Chapter 5 #2
A web of corruption laid out in meticulous detail.
"You've been documenting this," I said slowly. "For how long?"
"Seven years."
The number landed like a blow.
Seven years ago, I'd been in DC, trying to piece myself back together. Seven years ago, I'd stopped returning his calls, stopped answering his letters, let the silence stretch until it became permanent.
While I was disappearing from his life, something had happened that mattered enough to spend seven years gathering evidence in secret.
I didn't ask. Not yet. I wasn't sure I had the right.
"Engine 295 is on the shortlist for closure," Garrett continued. His voice was steady, but I could hear the tension underneath. "They're calling it budget cuts. I don't believe that."
"You think it's connected."
"I think someone wants us quiet." His jaw tightened. "We report too many violations. Ask too many questions. The same people who let buildings rot until they become death traps would very much like the firehouse that keeps documenting those death traps to disappear."
I looked at the files spread across the table. The scope of what he'd compiled. The years of work.
"But I can't prove it," he said. "Not without risking my career. If I go public with this, I'm the disgruntled firefighter with an axe to grind. The department buries it. The landlords' lawyers tear me apart."
He paused.
"Nothing changes except I lose my job and my crew loses their station."
"But if a journalist breaks the story..."
"Then it's news." His eyes met mine. Gray-blue, steady, intense in a way that made my breath catch. "Credible. Investigated. Coming from the New York Times instead of a firefighter who might have ulterior motives."
I understood. The same information, framed differently, could change everything. That was the power of the press—not creating truth, but giving it a platform.
"I need your help," he said. "Help me expose the corruption. Help me save Engine 295."
He paused.
"In return, I'll help you with the arson investigation. Everything I know."
Two cases. Two investigations. Working together for weeks. Maybe months.
With Garrett Stone.
The smart thing would be to say no. Protect myself. Keep my distance. Find another angle on the arson story—one that didn't require spending hours in the company of the man I'd never stopped loving.
But the story was too good. Both stories—the arsons and the corruption—were exactly the kind of investigations I'd built my career on. The kind that changed systems. The kind that mattered.
And maybe—maybe there was a part of me that wasn't ready to walk away again.
"Why me?" I asked. "There are other journalists. Other papers. People who don't have—" I stopped. Couldn't finish the sentence.
"Because you're the best." No hesitation.
No qualification. "And because I've seen what you do for people.
Shane. Brian. Ava. You don't just write stories—you fight for the truth, even when it's dangerous.
Even when powerful people want you to stop.
" He paused. "That's what we need. Someone who won't back down. "
I should say no.
"Okay. I'll do it."
His face changed — the mask loosening for half a second. Relief, I thought. Or hope. Both, maybe. The kind of expression he'd kill me for noticing.
Then it was gone. Locked down behind that control he wore like turnout gear.
"We'll need to meet regularly," he said. "Coordinate. Share information as we find it."
"I know."
"It might take months."
"I know."
We worked out the details. Meeting schedules—weekly at minimum, more often as the investigations progressed. Information sharing protocols. How to keep both cases from leaking before we were ready to publish.
Professional. Businesslike.
The careful choreography of two people pretending they didn't share a decade of history.
When we finished, I gathered my files.
The coffee had gone cold. The candle had burned down to a stub.
"Same time next week?"
"I'll text you." He hesitated. Something flickered across his face—the mask slipping, just for a moment. "Sloane..."
I waited.
My heart was pounding.
Whatever he was going to say, he thought better of it. The mask settled back into place.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For agreeing to this."
"Thank you for trusting me with it."
I left before the silence could become something else. Before I could do something stupid like reach across the table and touch his hand.
Before I could ask questions I had no right to ask.
I walked to my car on autopilot, replaying the conversation, trying to find my footing.
I was going to be working with Garrett Stone for months. Seeing him regularly. Sitting across from him while he looked at me with those eyes that saw too much.
This was a terrible idea.
But God help me, I was going to do it anyway.
I was halfway home when my phone buzzed.
I pulled over. Checked the screen.
Garrett.
Same time next week works. Thank you for giving Engine 295 a chance.
I stared at the message for a long time.
The professional response would be something brief. Sounds good. Or just a thumbs up. Keep it businesslike. Maintain the distance.
Instead, I typed:
You're welcome. We'll figure this out. Together.
My thumb hovered over the send button.
Together.
I hadn't let myself use that word in eight years. Not about him. Not about anyone. It meant partnership. It meant trust. It meant letting someone close enough to hurt you.
I hit send before I could talk myself out of it.
The response came thirty seconds later.
Together.
Just the one word. An echo. A confirmation.
I sat in my car on a side street in Brooklyn, staring at that single word on my screen.
I knew what this feeling was. I'd spent eight years learning not to name it — not in therapy, not in journal entries, not in the dark when my defenses were down.
Hope. That's what it was. The dangerous kind. The kind that had a specific face and gray-blue eyes and remembered how I took my coffee.
It terrified me how natural it still felt.
It terrified me more that I didn't want it to stop.