Rogue #4
There were more. Dozens of them, tucked between the hate mail and the threats.
Firefighters' families. Former crew members from other stations.
People who'd lost loved ones in fires and understood the impossible weight of those decisions.
People who'd been there, who knew what it meant to watch conditions change and have to choose between following orders and following instincts honed by years of training and experience.
For every hundred people who hated me, there was one person who understood. It didn't balance out. Didn't erase the guilt or the suspension or the homes that had burned. But it meant something.
It meant I wasn't completely alone in this wilderness.
I showed the emails to Vera that night, needing her to see that not everyone thought I was a monster, that some people understood what I'd been facing on that ridge.
She read each one carefully, her expression softening with every message. When she finished, she looked up at me with tears in her eyes.
"See?" she said softly. "You're not alone. And you're not wrong."
"It doesn't change anything though. Doesn't change the suspension or the investigation or—"
"It changes everything." She took my hand. "Because it means you have allies. People who understand. People who are willing to say that you made the right call."
"There aren't enough of them."
"Yet." She squeezed my fingers. "But there will be. The truth has a way of coming out eventually. And when it does, all these people who are condemning you now will have to face the fact that they were wrong."
I wanted to believe her, to trust that justice would prevail, that the investigation would clear me, that I'd get my job back, and this would all become a bad memory.
But the world had taught me that justice wasn't guaranteed.
That sometimes good people lost everything while the truth stayed buried.
That sometimes the story that got told wasn't the true one; it was just the one that was most convenient, most sensational, most likely to get clicks and views and engagement.
Still, I saved those emails. Printed them out and kept them in a folder, physical proof that not everyone thought I was reckless or dangerous or wrong.
On the nights when the guilt threatened to drown me, when the comments and articles and accusations became too much, I'd pull them out and read them again.
Reminders that somewhere, someone understood.
It wasn't much. But right now, it was all I had.
Vera made it two more weeks before she broke.
I found her on the bathroom floor at 2 AM, her phone in her hand, scrolling through comment after comment while tears streamed down her face.
She'd been trying to hide it from me, the toll the harassment was taking, the way it was wearing her down.
But there were only so many times you could read strangers saying vile things about you before something gave way.
"Hey," I said softly, kneeling beside her. "Baby, give me the phone."
"I shouldn't look." Her voice was wrecked, broken. "I know I shouldn't. But I can't stop."
I took the phone from her hands, not looking at whatever horror she'd been reading, and set it on the counter. Then I gathered her into my arms, right there on the bathroom tile, and held her while she sobbed.
"I'm sorry," she kept saying. "I'm sorry, I should be stronger, I should be able to ignore them—"
"No." I tightened my arms around her. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing."
"But you're going through so much worse, and I'm falling apart over some comments.”
"Vera." I tilted her face up, made her look at me. "You're allowed to fall apart. You're allowed to be hurt by this. It doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. Remember?”
She nodded and leaned into me, her face pressed against my neck, her body shaking with sobs. I held her through it, stroking her hair, pressing kisses to her temple, murmuring reassurances that I wasn't sure either of us believed.
Eventually, the sobs quieted to hiccups, then to shaky breathing, then to silence. We sat there on the bathroom floor, wrapped around each other, while the night pressed in around us.
"I hate this," she whispered. "I hate what they're doing to you. To us."
"I know."
"I hate that I can't fix it. That I can't make it stop."
"You're here. That's enough."
She pulled back, looking at me with red, swollen eyes. "Is it, though? Is it enough when I'm breaking down at 2 AM over people I'll never meet?"
"Yes." I cupped her face in my hands. "Yes, it's enough. Because you're still here. Still choosing this. Still choosing us. That's everything, Vera."
She closed her eyes, leaning into my touch. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I know."
"Even when it's hard. Even when I'm falling apart on bathroom floors."
"Even then."
We stayed there for a while longer, finding strength in each other when we had none for ourselves. Eventually, I helped her up, guided her back to bed, held her until she fell into an exhausted sleep.
I stayed awake, listening to her breathe, thinking about Helen's words. Be the person she believes you are.
Vera believed I was worth fighting for. Worth the harassment and the pressure and the bathroom floor breakdowns at 2 AM. She believed in me when I didn't believe in myself, when the whole world seemed determined to paint me as a villain.
I had to find a way to be worthy of that faith.
With the hearing approaching quickly, I knew I'd have to act.