2. James
Chapter two
James
M y hands wouldn't stop shaking. I curled them into fists beneath my desk, focusing on the steady tick of my office clock rather than the thundering of my pulse. The copper tang of blood in my mouth surprised me—I'd been chewing my lip again, a habit my therapist had supposedly helped me break two years ago.
"The Cascade District fires show concerning similarities to the Harrison Gallery case." Department Chair Isabelle Reeves didn't so much sit in my visitor's chair as take possession of it, her salt-and-pepper curls precise as her logic. "Three warehouses in two weeks, each showing the same signature. The latest happened two days ago. Seattle Fire Department is asking for our department's consultation."
I reached for my coffee mug, needing something to ground me. The ceramic was cool against my palm—I'd been too caught up in data analysis to drink it. "My research schedule—"
"Is precisely why you need to take this." She placed a folder on my desk. "Your grant proposal argues that your behavioral analysis models can predict escalation patterns in fire-setting cases. The committee would be more inclined to fund theoretical work if it showed practical application."
She did nothing to hide the threat. I caught myself reaching for the worry stone in my pocket, but then I forced my hand flat against the desk instead. "The arson investigation unit has perfectly competent—"
"They specifically requested our department." Her voice blended academic politics and professional concern, making her both an effective department chair and a dangerous opponent. "And you're our foremost expert in performance-based fire-setting behavior."
"That's because no one else is foolish enough to specialize in it." The bitterness in my voice surprised us both. I took a careful breath. "Hal Whitman's statistical analysis would be more—"
"James." Her use of my first name made me look up. Isabelle's expression had softened, but her eyes remained sharp. "You've spent the last three years building theoretical models. Important work, yes. But you can't hide in the ivory tower forever."
"I'm not hiding." The lie tasted stale. "I'm conducting methodologically sound research—"
"From the safety of your office." She tapped the folder. "The Harrison Gallery case wasn't your fault, but let it drive you away from fieldwork? That's on you."
She pulled the trigger, and the room tilted sideways. I focused on my breathing—in for four, hold for four, out for four. The grounding technique did nothing to stop the memories: the choking weight of burning air and screaming that turned to nothing. It was the witness I'd promised to protect, reduced to ash due to my failure to listen.
"That case is closed." My voice sounded far away.
"And yet." Isabelle stood, smoothing her charcoal pencil skirt. "Similar signatures are appearing across the city. Your models predict this type of fire-setter escalates toward performance pieces with targeted audiences. The committee meets next month to review funding allocations." She paused at the door. "It's all coming together. The car's waiting downstairs. The scene's still active."
She left no room for argument. I gathered my tablet and scene kit.
"James?" Isabelle stopped me at the door. "Lieutenant McCabe's team has point on this. His father was a good man. He deserved better than dying in that refinery fire twelve years ago. Maybe helping his son catch this one will give you back some of what Harrison took from you."
Seattle's morning traffic crept past my window as Isabelle's driver navigated toward the warehouse district. I pulled up preliminary scene photos, focusing on technical details rather than the cold sweat damping my collar. The burn patterns showed something that made my analytical mind stutter—too controlled, too precise. Executed by someone with extensive knowledge trying very hard to look like someone without it.
The warehouse loomed through curtains of toxic black smoke, its steel ribs twisted and buckling where the fire had eaten through its skin. The air reeked of scorched chemicals and something worse—acrid and almost meaty. It stuck to the back of my throat and made my stomach lurch, but I forced it down.
My pulse pounded at my temple. The taste of old fear settled on my tongue, familiar and unwelcome.
Emergency lights strobed across the scene—red, blue, red, blue—turning the runoff water into ribbons of false blood.
I stepped into that familiar chaos, my boots splashing through puddles that shimmered with chemical rainbow swirls. The air tasted like melted wiring and scorched metal.
Behind me, I heard a firefighter, later identified as Barrett, trying not to gag. You never got used to that smell—you just learned to work through it, like you learned to ignore how the residue would cling to your skin long after you showered.
