Chapter 14
Beck
The station’s quiet. Late enough that even the rookies have stopped trying to pretend they’re awake. I’m half through cleaning the kitchen, wiping out the old coffee pot, when the radio snaps to life with static and urgency.
Structure fire. Willow Lane. Smoke visible. Possibly occupied.
The tone shifts instantly. Colt Rivers, one of our best volunteers, is already on his feet, gear half on before I’ve even set the sponge down.
We move fast, the kind of speed that comes from too many late nights and not enough sleep. I clip on my radio, grab my coat, and fall into rhythm with the rest of the crew.
We’re on the truck within seconds. Engine growling under us, lights cutting through the dark.
Willow Lane doesn’t mean much at first. Another old street, too many sagging porches, and trees grown too wild. I focus on the logistics, pressure gauges, wind direction, how close the hydrants run in that part of town.
But the closer we get, the worse the feeling in my gut gets. I start to feel… constricted. That’s the only way to describe it.
Then we round the last corner.
And I see it.
The house halfway down the block.
The Marsh place.
My chest goes tight. The smoke’s thick, rolling hard from the back of the house. There’s fire in the lower windows already, curling through the frames as if it belongs there. Flames licking up the walls.
I swing down from the truck before it’s fully stopped. My boots hit gravel, radio crackling in my ear as the crew fans out around me. Orders, hydrant call outs, second engine requested.
None of it hits. Not fully.
Because she’s standing across the yard.
Lo.
Wrapped in a blanket, too thin to really keep her warm. Shoulders hunched, she’s trying to disappear into herself.
She’s not looking at anything. Just staring. Like maybe if she keeps still long enough, the whole thing will blink out of existence.
She doesn’t see me.
I move toward her slowly. As if she’s something spooked and shaking that might bolt if I breathe wrong.
“You alright?”
Her head jerks up at the sound of my voice. Eyes wide. Too bright. Her mouth opens, but no words come out at first. Then…
“I… think so. I didn’t… I woke up and it was just…”
She cuts off. Her hands clench tighter in the blanket. Her lip’s got blood on it, maybe from biting down too hard.
Mason Lane, the paramedic next to her, gives me a look. He’s usually got a funny comment to make in situations like this.
But not right now.
“She was inside. Got herself out before the back caught fully. Minor smoke exposure, maybe a burn on the left arm. She won’t let me look.”
I nod. My jaw’s already tight enough to ache.
The crew’s working the hoses in their usual rhythm, falling into the kind of flow that comes from too many years doing this and never enough time between calls.
The fire isn’t difficult. Contained mostly to the rear of the house and crawling up the porch, it dies quickly under pressure. It takes less than twenty minutes to bring it down to steam and smoke, and by then, the structure’s still standing, but it’s holding its breath.
It’s not a total loss, but it’s enough to shake the foundation.
Lo could have been killed.
I have to work to tamp down my inner Alpha.
The windows are black with soot. The siding on the back wall has blistered and curled. The roofline above the storage room is scorched, the paint peeled back like burned skin.
That smell, acrid smoke, scorched wood, wet insulation, presses into every breath and settles in the lining of my lungs.
I nod toward Colt on the ladder as he signals containment, but my attention’s already pulling toward the edges.
Because this fire doesn’t feel like a mistake.
I walk the side yard, boots sinking into soft ground as I study the pattern of damage.
The point of origin’s clear enough. The rear utility room, just under the back window, where the frame’s burned hot and fast in a concentrated spread.
The fire rose too clean, too sharp. It had help.
No sign of an appliance malfunction. No fallen candle. The wiring in that part of the house would’ve shorted, not flared.
Which leaves me with one answer.
This fire was set. Somebody meant for it to catch.
My jaw tightens. I press my glove against the edge of the porch post, feeling the anger radiating under the surface.
Someone came here with the intention of hurting her.
My Lo.
The question is whether they meant to scare her, or worse.
Who the hell would do this?
There’s no shortage of names, not in Honeysuckle Grove. Some folks never forgave the Marsh family. Thought the whole lot of them were poison.
Lo included, even when she was the one who blew the whistle.
I’ve heard the way people talk when they think no one’s listening. The way they twist the story into something easier to swallow. Villain instead of victim.
But setting fire to her house? That’s not just talk.
