Chapter 4
COOPER
The kids were looking at us like we were heroes coming to save the day.
Seeing their faces light up like that never got old. For all the petty crap calls we ran—locked cars, smoke from burned toast, cats in vents—this was the payoff. Wide-eyed kids who thought we were heroes. It was good for the heart.
Unfortunately, everything else about this scene was bad for my blood pressure.
Adults were standing around in Santa hats and festive sweaters like they had all just come off the set of some Hallmark special.
Kids were rolling snow into lumpy snowmen and sticking pencils in for noses.
Twinkle lights had been strung in the trees outside the school.
The holiday spirit was everywhere. Infectious. Relentless.
And I refused to catch it.
Not this year. Not after last Christmas.
“Man, look at this,” Matt said. He tugged his helmet off and shook his hair. “Love the hats, love the lights, love the vibe. First of December, baby. Doesn’t get better.”
“Speak for yourself,” I muttered.
The principal, a balding man in a sweater vest patterned with little wreaths, hurried up, breath puffing in the cold. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. We’ve got the children outside, all accounted for. The problem is in the cafeteria.”
“Show me,” I said.
Matt gave a wink to a cluster of kids still waving like maniacs, then followed me and the principal through the double doors. Tony hung back while we went to investigate.
Inside, I picked up on the familiar smell of burning wires. Shit. But I didn’t see smoke. And the burning smell was lingering more than it was active. He led us into the cafeteria. The smoke had cleared, but the scene looked like Santa’s craft room had exploded.
Tables were littered with half-finished posters: lopsided Christmas trees in marker, reindeer drawn with weird square bodies, glitter glued in erratic constellations. Construction paper scraps littered the floor. A tipped-over tub of crayons had rolled to the far corner.
“Over here,” the principal said. “I think it was cocoa on a burner but obviously we can’t take any chances.”
Matt and I exchanged a look before we turned to survey the scene that was literally an accident waiting to happen. The spill on one plate had crusted into a charred, sticky mess. The smell of burnt sugar hit me. “This could’ve gone bad.”
Matt shook his head. “Looks like somebody dumped powder straight onto the coil. Boom. Instant smoke bomb.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “It’s not like we don’t put enough effort into fire prevention. Posters, drills, safety talks. Then this.”
“Hey,” Matt said, still chipper. “Nobody’s hurt. Just some toasty cocoa.”
I shot him a look. “That’s not the point.”
I pointed at the extension cord haphazardly taped to the floor. It was plugged into the same outlet as one of those karaoke machine things.
I picked up the frayed cord from one of the hotplates and looked at the principal. He looked properly embarrassed. That was when I noticed the brown sludge.
I examined the water that had pooled around the base of the hotplates.
It had mixed with cocoa powder to create what looked like chocolate milk gone wrong.
Someone had managed to spill water everywhere—on the cord, on the burner, probably on themselves.
The whole setup was a disaster waiting to happen, and somehow it had only resulted in some smoke and burnt cocoa instead of actual electrocution or a serious electrical fire.
I let out a laugh. I couldn’t help it. The sheer incompetence of it all was almost impressive. “Whoever did this managed to hit every single thing that could go wrong with a hotplate setup. It’s like they were trying to create a hazard.”
Matt sighed and shook his head. “Come on, man. Don’t be a dick. Accidents happen. That’s pretty much our whole job.”
“This wasn’t an accident,” I said, gesturing at the mess.
“This was a series of poor decisions that somehow didn’t end in tragedy.
Look at this—water everywhere, extension cords taped to the floor, equipment that belongs in a museum, and someone who apparently thought cocoa powder belonged directly on a heating element. ”
The principal cleared his throat nervously. “It was just a volunteer helping with our Yuletide Festival preparation.”
I shook my head and walked around to look for more hazards. I put my hand against the wall above the outlet. It wasn’t warm. It didn’t appear the hazard on the table had actually sparked an electrical fire. The school was old. It was built in the eighties. I doubted there had been any updates.
“This is a fire hazard,” I said again. I tried to stay calm. Not everyone knew what we did. Not everyone saw what we did. But there were kids here.
Kids.
If there had actually been a fire?
I stopped myself from going down that road. Adults could be a pain in the ass, but kids were cool in my book. Crazy and blunt, they could usually bring a smile to my face. Some little ones did some pretty stupid shit, but it wasn’t anything I didn’t do when I was their age.
Hell, I still did some stupid shit, just not anything that would put people in danger.
Matt carefully unplugged the cords jammed into one end of the extension cord. Someone had been smart enough to unplug it from the wall.
