Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
CADE
By ten AM, Beau Fontaine had turned Main Street into a scoreboard. Cast Iron Café rolled out chalkboards like it was election night, pins clinked into baskets labeled #TeamBrew, #TeamSignal, and #TeamWick. Beau’s “stage” was two milk crates and his ego.
I looked out at the audience as they eagerly observed.
Lattes in one hand, phones in the other, Riverfield was ready to vote.
“Welcome back to Hot Seat,” Beau said into his mic as wind ruffled the pecan trees behind him. “Live from Ember City! Kidding, Tansy. Riverfield.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
“Left side,” Beau said, “Brickyard Brewery—heroes with hoses and hops. On my right, Signal House—people who make your phones happy without setting off the sprinklers.”
Beau looked at me. I looked back. He grinned like he’d just reeled me in.
“Fireman Cade Briggs,” he drawled, like a parade emcee. “I have a question for you: if #TeamSignal promises sizzle, what do you promise?”
“Exits,” I said.
A beat, followed by laughter. The third-row church ladies clapped.
Beau nodded, delighted. “Cade promises exits. We love a man with a plan.”
Wyatt Kerr, Riverfield’s Deputy Fire Marshal, sat next to me, nudging me with his elbow.
“Don’t be embarrassing,” he said, scooting closer to me, whispering so the microphone wouldn’t catch his words. “The boys at the fire station are counting on you. Win the prize, that’s three years on Main and a million bucks.”
“Wyatt, I—”
He lifted a hand to interrupt me. “They’re all counting on you, Briggs.”
Wyatt was always around to offer encouragement with a dash of anxiety. He wasn’t a part of the Brickyard Brewery business, but we’d been friends for years.
“Hey! I wore the tie,” I said. “My last girlfriend swore people only took me seriously if I looked like I sell insurance.”
Wyatt pinched his own tie. “Does it work?”
I flicked my chin at Beau. “Ask our host.”
Beau was apparently trying to see what I was made of: filing his nails on me.
“And to the Signal House faithful,” he said, sliding to the other side, “we see your sparkle. Just remember, here in Riverfield candlelight effects are simulated. We save real flames for barbecue and town gossip.”
The crowd loved him for it. I focused on the job: charm the town, win the prize.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Ellis Langford with a headset, running comms. Calm voice, quick hands.
Not my business.
I set my eyes back on Beau.
“Cade,” Beau practically sang, “are you prepared for the heat of internet comments?”
“I brought oven mitts,” I said. “And a fire extinguisher.”
Beau fanned himself theatrically and said, “Internet, he’s prepared.”
Wyatt elbowed me again.
“Back straight, Briggs,” he said. “Everyone at the station is watching the stream.”
I leaned forward to mention the boys at the station but was interrupted.
“What about confetti?” a college kid yelled from behind the church ladies.
“We keep it pointed away from sprinkler heads,” I said.
Beau grinned and pointed at me with game-show host flair.
“Cade reads the pamphlets!” Beau said. “Okay everyone, vote your hearts. Consider all options. Be nice in the comments. And count the tokens.”
Phones shot up. The chalk squeaked as Beau’s producer updated tallies, and I tried not to think about the presence of cameras. I knew where to stand and what to do with my hands. Smile with two teeth, tops. In uniform or out of it, same rule: make it safer than you found it.
“Final thought?” Beau said, shoving the mic directly under my chin, catching me off guard.
“They make the sparkle,” I said, gesturing toward the cluster of Signal House staff with clipboards. “We keep the exits clear.”
It played well, more laughter. Somebody shouted #TeamBrew and somebody else shouted #TeamSignal while another person in the back yelled out for Wick ten becomes math.
A soft bump came through the wall. A drawer meeting a stopper. Or shoulder meeting armoire.
I waited.
Three dots blinked. Vanished.
Came back.
Ellis: Appreciate the courtesy. We’ll route around. I prefer my crew alive and unflattened.
Me: Product doesn’t look good on a backboard.
Ellis: Disagree. Could be on-brand if your brand is drama. Kidding. We’ll be ghosts.
I told my face to knock it off with the smiling. On the other side of the wall, a hanger scraped a rod. Close enough to touch if the wall wasn’t doing its job.
Me: I’ll keep the center bare so you don’t have to waltz around chairs.
Ellis: Kind. We don’t deserve you or your cones.
Me: Cones don’t care who deserves them. It’s their charm.
A quiet laugh filtered through plaster. Or maybe I’d imagined it. Hard to tell with hotels; everything sounds softer.
Ellis: One more thing… if you see my people drifting where you don’t want them, point with your whole arm. They obey confidence.
Me: I don’t know what else to point with.
Ellis: Fair. See you out there.
I pocketed my phone and pretended my pulse hadn’t sped up because a man in the next room liked clear lanes and whole sentences. I wasn’t here to like anything; I was here to make sure nobody tripped or injured themselves.
Safety.
I rinsed my hands and flattened a collar that wasn’t even on me anymore. I took inventory: keys, multitool, a folded A-frame sign I’d lettered too neatly.
The wall gave me one more small sound: the beep of a lock, then the hush of carpet swallowing footsteps.
Ellis was out.
I waited ten seconds. Not on purpose, or maybe entirely on purpose.
Then I left, too.