That’s a warning.
She’s not safe here.
I mask my growl with distance as I march around the property, scanning the perimeter again and forcing my brain to quiet.
I try to see it as a blueprint instead of a crime scene.
But the moment I look back across the yard, where Lo still sits wrapped in that thin blanket as if it’s armor, every bit of logic disappears under the pull of something more primal.
She looks like she’s been whittled down to nothing but nubs. Smoke-streaked hair pulled into a loose knot, blanket bunched tight in her fists, her whole frame curled in on itself, waiting for the next blow.
Mason’s crouched next to her, speaking low and steady, coaxing her to let him see the damage on her arm. She’s shaking her head, not defiant, just resigned. None of this surprises her.
Maybe she’s been waiting for it.
I cross the yard with slow, grounded steps, boots crunching over gravel slick with ash and runoff. She hears me coming, looks up just before I reach her, and I catch it, whatever she’s been trying to hold back.
There’s recognition in her eyes. But there’s something else, too.
Guilt, maybe. Or relief. Or both tangled together in that way she always had, where she never let anything land without second-guessing it.
“You sure you’re alright?” I ask, keeping my voice level. Not soft, but steady enough to hold onto.
She nods once, but it doesn’t mean anything. Her grip tightens on the blanket, knuckles white. She’s not cold. She’s trying not to come apart.
“Did you see anyone?” I ask, keeping the words even. “Anything out of place before it started?”
She hesitates. Her eyes flick toward the dark space beyond the fence line before they come back to mine.
“I thought I heard something,” she says slowly. “At the back of the house… I don’t know. It could’ve been a raccoon. Something moving through the brush. I was half asleep.”
But her voice dips near the end, and I know she’s holding back. She doesn’t want to make it real by saying it aloud.
She knows.
And I know that she knows.
But I don’t press. Not yet.
Someone set that fire, and whether it was revenge, punishment, or just some sick warning doesn’t matter.
Because if they were trying to scare her off, they made a mistake.
They lit it under my watch.
And whatever they were hoping to get out of it, they’re going to have to deal with me now.
I watch her for a long moment, even after Mason moves to grab more supplies. She’s barely blinking, shoulders tight beneath the blanket, like she’s afraid if she loosens her grip on the moment, she’ll fall right through it.
Her legs are drawn up as if she’s trying to make herself smaller. Her body hasn’t caught up with what just happened, and she’s hovering somewhere between shock and collapse.
I know the signs. I’ve seen them in the field… seen them in the mirror.
She’s not going to ask for help, and she won’t fall apart where someone can see. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need someone to meet her where she is and hold the edges steady.
I pull off my coat without saying anything. It’s still hot from the fire, laced with smoke and damp around the collar, but I settle it over her anyway, tucking it in around her shoulders until the fabric anchors her.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. Her fingers move, just slightly, curling around the cuff as if her body remembers something her mind hasn’t caught up with yet.
“You’re alright now,” I say. “You’re safe.”
She blinks once, her breath catching. The rest of her stays frozen, but her mouth parts like she might try to argue.
Instead, her eyes slide to mine, too bright and too raw, and she exhales slowly. It’s uneven, like she’s been holding it since the moment she woke up choking on smoke and fear.
“That was a scary thing to wake up to,” she whispers, hoarse from the smoke.
“I know,” I say, crouching in front of her. “But you got yourself out. That’s what matters the most.”
She doesn’t nod, but her grip on the blanket shifts slightly.
I glance over at Mason, who’s watching us both. He looks ready to come back over, but I give him a look, and he backs off. I’ve got this.
I slide my arm under her knees and another behind her back before she has a chance to protest. Her body’s light in my arms, too light, but she doesn’t resist the movement. She just sinks into the warmth of the coat and lets her head rest against my collar.
It’s not the first time I’ve carried her. But this time, there’s no crowd, no flashing lights, no performance. Just the quiet of the night. Just the crickets and the stale smell of smoke.
And the way she leans into me, like she’s too tired to fight it anymore. Like she doesn’t care if she dies.
It kills a part of me inside.
“I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do now,” she murmurs softly. “I knew Honeysuckle Grove wasn’t going to want me back… but I didn’t know it’d be this bad.”
My chest constricts.
I want to help her. I need to help her.
But what can I do?