Chapter 17
Sam
The couch was too short for me by a good six inches.
I woke with my neck at an angle no adult spine was meant to hold. Morning light came through the wrong window. The smell of coffee pulled me out of a dream I couldn't remember. For a moment I didn't know where I was.
Then I remembered. Jamie. Rosie. The fire.
I sat up. My back protested. Worth it.
Jamie stood at the counter with her back to me, pouring coffee into a mug. She was wearing the flannel I'd bought her yesterday, her hair damp from the shower, dark and heavy against her shoulders. She looked at home in my space in a way that made my chest tight.
"Hey," I said.
She turned. "Hey." She held up the coffee pot. "I hope this is okay. I couldn't sleep."
"It's more than okay."
"I kind of took over your kitchen."
"Jamie." I stood and stretched the knots out of my back. "Stop apologizing. You can take over anything you want."
That didn’t sound right.
She almost smiled.
I crossed to the kitchen and took the mug she offered. Our fingers brushed, and I felt it longer than I should have.
"Did you sleep well?" I asked.
"A little." She wrapped both hands around her mug. "Thank you for letting us take your bed.”
Before I could respond, Rosie appeared in the hallway, rumpled and confused. Her eyes scanned the unfamiliar space until they landed on me. Something in her face relaxed.
I found cartoons for her. Made her cereal. She didn't complain, just ate quietly with Biscuit tucked under her arm.
Jamie watched from the kitchen. Her eyes met mine over Rosie's head.
I could get used to this. Waking up and seeing Jamie’s face when I opened my eyes.
I shook off the thought and turned my attention back to Rosie.
The fire marshal arrived at 11:00 a.m. He was older, mid-fifties, with a weathered face and the kind of calm that came from decades of delivering news people didn't want to hear.
He shook my hand, nodded when I introduced myself as a firefighter from Station 33, and settled into the chair I offered him.
Rosie stayed on the couch with Biscuit, eyes on her cartoons, while we talked in the kitchen.
Jamie had pulled her hair back and changed into jeans and a clean shirt. She looked composed. Ready.
"Miss Donovan." The fire marshal stood to shake her hand. "Thank you for making time. I know this is difficult."
"Of course."
He pulled out a notebook and moved through the preliminary questions efficiently. Any electrical issues with the house? No. Gas leaks? No. Candles, space heaters, anyone smoke inside? No, no, no.
"What time did you go to bed that night?"
"Around 10:00 p.m. Maybe a little after."
"Notice anything unusual that evening? Sounds outside, someone near the house?"
Jamie hesitated. "There were some boys. Teenagers from the neighborhood. They'd been smoking near the side of the house for weeks, leaving their cigarette butts in the grass." She glanced at me. "I asked them to stop that evening. Before I went inside."
The fire marshal was quiet for a moment, studying his notes.
"The cigarette butts were in the bin, Miss Donovan."
Jamie blinked. "What?"
"All of them. Just like you asked." He looked up at her. "Seems like the boys listened."
"Then how did the fire start?"
He didn't answer right away. The silence stretched long enough that the air in the room changed.
"The fire originated on the exterior of the house. Low on the wall, near where you described the boys smoking." He paused. "We found traces of accelerant. The burn pattern is inconsistent with any accidental cause."
Jamie stared at him.
"This was arson, Miss Donovan. Someone set that fire deliberately."
The word hung in the air.
"Is there anyone who might want to hurt you?" he asked. "Any conflicts recently? Disputes with neighbors, coworkers? Anyone who's made threats?"
Jamie opened her mouth. Closed it.
I watched her face change.
"There was a note," she said quietly.
The fire marshal straightened. "A note?"
"The night of the fire. Someone left a note on our doorstep telling me to go back to New York." She swallowed.
I froze completely.
"Do you still have it?"
Her face fell. "It was in my purse. In the house."
Gone. Burned with everything else.
The fire marshal wrote it down. "Did you recognize the handwriting? Any idea who might have sent it?"
"No. I thought it was just someone who didn't like me pushing for reforms."
"Why didn't you report it?"
Jamie glanced at me. Her voice was small. "I was going to tell Sam the next morning. He was on shift that night. I didn't want to worry him while he was working."
Something tightened in my chest.
The fire marshal nodded. Made more notes. "We've turned this over to the police. A detective will be in touch." He set his card on the table. "If you remember anything else—anything at all—call me."
Jamie walked him to the door.