"Dr. Reynolds?" Detective Sarah Nguyen met me at the perimeter, her forensics team's lights casting strange shadows through the lingering haze. "Wasn't sure we'd see you in the field again."
"That makes two of us." I signed the scene log with hands that only slightly trembled. The weight of my kit on my shoulder was foreign after so long in the classroom. "What do we have?"
"Three distinct points of origin." She fell into step beside me. "Initial spread pattern suggests accelerants, but we're not finding the usual traces. Max is picking up some weird readings on the mass spec—new compounds to him."
A lanky forensic tech looked up from his portable equipment. "Like someone's mixing their own materials." Max Torres had been fresh out of training during the Harrison case. The careful way he watched me said he remembered. "Custom blends, maybe trying to avoid detection?"
I crouched beside him, examining the readout. The chemical signature jolted me. "They designed it to draw attention and create specific effects. See these aromatic compounds? They designed them to produce colored flames during the initial burn. They wanted the fire to be visually striking."
"Performance pieces." Sarah's voice was carefully neutral. "Like Harrison."
"No." I forced myself to stand, to face the warehouse's looming presence. "This is more sophisticated. Harrison was raw emotion barely contained. This..." I gestured toward the burn patterns visible on the walls. "This is choreographed and deliberate. It's like the difference between a bar fight and a ballet."
Max whistled softly. "Someone's showing off."
"Someone's creating art." The words tasted bitter on my tongue. I moved deeper into the scene. "The arrangement is deliberately misleading. They want investigators to focus on the obvious evidence."
"While missing, what's underneath?" Sarah was already taking notes. "What are we not seeing?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but movement near the center of the warehouse caught my attention. A group of firefighters clustered around someone, their attention focused on his hands as he traced patterns in the air.
The voice wrapped authority in unexpected gentleness, drawing my attention like iron filings to a magnet. "Direction of burn indicates the point of origin was thirty feet inside the main entrance." Lieutenant Marcus McCabe stood with his crew, his hands directing their attention to burn marks. "The sprinkler system was disabled, but not in any way I've seen before."
My throat went dry. The department photos in his case file hadn't done him justice. He moved with the contained power of an athlete, but it was the care in his gestures that caught me off guard—the way he positioned himself slightly between his crew and the worst of the scene and how he subtly adjusted his stance to keep everyone in his line of sight.
I forced my attention back to my tablet, but his voice still curled around my thoughts, low and steady. My focus kept slipping—not only due to the evidence but due to his presence. He steadied people simply by standing near them.
Unconsciously, I glance at his profile, outlined by the red-blue patterns of emergency lights. There was a fine sheen of moisture on his face, and his shirt clung slightly at the base of his spine where the heat had settled. I shouldn't have noticed that. It was irrelevant—a distraction.
Professional distance.
Clinical observation.
Focus on the evidence, not how his voice resonated in my chest or how his presence drew every eye in the vicinity.
"Dr. Reynolds?" A hand appeared in my field of vision, catching me off guard. I looked up into eyes that somehow managed to be both intense and kind. "Lieutenant McCabe. Thank you for coming out."
His handshake was warm, solid, and grounding in a way that threatened my carefully maintained composure. If that weren't enough, the slight catch in his breath and the barely perceptible widening of his eyes sent prickles of heat crawling up the back of my neck.
I retreated into academic language like a knight hiding behind his armor. "The accelerant patterns suggest a sophisticated understanding of fire behavior dynamics. The spread rate appears to have been deliberately controlled to create specific signatures."
"Exactly what I was thinking." He released my hand but didn't step back, staying close enough for me to feel the heat radiating through his uniform. "Walk the scene with me?"
The warehouse interior unfolded like a macabre gallery. Our footsteps echoed against the concrete. Marcus McCabe maintained a steady presence beside me as we moved deeper into the space. I forced myself to focus on evidence collection, not the way he unconsciously adjusted his stride to match mine.