The principal wrung his hands. “We—we didn’t think—”
“That’s the problem,” I said, turning on him. “You didn’t think. You’ve got kids in this building. You can’t be running hot plates with cocoa powder spilling all over the coils. You get one flare-up, one second where somebody panics, and this whole cafeteria goes up.”
He blanched, sweat beading at his temple despite the chill. “Yes, we should have made sure everything was in order.”
“Fire safety is not a holiday decoration you put up when it’s convenient,” I pressed on. “It’s every second. You don’t cut corners when you’re responsible for children.”
Matt shifted awkwardly, but I wasn’t done.
“Now, who was responsible for this?”
The principal looked around the empty cafeteria. “We were hosting an event for the Yuletide Festival. I take full responsibility, though.”
“Let’s do the inspection,” Matt said. “Why don’t you wait outside for us?”
The principal practically ran out the door.
“Dude, get the candy cane out of your ass,” Matt scolded.
I gestured to the mess. “Do you know what would have happened if this actually sparked a fire?”
“I do. The kids would have been evacuated. Stop worrying about things that didn’t happen.”
I shook my head. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”
We moved through the empty hallways with the thermal imaging camera, checking for hot spots in the walls. The device beeped softly as I swept it back and forth, looking for any signs that the electrical issue had spread beyond the cafeteria.
“You know,” Matt said, “you used to be fun at Christmas. I remember when we were kids, you’d get so excited about the school Christmas party that you’d bounce off the walls for weeks.”
I kept my eyes on the thermal reader. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not that long. We’re talking like fifteen years.” He paused by a bulletin board covered in construction paper turkeys left over from Thanksgiving. “Remember Mrs. Welch’s class? I think you were in first grade. I was in third. You volunteered to be one of the wise men in the Christmas play.”
“I was six. I didn’t know better.”
Matt laughed. “You practiced your lines for weeks. ‘We bring gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.’ You said it with this serious little voice like you were delivering the performance of your life.”
I swept the camera along the baseboard, trying to ignore him. The temperature readings were all normal. No hidden fires lurking behind the walls.
“And remember the winter formal in middle school?” Matt continued, clearly on a roll. “You spent two months working up the courage to ask Cindy Morrison, and when you finally did—”
“She said no,” I finished flatly. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“But then you ended up having a great time anyway. We spent the whole night making fun of everyone’s dancing.”
We turned the corner into the main hallway. The walls were lined with the typical motivational posters. The kind of generic inspiration that meant nothing to anyone over the age of ten.
“That was before I knew better,” I said.
“Knew better about what?”
I stopped walking and faced him. “About getting my hopes up. About thinking things work out the way they’re supposed to. About believing in Christmas magic and happily ever after and all that bullshit.”
Matt’s expression softened. “Coop—”
“No.” I held up my hand. “Don’t give me the speech about how Lynn doesn’t define my future. I’ve heard it. From you, from Katrina, from half the town. I get it. But you know what? Some of us learn from our mistakes.”
“What mistake? Falling in love? Trusting someone?”
I turned back to the thermal camera, focusing on the readings. “Believing it would last.”
We walked in silence for a few minutes, checking classroom after classroom. The school felt smaller than I remembered.
“I think we’re good,” Matt said. “Let’s go give them the all-clear.”
We made our way back through the cafeteria. The principal was hovering near the door.
“Are we good?” he asked with a worried expression.
“It’s clear,” Matt said.
“Who is responsible for that table?” I asked. “We’d like to explain a few things, to prevent this from happening again.”
“Cooper,” Matt groaned.
Tony was holding court with several kids. He looked our way, silently questioning us. Matt gave him a thumbs-up.
The principal opened his mouth, closed it again, and glanced toward an area where I recognized Victoria Murphy.
And that’s when I saw her.
Or rather, that’s when she saw me and promptly ducked behind a snowman.
For a second my brain refused to connect the dots. There was no way. It had been years. High school, graduation. She was long gone, living some city life, last I’d heard. She wasn’t supposed to be here.
But that was definitely her.
Joy fucking Murphy.
My gut did a strange, unwelcome lurch.
Matt noticed the way I froze. “What?” he asked, following my stare. He squinted, then grinned. “Wait a sec… is that…”
“Don’t,” I muttered.
“Oh, it is. That’s Joy Murphy. Holy hell, Coop, didn’t you—”
“Shut it.” My voice came out sharper than I intended.
Joy Murphy. My sister’s best friend. The girl who lived in my house half the time growing up. She was off-limits, completely untouchable—and unforgettable.
And now, apparently, she was the woman who’d nearly burned down an elementary school making hot chocolate.
Unbelievable.
It was exactly why I hated fucking Christmas.