name was raw in my throat. "We can't—"

Instead of answering, he curled his fingers into my rain-soaked hair and pulled me closer. His kiss tasted like chlorine and smoke, like crossing a threshold I hadn't known I was approaching. One hand rested on my cheek with that same careful strength he'd used to guide me through deep water.

The umbrella dropped, forgotten. The absence of it made everything feel sharper—the rain colder, Marcus closer.The downpour slammed against my back , soaking through layers of fabric in seconds, but I barely registered it. The artificial intimacy the umbrella provided was gone.

Now, there was no excuse.

Marcus's handsdidn't move—they were still as if waiting for me to push him away. But I didn't.Couldn't.His thumbbrushed once, deliberately, against the hinge of my jaw. A measured touch. A test.

Iexhaled shakily. Didn't move.

Tossing all reluctance aside, I pressed him back against the truck, need overwhelming my habitual caution. The metal was shockingly cold against my palms, but Marcus radiated heat like a living furnace. His hands settled at my waist, steadying me as my ordered world tilted sideways.

A soft sound escaped him when I deepened the kiss—vulnerable and wanting in a way that shattered my remaining restraint. Rain soaked through my jacket as I pushed closer, chasing the taste of chlorine on his tongue. His thumb gripped my hip tightly.

The radio's burst of static hit like a gunshot. "Engine 17, status check."

Reality crashed back with brutal force. I jerked away, horror flooding my system as my sense of professional ethics reasserted itself. The evidence bags lay scattered across the truck's hood, each one containing proof of a madman's obsession with the man I'd just kissed.

"I can't—" My voice cracked. "This compromises everything. The investigation, the evidence chain, my objectivity—"

"James." Marcus reached for me, but I stepped back, putting necessary distance between us.

"Don't." The word came out sharper than intended. "We can't do this. Not while he's out there planning to turn you into his—I need to maintain perspective, need to—"

My heel caught on debris, sending me stumbling. Marcus's hands shot out to steady me, and the contact burned even through wet fabric. The journal's warnings seemed to glow in the emergency lights: "chosen vessel, perfect subject, transcendent transformation. "

"I should go." The words tasted like defeat. "Get these to the lab."

"Stop." Marcus's voice was quietly authoritative. "You're not running from us."

"There can't be an us." I gestured to the evidence. "Not while he's watching your every move, documenting your training, planning to make you his crowning achievement." My hands shook as I gathered the scattered bags. "I won't let my feelings compromise your safety. I can't—"

"Can't what?" The gentleness in his question cut deeper than anger would have.

"Can't watch you become another Caroline." The admission was like spitting out shards of glass. "Can't maintain professional distance when all I want—" I broke off, the truth too raw to speak.

"When all you want is what?" Marcus stepped closer, and my skin hummed, aware of imminent danger. "Say it, James."

"When all I want is to keep you safe. When I can't look at a single piece of evidence without imagining—" The words shattered as memories of the Harrison case superimposed themselves over Marcus's face.

I spoke again through tears. "I see burn patterns in my sleep. Calculate flash points and accelerant dispersal rates like counting sheep. And now every scenario ends with you."

The rain drove harder, full of the acrid stench of burnt metal and dissolved chemicals. Somewhere in the warehouse's gutted remains, water dripped with metronomic precision, marking seconds I couldn't afford to waste on wanting.

"The lab will need these paper samples." I retreated behind procedure, though my hands still trembled. "The accelerant composition might help identify—"

"You think pushing me away keeps me safer?" The question hit hard. "You think professional distance protects anyone?"

"It keeps me functional. Keeps me focused on the evidence instead of—" Instead of how rain ran down the column of his throat.

A burst of radio traffic made me flinch. Sarah's voice cut through the static, requesting an evidence review. The familiar protocol was my lifeline.

"I need to get these to the lab. The handwriting analysis might help narrow down—"

Marcus caught my wrist, his thumb pressing against my pulse point. "Running doesn't make the feelings go away, James. Trust me—I've tried."

The simple honesty in his voice threatened to undo me completely. I pulled free, gathering the evidence bags. "I can't—" The words stuck in my throat. "I need to be Dr. Reynolds right now. Need to be the one who sees patterns and follows protocols and doesn't—"

"Doesn't what?"

"Doesn't imagine what your skin tastes like when it's not raining." The truth spilled out of my mouth. "I need to stop him. And I can't do that if I'm drowning in how much I want—" I gestured helplessly between us.

Thunder rolled overhead. Marcus watched me with an expression that made my chest ache. "This isn't over."

"I know." I clutched the evidence bags like armor. "But right now, I need to focus on keeping you alive."

He nodded once, though his eyes remained warm and inviting. "Send the initial results directly to me."

"I will." I stepped back, letting the driving rain fill the space between us.

Walking away took more strength than facing any crime scene. The rain beat down in relentless sheets, drumming against my skin, against the evidence bags in my grip, and against Marcus, still standing exactly where I left him.

I didn't look back.I didn't have to . I could still feel him—the heat of him, the weight of his hands, and the space where he had been.

The evidence in my hands held a madman's observations of the man I couldn't let myself have. Tomorrow, I would force myself to read them with clinical distance to find the patterns that might keep Marcus breathing.

Tonight, I would try to forget how perfectly we fit together in the rain's embrace and pray that keeping him safe was worth the cost of letting him go.