"The sprinkler system." He lifted his flashlight, rolling his shoulder slightly before directing the beam toward the ceiling. He inhaled slowly. "They disabled each head individually. Not smashed or bypassed--disassembled with precision."
I followed his light, noting the careful dismantling. "They'd need specific tools and knowledge of the internal mechanisms." The beam wavered slightly as Marcus shifted closer, presumably for a better view. "Someone who understands both the engineering and the art of it."
"Art?" His voice sounded genuinely curious rather than skeptical. When I glanced over, I found him watching me instead of the evidence, his expression thoughtful. He didn't look away when our eyes met.
"Look at the burn patterns." I moved toward the nearest wall, grateful for an excuse to put space between us. "Most arsonists want destruction. They use the fuel to create maximum damage. But these..." I traced the air near an elegant whorl of char, careful not to contaminate the evidence. "These are deliberate compositions. They applied precise amounts to control the burn rate, creating specific visual effects."
Marcus stepped closer, rubbing a hand briefly over his jaw before bracing his hands on his hips. "Like a painter choosing their medium," he said, but his gaze lingered a second too long, like his mind had momentarily drifted elsewhere before snapping back into focus.
The insight surprised me. I turned to find him much closer than I'd expected, those perceptive eyes fixed on my face rather than the wall. "Exactly. They're not merely setting fires; they're creating—"
"Installations." He finished my thought, voice dropping lower. "The warehouse itself is their gallery."
A shiver that had nothing to do with the damp Seattle weather ran up my spine. "You understand this kind of thinking."
"I understand dedication to craft." Something flickered in his expression—recognition, maybe, or appreciation.
Like the triathlete swimming laps before dawn, I thought, remembering his case file. Like pushing through water with perfect form, each movement is precise and purposeful.
"These marks here." I forced my attention back to the evidence, moving along the wall. "They're signature elements hidden beneath more mundane burn patterns. Most investigators would miss them, focusing on the primary evidence."
"But you see them." Marcus stayed close as we moved, his presence simultaneously steadying and unsettling. "What else are you seeing?"
The quiet intensity in his voice made me look up. He watched me with the same careful attention he'd given the fire scene as if I were a puzzle he wanted to solve. The scrutiny should have made me uncomfortable. Instead, it caused me to smile briefly.
"The mixture used." I retreated into technical analysis. "It's been customized to create specific flame colors during the initial burn. Blues and purples, probably, based on the chemical traces. They planned for the fire to be beautiful."
"Beautiful but deadly. Like the gallery fire?"
My hands paused. The Harrison case file didn't mention details about flame colors. I looked up sharply, finding him watching me with understanding in his eyes.
"I remember the photos from that case," he said quietly. "Our fire chief showed them to me, trying to make sense of the pattern. He said..." Marcus paused, something raw flickering across his face. "He said sometimes the most dangerous fires are the ones that make you want to watch them burn."
His hand settled on my forearm, warm through my jacket sleeve. "James." The touch was professional, meant to ground, but his thumb brushed once against my wrist in a distinctly personal gesture. "You can't carry that forever."
I couldn't look at him, couldn't handle the compassion in his voice or the way his touch seemed to sink through my skin. "The victim's family would disagree."
"Maybe." His hand stayed where it was, steady and firm. "Or maybe you're the only one still blaming yourself."
A crash from across the warehouse made us both jump. Marcus's hand fell away as one of his crew called out an all-clear —someone had knocked over an evidence marker. It shattered our moment, but the tenderness of his touch lingered.
"Show me what else you're seeing?" he asked, voice professional again. When I glanced up, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "I'd like to understand how you read these scenes. See them through your eyes."
Something about the way he said it—like he was interested in more than just my professional insight—made my pulse race. "I should warn you, I can get rather technical."
"Good thing I like learning new things, especially from experts who clearly love their subject."
I was halfway through explaining the statistical significance of distribution patterns when my stomach betrayed me with an embarrassingly loud growl. The sound echoed in the burned-out space, making me painfully aware that I'd missed both breakfast and lunch.