When she came back into the kitchen, I was waiting.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
She didn't sit down. "I was going to. The next morning. I just—" She shook her head. "You were at work. I didn't want you distracted. And I didn't think it was serious. I thought it was just words."
"Someone threatened you, Jamie."
"I know that now."
I wanted to be angry. I couldn't be. She was standing in my apartment, her childhood home reduced to ash, a four-year-old watching cartoons ten feet away. She'd been carrying everything alone for weeks. Of course she didn't call.
"I want you to tell me these things, Jamie. Even if I'm on shift."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded. "I will."
The way she said it made me realize I must have sounded like I was scolding her.
I exhaled. Ran a hand through my hair. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—" I shook my head. "I just worry."
Jamie looked at me. A small smile crossed her face, the first real one I'd seen since the fire.
"I know," she said softly.
She stepped closer and pressed a kiss to my cheek. Brief. Warm. Gone before I could react.
Then she turned back to the kitchen, already reaching for her phone. She had a list of calls to make—insurance, the lawyer, Rosie's school.
I stayed where I was for a moment longer.
I tried not to think about the warmth of her lips against my cheek. The way she'd looked up close, the freckles across her nose, the tired softness in her eyes.
I didn't let myself think about any of it.
Megan arrived in the late afternoon with grocery bags in both arms and Danny trailing behind her carrying a casserole dish.
"Don't argue with me," she said before Jamie could open her mouth. "I brought food. You're going to eat it."
She swept into the apartment like she owned it, setting bags on the counter, pulling Jamie into a hug that lasted longer than a casual greeting. Danny caught my eye and tilted his head toward the door. I followed him into the hallway.
"How bad?" he asked, voice low.
"Arson. The fire marshal confirmed it this morning."
Danny's jaw tightened. "Jesus."
"There was a note too. Before the fire. Someone told her to go back to New York."
He was quiet for a moment. Processing.
"You think it could be someone in the department?" I asked. "Someone who doesn't want the reforms moving forward?"
Danny exhaled. "I'm not going to lie to you, Sam. The guys aren't exactly lining up to support this thing. But arson? With a kid inside?" He shook his head. "I can't see it. Guys might grumble about change, but they're not killers."
I wanted to believe him. I mostly did.
"You holding up?" he asked.
"Yeah."
He didn't push. That was Danny. He knew when words weren't going to help.
We went back inside. Megan was still unpacking groceries, filling my cabinets with things I'd never think to buy.
Juice boxes. Goldfish crackers. The kind of cereal with cartoon characters on the box.
Rosie watched from the couch, clutching Biscuit, her eyes tracking Megan's movements with quiet interest.
Before they left, Megan turned to Jamie. "You know Danny and I have a guest room. It's small, but it's yours if you need it."
"We're okay here. Really."
Megan glanced at me. Then she crossed the kitchen and pulled me into a hug. I wasn't expecting it.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For getting them out."
I didn't know what to say. I just nodded.
She pulled back and held my gaze. "You take care of her, Sam Reeves."
"I will."
Danny shook my hand at the door. "Call if you need anything. I mean it."
"Thanks."
The day had been long even though we'd barely left the apartment. First the fire marshal, then Megan and Danny. Jamie was on the phone for hours talking to people who needed to be notified of the situation.
Rosie was finally asleep in my bed with Biscuit tucked under her arm. Jamie and I sat in the living room with the weight of the day settling around us.
My mind kept circling back to the same question. Who would do this?
Guys might grumble about change, but they're not killers.
Danny was right. It couldn't be someone from the fire department. But if not them, then who?
"Maybe they're right."
I looked up. Jamie was staring at her hands.
"What?"
"The note. 'Go back to New York.'" She didn't meet my eyes. "Maybe I should. Maybe whoever did this will stop if I just leave."
I didn't say anything.
"I still have my apartment. My job." Her voice was quiet. "Rosie could start fresh somewhere safe."
I wasn't sure New York qualified as "safe," but I kept that to myself. I wanted to tell her to stay. That I'd protect her. That we'd figure it out together.
But that wasn't my choice to make.
"Someone burned down our house." Her voice cracked. "With Rosie inside. What if next time you're not there?"
The question hung between us.
I was quiet for a moment. "Whatever you decide, I'll help you. I just want you and Rosie to be okay."
Jamie looked at me. Something flickered in her eyes—gratitude, maybe. Or something harder to name.
She nodded. "We should get some sleep."
"Yeah."
She disappeared down the hallway. The bedroom door clicked shut behind her.
I sat there in the dark, listening to the silence she'd left behind.
The apartment felt emptier than it had before.