Chapter 9 Shane
Shane
I wanted to kiss her.
It had been three days since the restaurant.
Three days since I'd watched her face soften in the candlelight as Rosa fussed over us.
Three days since she'd told me everything, her voice steady even when the words weren't, and I'd watched thirteen years of hurt spill out across the red-checkered tablecloth.
Her parents, who'd given her an ultimatum and then followed through on it. David, who’d promised to take care of her and then slowly, systematically proved he wasn’t up to the task.
The tiny apartment in Flushing. The two jobs.
The night classes. The years of doing it alone because everyone who should have stayed had left.
And still, after all of that, she'd built a life, raised an incredible kid, and showed up every day for other people's children because she knew what it felt like when no one showed up.
I'd wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt.
Standing by the entrance of her building, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes, close enough to smell her shampoo, something floral and soft. She’d been looking at me like she was waiting for me. Like maybe she wanted it too.
I'd leaned in. Pressed my cheek to hers instead. Felt her breath catch, felt her lean into me for just a second, felt my hand come up to cradle the back of her head like it belonged there.
And then I'd walked away.
Because she'd asked for friendship. Because she'd trusted me to respect that. Because pushing her before she was ready would make me no different from every other man who’d taken what he wanted without caring what it cost her.
But God, I wanted more.
I wanted to wake up next to her.
I wanted to kiss her good morning over terrible coffee.
I wanted to come home after a brutal shift and have her be the first thing I saw.
I wanted to build something real with her, something that lasted, something that looked like what my parents had.
I wanted to be hers. I wanted her to be mine.
The wanting was a constant ache now, lodged somewhere beneath my ribs, constant and unrelenting.
Every text from her made it worse. Every late-night phone call, where I could hear the smile in her voice.
Every moment I spent in her apartment, watching her grade papers or laugh at something Zoe said, feeling like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I was in deep. Deeper than I'd ever been with anyone.
And I had no idea what to do about it—except want her anyway.
The fires were getting closer.
Too close.
Fourth school in three months. This one was P.S.
122 in Sunnyside, an elementary school three blocks from a park where kids played soccer on weekends.
Empty, thank God. But fully involved by the time Engine 295 rolled up, flames clawing out of the second-floor windows, smoke billowing black into the night sky.
We worked the scene hard. Knocking down flames, searching rooms, praying we wouldn't find a body.
The heat was brutal, the kind that seared through your gear and made every breath feel like swallowing fire.
By the time we got it under control, I was drenched in sweat, my lungs burned, and my shoulders ached from hauling hose.
They found the message spray-painted on the gymnasium wall. The fire hadn't reached it yet.
LET THE SYSTEM BURN.
Same handwriting. Same accelerant. Same rage.
Garrett photographed the scene for the investigation file.
I stood next to Brian in what used to be the library, both of us staring at the wreckage. Tiny desks were warped by the heat. Picture books had been reduced to ash. A reading corner where beanbag chairs had melted into unrecognizable shapes.
"He's escalating," Brian said quietly.
I nodded. The gaps between fires were getting shorter. The locations were closer together. Whoever was doing this wasn't slowing down.
They were building toward something.
I thought about Maya’s school. P.S. 147. The arsons were getting closer. Fifteen minutes from here. Same district. Same type of building. I needed to see her. Needed to make sure she understood this wasn't just news anymore. It was close. Too close.
The press arrived as we were finishing up.
Vans with satellite dishes. Reporters jockeying for position behind the yellow tape. The school fires had become a story now as the pattern emerged. The public was demanding answers. Parents were demanding protection for their kids.
Brian went to give a statement. I hung back, watching the crowd, when I noticed Garrett go still beside me.
Not tense. Not alert. Frozen in place.
I followed his gaze to the press line. A woman with a recorder was interviewing one of the bystanders. Tall, maybe five-seven, dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
She moved with purposeful efficiency, the kind that said she had somewhere to be and wasn't wasting time getting there. Tailored pants, a blazer despite the heat, a leather messenger bag slung across her body, and press credentials layered over each other.
She looked like every other serious journalist I'd ever seen.