"When's the last time you ate?" Marcus's question caught me off guard.
"I..." I blinked at my tablet, trying to remember. "There was coffee. This morning. I think."
"Coffee isn't food." The gentle reproach in his voice avoided condescension. He glanced at his watch—the heavy-duty sports model I'd noticed earlier, designed for tracking swimming intervals. "There's a place around the corner. They do these salmon rice bowls that somehow taste even better when you're exhausted."
The casual recommendation knocked me off balance more effectively than our earlier charged moments. "I should finish documenting the—"
"The evidence isn't going anywhere." He gestured toward where the forensics team was methodically photographing burn patterns. "And you'll analyze better after food. Trust me, I've learned the hard way that skipping meals makes you miss things."
I found myself automatically checking his form for signs of that hard-won knowledge. The athlete in him was evident even in how he stood—perfect posture, weight balanced, ready for action. But there was something else, a hint of fatigue around his eyes that made me wonder about his own missed meals.
"Do you?" I asked before I could stop myself. "Miss meals often?"
His laugh surprised us both—a warm, rich sound that filled the space between us. "More than my brothers would like. Matt—he's the paramedic—likes to leave protein bars in my locker. Says if I'm going to train like a crazy person, I should at least fuel properly."
The casual mention of his family was startlingly intimate when surrounded by a burned-out warehouse. I caught myself wanting to know more—about his brothers, his training, and all the pieces that made up Marcus McCabe beyond his professional competence.
"What about you?" he asked, those observant eyes focused on me. "Anyone leaving food in your office when you get caught up in research?"
"One of my graduate students brings cookies." I tried to make it sound like enough. "They know better than to interrupt my analytical sessions otherwise."
Something flickered across his face—concern, maybe, or understanding. "Sounds lonely."
The simple observation hit harder than any probing question could have. "It's... efficient."
"Efficient isn't always better." He shifted slightly closer, voice dropping. "Sometimes you need someone to remind you to look up from the data and see what's right in front of you."
Before I could formulate a response, Marcus's radio crackled to life.
"Lieutenant?" A young voice. "We've got something weird with the electrical system up here."
Marcus lifted his radio, but his eyes stayed on my face. "Copy that. Location?"
"Northeast corner, near the offices. Some modification to the circuit box."
"On our way." He clicked off, and the professional mask slid back into place. "Rain check on lunch?"
I nodded, grateful for the return to safer ground, even as part of me mourned the loss of that brief, normal moment. "The electrical system modifications could indicate—"
"James." He stopped me with a hand on my arm, the touch brief but warm through my jacket. "The offer stands. For when we finish here."
Something in his voice made it clear he meant more than lunch. I swallowed hard, retreating behind my tablet. "We should check the circuit box. The pattern suggests—"
"Of course. After you, Dr. Reynolds."
We moved toward the northeast corner, professional roles firmly back in place. But something had shifted, like a chemical reaction transforming familiar elements into something new and potentially volatile. I tried to focus on the evidence and maintain professional distance.
Still, I couldn't entirely forget how he'd said, "Sometimes you need someone to remind you to look up from the data." Or how, for the first time in years, I found myself wanting to see what I might discover if I accepted an invitation.
The circuit box looked pristine against the scorched wall—too pristine. My gloves came away with a fine gray powder that spoke of electrical arcing hot enough to vaporize copper.
Barrett's flashlight beam caught the distinctive crystalline structure where the metal had literally boiled away, leaving behind patterns that reminded me too much of the Harrison case and flesh transformed by impossible heat.
The military-grade thermal paste around the connections still held its shape—someone had understood exactly how much pressure to apply, like a surgeon making that first perfect incision.
I tried to focus on the technical details rather than the nausea rising in my throat, or how Marcus's presence at my shoulder made every nerve-ending fire with an awareness of what this killer could do to human tissue.
