Chapter 5
Sloane
Captain Rodriguez met me at the door himself.
"Ms. Harper." His handshake was firm. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for having me, Captain."
Silver threading through dark hair. Decades of smoke and difficult decisions were written into the lines of his face. I remembered him from scenes I'd covered over the years—Engine 295 fires that made the news, quotes I'd needed for articles. Always professional. Always cordial.
He led me through the apparatus bay. I tried not to look like I was searching for someone.
The rigs gleamed under fluorescent lights, red paint polished to a mirror shine. Equipment hung in precise rows—turnout gear, helmets, axes. The organized chaos of a firehouse that ran like clockwork.
The air smelled like diesel and industrial soap and something that might have been decades of sweat worked into the concrete.
Rodriguez's office was small, functional, cluttered with the detritus of command—commendations on the walls, photos of crews past and present, stacks of paperwork that never shrank no matter how many hours you put in.
I recognized the look. My desk at the Times had the same perpetual chaos.
"I wanted to thank you personally," Rodriguez said, closing the door behind us. "Your work on the Vickers case. The Lang investigation. You've done right by my people."
I thought about Shane Briggs running into a burning school. Defying orders. Risking everything for the woman he loved.
About Ava Rothwell standing in front of cameras and telling the truth about the Lang family even though it nearly destroyed her.
"I just wrote what happened," I said. "Your people are the ones who showed up."
Rodriguez studied me for a long moment. Whatever he saw, he seemed to approve.
"The arson case." He settled into his chair and gestured for me to take the one across from him. "Engine 295 is fully cooperating. Anything you need—access, records, interviews."
"I appreciate that."
"I've assigned one of my best as your liaison.
" He said it casually. Like it was nothing.
Like he wasn't about to detonate a bomb in the middle of my carefully constructed professional distance.
"I know you've worked with Engine 295 before, so you're already familiar with some of the crew.
But for this case, you'll be working directly with Lieutenant Stone. "
My heart rate spiked. I kept my face neutral.
Garrett.
"He knows fire behavior better than anyone in the department," Rodriguez continued. "If there's a pattern to these arsons, he'll find it. And he's discreet. Whatever you're investigating, it stays between you and him until you're ready to publish."
"That sounds fine." The words came out steady. Professional.
The mask I'd worn through countless difficult interviews, holding firm.
"Good." Rodriguez stood. "Why don't you come say hello to the crew?"
The common room was louder than I expected.
Laughter. Voices overlapping. The particular energy of celebration, though I couldn't immediately tell what they were celebrating.
Shane Briggs stood near the center of the room, surrounded by crew members clapping him on the shoulder—"about time" and "congratulations." Cake demolished on the table. Plates scattered. The easy chaos of people who trusted each other with their lives.
My eyes swept the room before I could stop them.
Looking for him.
Seated at the long table. Coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth. Gray-blue eyes locked on mine.
Garrett.
Eight years collapsed into nothing.
I looked away first. Made myself breathe.
"Boys," Rodriguez said, "you all know Sloane Harper. New York Times."
The celebration paused. Shifted.
Shane's expression moved from joy to something more professional, though a smile still lingered at the corners of his mouth.
"Ms. Harper." He nodded. "Good to see you."
"Shane. Congratulations." My voice sounded steady. A small miracle. "I heard on the way in."
Brian Torres was still seated at the table, close to where Shane had been standing. He offered a small wave but stayed quiet.
His attention drifted between me and Garrett.
"Ms. Harper is here about a serial arson case," Rodriguez continued. "She needs a liaison from our station." He turned toward the table. "Stone, you're assigned to assist Ms. Harper with access and background."
Silence.
Garrett's fingers tightened around his mug. I watched the tendons in his hand flex. Watched him take a breath that was almost imperceptible.
Say no, I thought desperately. Pass it to someone else. Tell Rodriguez you're too busy, you have other responsibilities, you can't—
"I'll do it."
His voice was flat. Controlled. Giving absolutely nothing away.
Everyone turned.
The common room had gone quiet—that particular stillness that meant people were picking up on subtext they didn't understand.
I stared at him. He stared back.
Why? Why would you agree to this?
Whatever history existed between us, it was heavy enough to fill the room.