Except Garrett looked like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
"Stone." I kept my voice low. "You good?"
He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked toward the engine without a word.
I watched him go. In three years, I'd never seen Garrett rattled. The man ran into burning buildings without flinching. Pulled bodies from wreckage and slept fine that night. Nothing touched him.
But one look at a reporter, and he couldn't get away fast enough.
I turned back to the press line. The woman was wrapping up her interview, thanking the bystander with a quick nod. She was good, I could tell. The kind of journalist who asked sharp questions and didn't accept easy answers. Her press badge said New York Times.
She turned to leave. Her gaze swept the scene one last time. Paused, just for a moment, on the spot where Garrett had disappeared.
Something flickered across her face, gone before I could place it.
I filed it away. Whatever history existed between Garrett and the Times reporter, it was his business. But I added it to the growing list of things I didn't understand about the quietest man on my crew.
The next morning, right after shift change, I drove straight to Maya’s school.
I couldn't shake the image of those tiny desks warped by heat. The picture books turned to ash. The reading corner where beanbag chairs had melted into shapes no child should ever see.
Four schools. All in Queens. All elementary or middle. Whoever was doing this had a pattern, a purpose—and they were getting bolder.
Maya's school was fifteen minutes from last night's fire. Same district. Same type of building. Same kids who deserved to feel safe when they walked through those doors.
I found her in her classroom during her lunch break, red pen in hand, a half-eaten sandwich forgotten beside a stack of quizzes waiting to be graded. She looked up when I knocked on the doorframe, and her face softened into a smile that made my chest ache.
"Hey." She set down her pen. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you." I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. "And I wanted to talk to you about something."
Her smile faded. She could read me too well already. "What's wrong?"
"There was another fire last night. School in Sunnyside."
"I saw it on the news this morning." She folded her arms across her chest. "That's four now."
"Yeah." I leaned against one of the tiny desks, trying to look casual and failing completely. "They're getting closer, Maya. Same district. Same type of schools."
"You think our school could be a target?"
"I don't know. But I don't like the pattern." I rubbed a hand over my jaw. "Promise me you won't take any chances. If something feels wrong—even a little—you get out first and ask questions later."
She studied me for a moment. Whatever she saw in my face made her expression soften.
"I promise." She uncrossed her arms."I'll pay attention. I'll be smart about it."
The tension in my chest eased. Just a little.
She picked up her sandwich, took a bite, and raised an eyebrow at me. "You drove all the way here just to tell me to be careful?"
"Maybe I also wanted to see you."
"You saw me four days ago."
"Four days is a long time."
She laughed, shaking her head, but I caught the flush creeping up her neck. The way her eyes lingered on my face a moment longer than necessary.
My fingers twitched at my sides. I wanted to close the distance between us. Tangle my hands in her hair. Find out if she tasted as good as I imagined.
Instead, I pushed off the desk and headed for the door.
"I'll see you tomorrow night?" I asked.
"Zoe has a project due on Friday. I promised I'd help her with it.”
“I'll bring pizza."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." I paused at the door and looked back at her. "I want to."
Her smile was soft. Real. The kind that made me want to be worthy of it.
"See you tomorrow, Shane."
I walked out of that school with the smell of smoke still lingering in my memory and the taste of fear still sitting cold in my stomach.
But underneath it, something else. Something warmer. Unexpected.
Hope.
That next evening, I showed up at Maya’s with two pizzas and a six-pack of root beer in my hands.
Zoe answered the door, took one look at the boxes, and stepped aside. "Pepperoni?"
"Half pepperoni, half supreme."
"Supreme has olives."
"I'll eat the olives."
She considered this, then nodded. "Acceptable."
Maya was at the kitchen table, surrounded by what looked like an entire solar system.
Styrofoam balls in various sizes. Paint bottles. Glitter. So much glitter. She had a smear of blue on her cheek and a slightly manic look in her eyes that said she was one mishap away from losing it.
"Don't ask," she said before I could say anything.
"I wasn't going to." I set the pizzas on the counter. "Looks like you've got it under control."
"That's a generous interpretation."