Chapter Thirty-Eight
Parker
I breathe in the scents of burnt coffee and fryer oil. Dot’s is a local Austin institution—one where no one questions the lack of a health department certification on the wall.
We’re early enough to get the small booth in the back corner. It’s quieter here, the air a little fresher only steps from the back door, and we don’t have to worry about anyone overhearing details of an active investigation.
The server, Nan, takes one look at us and shoves her order pad back into her apron. “The usual?”
“Unless Dot finally put a salad on the menu,” Nate says, his tone that of a man who’s given up all hope.
“Three years and you never get tired of askin’.” She shakes her head. “There ain’t a chance in hell she’s gonna do that for one customer. I’ll get your order started.”
“Nan, can you make my milkshake strawberry this week? Please?”
“You got it, hon.” She’s gone before she finishes the sentence, and I slump against the back of the booth, where the vinyl’s held together with duct tape and prayers.
“You think Todd’s telling the truth?” Nate asks, pulling a napkin from the dispenser and wiping down the table in front of him.
“Airline confirmations can be faked. But who posts on social media, pays off a whole mess of people to wish him happy anniversary, and tags his wife in the photo?”
Nate sighs. “I’m gonna pull every inspection Todd’s done for his whole damn career. We’re stopping at Office-R-Us on the way back to the station. I need the jewel-toned highlighter set.”
“You have twelve colors already. If you buy any more, AJ’s gonna send you for a psych eval.”
He unwraps a straw, folding the thin, white paper in half with deliberate slowness. “I’ve spent enough time in psychologists’ offices to know they won’t care about the highlighters.”
“You joke, but—”
“I never joke about highlighters.” His voice doesn’t hold its typical humor, and he creases the straw wrapper again and again.
Nan comes back with my loaded french fry plate, the strawberry milkshake, and Nate’s club sandwich with a side of extra pickles.
“Fries are hot,” she warns.
Nate arches a brow as she rushes off to the next table. “She says that every week. As if I haven’t lost enough fights with molten potatoes.”
“Nate—”
“Not today,” he says with a tiny shake of his head. “Today is about your strawberry milkshake. If you want it to be. If not, I saw this documentary on octopuses last night.”
“Don’t you mean octopi?” I grab the straw, take a long pull of frozen strawberry comfort, and wait for the tingle of almost brain freeze to hit.
“No. It’s actually octopuses. The root word is Greek, not Latin. Did you know each one of those eight arms has its own brain?”
I’ve listened to enough Nate tangents to recognize the warning signs. He’s less than three seconds away from explaining octopus neurology in exhausting detail.
It would be so easy to take the exit. To let him fill the silence with random facts and pretend I didn’t promise to tell him something real.
“My mom had dementia.”
Nate leans back in the booth, his sandwich ignored on his plate, waiting. Letting me decide how much I’m willing to share.
I consider asking how a creature with eight—or is it nine?—brains manages not to overthink everything. Instead, I let the cold milkshake glass soothe the dull ache in my hands, and tell him a little about the last year of her life.
Visiting her in the memory care home every day after work. Trying—and failing—repeatedly to find small things that made her happy. Photos. Her favorite apron. Salsa made with another one of her award-winning recipes.
“In the end, it was strawberry milkshakes. Every time I brought her one, she’d smile. It didn’t bring her back—she was too far gone to recognize me at all—but she loved those strawberry milkshakes.”
My fries have gone cold, and the milkshake has lost its fight with the heat of my hands. I nudge the basket away and cover it with my napkin so I don’t have to look at the congealed gravy.
Nate moves half the club sandwich onto the plate holding his extra pickles, then nudges the sandwich plate toward me. “I had a big breakfast. If you don’t help me finish this, it’s gonna go to waste.”
“You know,” I say, picking up the sandwich and raising a brow, “keeping the pickles really undermines the generosity.”
He shrugs. “My pickles and I have made peace with your judgment.”
Laughing after what I just shared feels wrong. Or…maybe it feels exactly right.
Eliot
Four boxes of acoustic panels slide across the truck bed as I take a turn a little too quickly.
Fuck.
I knew I should’ve taken the Home Warehouse guy’s suggestion to add on some paracord or bungees to tie them down.
At least he didn’t ask me why I needed professional-grade soundproofing.
The neighbor on the other side of my bedroom wall works construction, and he’s out the door before five most mornings. When I got home yesterday, I found a note taped to my door.
Can you keep the volume down on the bedroom antics?
Umberto’s a nice guy. He helped me get my couch up the single flight of stairs when I moved in, and we shoot the shit for a few minutes when we see one another in the mail room.
