Chapter 36
Gabe
The harbor is crawling with people when we pull in. Too many. Their faces turned toward the dock, voices carrying over the slap of water against the hull.
I climb up first, scanning the crowd. My gut is already twisted tight, but when I spot Jake standing with Julian, the lighthouse at his back and his arms crossed over his chest, the knot pulls harder.
Julian looks grim. Jake looks like hell. He’s not smiling, not in his usual politician way. His shirt is untucked, his hair a mess, his expression taut.
That alone tells me whatever this is, it’s bad.
I swing down, boots hitting the dock. Boone follows close, jaw sharp, eyes already scanning like he’s expecting to see blood. Shepard keeps his hand on Sadie’s back, guiding her as she steps down, her face pale, lips pressed tight.
Jake doesn’t waste time. “Where the hell have you been, Ashford? Everyone’s been trying to reach you. Calls. Radio. Nothing.”
“I was on the water,” I snap back. “What’s happening?”
Julian shakes his head, his weathered face tight. “Fires. Too many to be coincidence.”
The words punch through me. “What?”
Jake’s gaze finds mine, voice clipped. “Driftwood is on fire. The community health center. McCallister’s Hardware. Even parts of Main. We’ve got evacuations underway, but it’s chaos. We need you back in uniform now.”
The ground tilts under me. Driftwood doesn’t burn. Sure, we’ve had brush fires out in the county, a stove fire or two, but this? This is something else entirely.
“That makes no damn sense,” I grit out. “There’s nothing to spark that many blazes, not in town. Not this time of year.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Jake shoots back, voice ragged. “I’ve been standing here all afternoon trying to figure out how the hell an entire town goes up like kindling when the soil’s wet from last night’s rain. I’ve got no answers. Just flames.”
Beside me, Boone rakes a hand through his hair, then fists it. “Anyone hurt?”
Julian exhales, shaking his head. “Plenty displaced. A few injuries. Nothing fatal so far. But the firehouse is stretched thin. Half our guys are already out with Elmhurst helping with the pile-up from the other night. We don’t have enough hands.”
I swear under my breath, rage curdling in my chest. Sadie edges closer to Shepard, her hand clenching in the fabric of his shirt.
“I can help,” she says suddenly, voice sharp.
All three of us whip to her. Her chin is up, stormy eyes defiant, but her body is trembling.
“No,” Shepard says before I can. “It’s safer if you’re home. I’ll take you.”
She bristles. “Don’t you dare coddle me. I’ve been in firehouses before. I can—”
“You can’t,” Boone cuts in, his voice a raw edge. He steps forward, catching her wrist, pulling her attention to him. “Sadie. Look at me. You’ve been through enough. We can’t risk you out there in this. Please. Let Shep get you home.”
Her lips part like she wants to argue, but then her gaze finds mine.
I shake my head once, firm. “We’ll tell you if we need you. But right now? This isn’t your fight.”
Her eyes glisten, but she nods reluctantly.
Shepard leans down, murmurs something soft against her temple, then kisses her hair. Boone presses his mouth to her forehead, lingering longer than he should.
When I step forward, she catches my shirt, her grip tight. I lower my head, kissing her cheek, tasting salt.
“We’ll be okay,” I whisper.
“You better be,” she whispers back.
Shep guides her toward the lighthouse road. She doesn’t look back. My chest feels ripped open watching her go, but I force myself to turn.
I face Jake. “Do you have any idea what started this?”
His jaw tightens. “I can tell you this much—it wasn’t an accident. Not with fires spread like this. Too coordinated. Too fast.”
My teeth grind. “Arson.”
“Call it what you want,” Jake says grimly.
“But something’s moving in our town, and it doesn’t look like anything we’ve seen before.
We were planning a town hall to discuss bringing in a sheriff, building out the police force.
Maybe this is some sick response. Or maybe it’s bigger than that.
I don’t know. All I know is Driftwood is burning. ”
Rage claws at my throat. I drag a hand through my hair, feel the grit of salt still clinging from the boat. Boone is pacing like a caged animal, his chest rising and falling hard.
“We’ll handle it,” I say, my voice iron. “We’ll get it under control.”
Jake nods once. “Then go.”
Boone and I turn, moving fast toward the truck. I can already smell smoke in the air, faint but rising. By the time we hit the highway, the horizon is glowing orange.
When we crest the ridge overlooking Driftwood, my breath punches out.
Flames lick the skyline. Whole blocks are lit like torches. The hardware store’s roof is caving in, sparks spitting upward, and sirens wail from every direction.