Shane's eyes were narrowing. Recognition dawning. Brian glanced between us with an expression I couldn't read.
"I'll email you the case files," I said. Professional. Steady.
"I have your email."
Another pause. Charged.
Rodriguez clapped his hands. "Good. That's settled. Harper, let me walk you out—Stone, I'll brief you in the morning."
I turned to leave. Paused at the door.
Didn't let myself look back.
"I'll be in touch, Stone."
I was gone before anyone could respond.
I sat in my car for ten minutes before I trusted myself to drive.
My hands were shaking. Actually shaking, like I was some rookie reporter about to interview her first source instead of a woman with a decade of experience and a Pulitzer nomination.
What the hell was that?
He'd agreed. Looked at me with ten years of history between us and said I'll do it like it was nothing.
Like seeing me again hadn't affected him at all.
Like I was just another journalist. Just another assignment.
Just another face in a long line of people who passed through his life without leaving a mark.
Maybe I was nothing to him now.
The thought stung more than it should have.
I pressed my palms against my eyes. Breathed deep. Tried to find the professional detachment that had served me through death threats and hostile interviews and sources who'd tried to intimidate me into silence.
It wasn't working.
My phone buzzed.
I fumbled for it, expecting Marianne. My editor demanding an update.
It was Garrett.
This is Stone. Meet me at Benchmark on Greenpoint Ave, 7pm. We should discuss the case parameters.
Professional. Businesslike. Not a hint of our history.
I should decline. Insist on meeting at the Times offices, somewhere neutral, somewhere I had control. Establish boundaries now, before this became something I couldn't handle.
Instead, I typed:
I'll be there.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself.
I changed three times before I left.
It wasn't a date. It was a work meeting. With my ex-fiancé. About arson.
God, my life was strange.
I settled on something professional—black pants, gray silk blouse, a blazer that meant business. Armor, again. I needed all the armor I could get.
Benchmark was a small cafe in Greenpoint—the kind of place that had survived in New York for decades on the strength of its espresso and its discretion.
Exposed brick walls. Mismatched wooden tables.
The smell of fresh-ground beans and something baking that made my stomach growl despite the knots in it.
Garrett was already there when I arrived.
He stood when I approached the table. Old manners, ingrained.
He was wearing civilian clothes—dark jeans, a plain white t-shirt that did things to his shoulders I refused to think about, the leather jacket I remembered from a decade ago.
Still the same jacket. Still worn soft at the elbows.
Still slightly too big in the way that meant he'd bought it before he'd filled out completely.
He looked devastatingly good.
I hated myself for noticing.
"Sloane."
"Garrett."
We stood there for a moment, the table between us, neither of us moving to sit. Somewhere in the cafe, someone laughed.
He gestured to the chair across from him. I sat. He sat.
A waitress appeared immediately, setting two cups of coffee on the table.
"Oat milk with one sugar?" she asked, gesturing to the cup in front of me.
I looked up. "Yes. Thank you."
She smiled and retreated.
I stared at the coffee. At Garrett.
He'd ordered before I arrived. Remembered how I took my coffee.
Eight years, and he remembered.
Something cracked in my chest. I couldn't name it. Didn't want to.
"Thank you," I managed finally. "For agreeing to meet. For helping with this."
Garrett nodded once. Took a sip from his own cup. Black, no sugar. Same as always.
"It's my job."
Professional. Businesslike.
Like we were strangers who'd never shared a bed, a home, a future.
I pulled out my files. Spread them across the table.
"FDNY isn't telling the press anything," I said. "Five fires in three months. All suspicious, all matching a particular MO. Fire marshal thinks they're connected, but that's where my information ends."
I pushed the map toward him, pins marking each location.
"Accelerant type, ignition method, timing—they're keeping it locked down. No press briefings, no official statements. I need to understand why these buildings were targeted. There's a pattern—there's always a pattern—but I can't see it from the outside."
Garrett studied the map. His expression shifted—something flickering behind his eyes that I couldn't read.
"There's something you should know," he said. "Something that might be connected."
He slid a folder across the table. I opened it.
Inside: fire safety violations. Building inspection reports with dates highlighted, failures circled in red pen. Properties with repeated code failures that should have triggered condemnations but hadn't. Shell company registrations. Political donation records.