"See here?" I traced the air near a set of modifications. "The connections have been altered to create a delayed power surge. Not enough to show as a cause of fire in initial investigations, but—"
"But enough to guarantee the sprinkler system wouldn't activate even if the power stayed on." Marcus leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "They're playing with failsafes."
"Not playing." Familiar patterns clicked into place, causing tingles at the base of my spine. "These modifications follow the same principles as surgical cauterization. The power surge mimics controlled tissue destruction. They're treating the building like a body."
Barrett made a small sound of distress. Marcus shifted subtly, angling his body to block her view of the evidence. The protective gesture shouldn't have affected me as much as it did.
He delivered an order. "Barrett, check in with Torres about those accelerant readings." She nodded gratefully and retreated, leaving us alone in the corner of the warehouse.
"Someone with medical knowledge," Marcus said quietly. "Someone who understands both electrical systems and human anatomy."
I forced myself to look at the evidence objectively. "The technical precision suggests professional training, but the artistic elements..." I paused, something niggling at my memory. "It's not only an installation. They want them to be documented—preserved."
Marcus was very still beside me.
"The photos in my locker."
I turned to find his expression had hardened. He pulled a sealed evidence bag from his tactical vest. Inside was a cream-colored envelope with precise, artistic typography.
"The morning of the fire, someone left a detailed log of my training in my locker. In the margins were sketches of the burn patterns in this fire," Marcus said, his voice low. "Every swim, every run, every detail of my routine for the past month. The same font style as these photos they left this morning."
He fanned out a few photographs—crisp, professional shots of him swimming at dawn, running along the Burke-Gilman Trail, and transitioning between bike and run during a training session. Each image was composed like a technical study, capturing him mid-movement with surgical precision.
"See how they've documented each phase of motion?" Marcus traced the edge of one photo. "The burn patterns in the warehouse—they're doing the same thing. Breaking down movement, studying the structure, and creating a kind of... visual anatomy."
His fingers brushed the edge of a photo showing him emerging from Lake Washington, water droplets catching the pre-dawn light. "They're not only watching. They're collecting data or evidence of something."
"Of you," I said quietly. The realization settled between us—heavy, precise, like the carefully arranged evidence surrounding us.
A new level of understanding suddenly hit me. "They're creating a portfolio. The fires are just one element of a larger performance piece."
"With me as what? Their audience?"
"Their subject." My voice sounded distant to my own ears. "If they're taking photos like that, they're studying you with the same precision they use to create these fires. Learning your patterns and your movements. The photos aren't merely surveillance—they're composition studies."
A muscle worked in his jaw. "Like anatomical drawings."
"Like an artist learning to capture motion." I couldn't stop the professional analysis, even as part of me wanted to reach out and ease the tension building on his shoulders. "The fire patterns, the electrical modifications, and the photos are all studies in controlled power. Like they're trying to understand..."
"Trying to understand what?"
"You." The word came out softer than I'd intended. "The way you move through the world. The discipline it takes to maintain that level of control."
Something flickered in his eyes—recognition or remembrance, I couldn't tell which. "The way Dad used to say discipline was its own kind of art."
The parallel made my breath catch. I looked away, focusing on my tablet to avoid the raw honesty in his expression. "We should document the modifications. The electrical signature could help identify—"
"James." His hand settled on my wrist. "You have a way of seeing that I can't match. We're fortunate to have that."
The gentle gratitude in his voice hit like a gut punch—unexpected, impossible to brush off. I swallowed, nodding stiffly, afraid that if I spoke, my voice might betray me. I wasn't used to being seen like this.
Marcus's radio crackled again—Captain Walsh requesting an update. He squeezed my wrist once before stepping back.
I focused on photographing the circuit box modifications and on gathering evidence with scientific precision. It was easier than acknowledging how Marcus's presence filled the warehouse even after he moved away.
Numbers made sense. Evidence followed patterns. People—especially tall, gentle firefighters with perceptive eyes and careful hands—were infinitely more complicated.
And infinitely more terrifying.