People stream down the sidewalks, kids crying, neighbors pulling hoses that won’t be enough.
It’s not a town anymore. It’s a war zone.
Boone’s knuckles are white on the dash. My chest is a furnace, everything I’ve built for control splintering. Driftwood is burning, and we don’t even know why.
But I swear to God—we’re going to find out.
The heat hits before we’re even out of the truck. Not the kind that sits on your skin in summer, but the kind that claws through you, smoke thick enough to taste. Ash rains down in flecks.
Boone bolts to the back of the truck, grabbing gear before I can even shout. I follow, tugging my jacket on, mask hanging loose around my neck, my mind splitting into two tracks: what I see in front of me and what I can’t stop seeing behind my eyes.
Sawyer.
His body pinned under beam and flame. His voice cutting off in the radio mid-sentence. The fire eating through everything until there was nothing left but smoke and silence.
I shove the memory back like I always do, but the smell makes it harder. Wood, rubber, paint—exactly the same.
“Gabe!” Boone shouts, pointing. The hardware store’s roof is collapsing in on itself, flames curling through the frame. Sparks shoot across the street toward a row of apartments, families screaming as they scramble out.
“Go left, clear the block!” I yell.
He nods and takes off, grabbing two younger firefighters on his way. I sprint toward the apartments, barking orders. “Everyone out! Get your kids, get your neighbors, move!”
A woman shoves a baby into my arms, eyes wide with terror. “Please—”
“I’ve got him,” I bite out, thrusting the infant toward a paramedic running by. “Get her out!”
The smoke chokes, thick, black, pressing into my lungs. I yank my mask up, heart pounding. My radio crackles—voices overlapping, chaos. Too many calls, not enough hands.
A crash splits the night. I whip around just in time to see the roof of McCallister’s caves in, fire roaring up like it’s feeding itself. Shouts echo as crews drag hoses, but it’s not enough. Too many flames.
My chest seizes again. Sawyer. His voice. His laugh. His blood on my hands.
Not tonight. Not again.
“Captain Ashford!” One of the rookies barrels toward me, soot streaked across his face. “There are people trapped in the health center. Second floor!”
Fuck.
I grab his shoulder. “Get backup. I’ll go.”
I sprint through the smoke, boots pounding, flames snapping at my heels. The health center is already half-engulfed, windows blown out, curtains curling black. I throw my shoulder into the door—it gives, swinging into a furnace.
The heat is unbearable. My vision blurs. But I hear it—screams. Upstairs.
I take the stairs two at a time, wood groaning under my weight. Smoke claws down my throat. My mask’s filter rattles, not enough.
Two kids are huddled at the end of the hall, their mother banging on a locked door. “My husband—he’s in there!”
I shove her toward the stairs. “Get them out. Now!”
She hesitates, sobbing.
“Go!” I roar, pointing down. “We’ll get him!”
She drags the kids, screaming, and I slam my shoulder into the locked door. Once. Twice. The wood splinters, gives way.
Inside, a man is pinned under a collapsed shelf, coughing blood. His eyes lock on mine, panicked.
“Hang on.” I wedge my hands under the frame, straining. My muscles scream, sweat pouring. The fire is closing in, beams cracking above me.
For a split second, Sawyer’s face flashes in place of his. His voice: Don’t leave me, Gabe.
I snarl, heave harder. The shelf shifts, just enough. I drag the man free, sling his arm over my shoulder. His weight is dead, heavy, but I move, half-carrying, half-dragging him down the hall.
The stairs groan, split. My boot slips, the world tilts, but I hold him tighter, forcing us down.
We hit the ground floor as another section of ceiling crashes behind us. Boone appears through the smoke, mask on, hose blasting water. His eyes widen when he sees me.
“Go!” I shout, shoving the man toward him. Boone catches him, hauls him out.
The air is choking, fire roaring too loud. I stagger after them, lungs burning, vision tunneling.
When we break into the night air, paramedics swarm. Boone grabs me by the collar, dragging me back from the door before it collapses entirely.
My knees hit the pavement. I rip my mask off, gulping air that’s still thick with smoke. My hands shake. My chest heaves. And still, all I see is Sawyer.
Boone crouches in front of me, eyes fierce, soot streaked across his jaw. “You good?”
“No,” I rasp. “But I’m here.”
Another explosion rocks the street. Flames leap higher, painting the night sky orange. People scream. Sirens wail.
Driftwood is burning alive.
And I swear to God, not one more person is going to die on my watch.