He deserves to sleep, and I…well…I ain’t gonna stop seeing Parker because she’s enthusiastic in bed. Or tell her to keep it down.
The bullpen is humming when I push through the double-doors. It’s late enough, everyone’s back from lunch. A few folks look up as I head for the conference room with my bag slung over my right shoulder and a drink carrier in my hand, but most of them at least try to look busy.
I stop at the door. Nate’s unwrapping a fresh box of highlighters while Parker frowns at her laptop.
“I’ve checked every single one of Ferris’s inspections for the past six months, and they’re all residential.” Her voice takes on a hint of relief.
“I knew these would come in handy,” Nate says, pulling a sapphire blue pen from the box.
“Print out the list. I’ll cross-check with the Austin Fire Department.
” He lifts his gaze, gives me a nod, and adds, “Or Flint can. Unless the two of you had plans to investigate one of the station’s other dark hallways.
But if you do, warn me first. My eyes—and my wallet—still haven’t recovered. ”
Parker turns toward me, her pale blue eyes soft and a brief smile curving her lips. “Hey. Didn’t think I’d—we’d see you today.”
“Tried workin’ from my office, but Kurt’s out, Richie, the new guy, had a doctor’s appointment, and my boss was makin’ noise about assigning me to a house fire out in West Lake Hills. Figured I could do more good here. What’re we cross-checkin’?”
I set the drink carrier in the center of the table. Nate side-eyes the soy milk latte with his name on it like he thinks I’m messing with him.
“I know better than to show up empty handed.” I pass the iced black coffee to Parker, and our fingers brush.
Nate pulls the paper off the top of the straw. “You’re lucky I can be bought.”
He slides a copy of the Aldrich inspection across the table.
“We interviewed Todd Ferris this morning. He claims he only handles residential properties. And he said he was in Orlando the day this was filed. Had pictures to prove it and everything. We’re still checking them for signs of AI, but they seem genuine.
Your mission—should you choose to accept it—is to verify none of the addresses he visited have gone up in flames recently. ”
“I can make a couple of calls. Got a spreadsheet for me?”
Parker laughs so hard, coffee comes out her nose. “That’s like askin’ if water’s wet or if octopuses have nine brains.”
I’m about ninety percent sure I missed something important here. An entire conversation. Or several.
“Later,” Parker mouths.
Nate clears his throat. “Check your email. I’ll give you two a minute. Or nine.” He takes his coffee with him, and shuts the conference room door.
Parker scoots her chair back, tipping her face up to look at me as I step between her legs. “Do we really have nine minutes?”
“Three, at best.” She links our fingers, tugging me down until I seal my lips to hers. The kiss is soft. Gentle. On a sigh, she sits back in her chair, but doesn’t let go of my hand. “I’m glad you came.”
“I wanted to see you. After yesterday…” I rest my ass against the table, searching for the right words. “I’ll debate the choices they make on This Old House with you any time, but I really wanted to hold you.”
“I needed to get through last night on my own. The emotional part of it, anyway.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “I told Nate a little bit about my mom at lunch.”
“He didn’t know?” I can’t decide if I’m shocked. Parker’s such a private person, but she’s told me more than once that Nate’s like a brother to her.
Her shoulders hike up toward her ears. “It’s not something I talk about. Grace, Emi, and Isabel know. Most of it, anyway.”
Fuck. She thinks I’m judging her.
“Parker, you don’t owe me an explanation. About anything. We’re—”
The door flies open so quickly, it bangs against the wall hard enough to leave a dent.
Chief Stone strides into the room with Nate on his heels.
“AFD just called. Fire on Rutherford Lane. Commercial building, standalone, unoccupied. It went up in minutes. The incident commander said he’s never seen anything like it. ”
I grab my coffee out of the drink carrier, sling my bag back over my shoulder, and meet Parker’s gaze. “I want to get there before they knock the fire down.”
“Eliot!” she calls when I’m steps from the bullpen. “We won’t be too far behind. But be careful. Don’t make me patch you up again.”
There’s a hint of real fear in her voice. She’s standing now, her hands balled into fists at her sides.
Fuck it.
I turn around, hustle back to her, and in full view of Chief Stone and Nate, wrap an arm around her waist and kiss her, hard.
“I’ll be careful,” I whisper against her mouth. “Promise.”
I only make it two steps away from Parker when Stone turns to Nate. “Think they forgot we were here?”
Nate huffs out a laugh. “AJ, we didn’t even factor into the equation.”