Chapter 6
Erin stared at the ceiling of her bedroom, watching dust motes drift through the morning light filtering between her blinds. She’d been awake since five-thirty, her mind replaying the same fifteen seconds on an endless loop.
Lena’s hands in her hair, the taste of wine and want, the way Lena had whispered her name against her mouth like it was something to be savored.
The coffee maker beeped from the kitchen, its automatic timer indifferent to the fact that she’d forgotten to put the carafe underneath the night before. The smell of burning coffee joined the symphony of her mistakes.
She rolled out of bed, padding barefoot across the hardwood floor to survey the damage. Coffee dripped steadily onto the hot plate, filling her apartment with the bitter scent. This was what happened when you came home from kissing your professional rival and forgot basic domestic tasks.
Her phone sat on the counter where she’d dropped it the night before. Three missed texts, all from Lena, all sent after midnight.
“I reviewed the case files again and found something we missed.”
“Early briefing tomorrow? I want to go over evidence before meeting with the teams.”
“Let me know your availability for a follow-up discussion.”
Erin read each text twice, searching for clues beneath the careful, professional language. Even Lena’s texts were measured, carrying no hint of the woman who’d pressed her against the side of her car in Lavender’s parking lot, kissing her like she was drowning and Erin was air.
The shower water ran too hot while she tried to convince herself this was manageable. Professional adults had momentary lapses in judgment all the time. Stress, alcohol, the intensity of working a difficult case together—it was practically inevitable that some boundaries would blur.
Except boundaries didn’t usually blur with that much desire behind them.
Steam fogged the bathroom mirror, and Erin found herself grateful not to see her own reflection. She didn’t need to see the way her mouth was still tender or the small mark Lena’s teeth had left on her lower lip during those desperate few moments against the car.
Her uniform hung pressed and ready on the bedroom door with “Fire Marshal” emblazoned across the back in reflective letters that caught the morning light. She was professional and competent, the kind of person who was supposed to not make reckless decisions in parking lots.
She dressed with unusual care, checking her appearance twice in the hallway mirror.
Her hair fell in its usual waves around her shoulders, the red hue catching the light in ways that suddenly seemed too noticeable.
The green irises of her eyes looked brighter than normal, or maybe that was just her imagination.
Coffee. She needed coffee and a plan.
The replacement pot brewed properly this time, dark and strong enough to cut through the fog in her head. She sat at her small kitchen table, phone in hand, cursor blinking in the text field.
What did you even say to someone after that kind of kiss? After admitting hidden desire so raw it had surprised both of them?
“Good morning” seemed insufficient.
“About last night…” felt too dramatic.
“See you at work” was cowardly.
She settled on professional neutrality. “Morning. Ready for another day on the case.”
Sent. It was safe and distant enough to give them both room to pretend if they needed to.
Lena’s response came within minutes. “We should try a fresh perspective on yesterday’s interviews. Want to grab coffee before work?”
Even in daylight, even through text, Lena was giving her an out and a way to frame this as a professional collaboration that had gotten temporarily complicated by stress and proximity.
Erin stared at the message, knowing she should take the offered escape route and meet Lena somewhere public and safe, keep their conversation focused on the case, and let whatever had sparked between them fade back into professional tension.
Instead, she found herself typing, “My apartment? I have good coffee and we won’t be interrupted.”
The invitation hung in the ether for five excruciating minutes before Lena’s response appeared. “On my way.”
Erin set the phone down and looked around her apartment with new eyes.
Suddenly the unmade bed visible through her bedroom doorway seemed significant, the stack of case files on her coffee table felt like a feeble attempt at normalcy, and the morning light streaming through her kitchen windows promised no hiding spaces.
She was inviting Lena into her personal space, alone, less than twelve hours after they’d kissed with enough heat to fog car windows.
This wasn’t a professional consultation.
This was her choosing to see what would happen when they stopped pretending their partnership was purely about catching an arsonist.
Her father’s voice echoed in her memory, “Sometimes the job requires risks worth taking.”
He’d been talking about running into burning buildings, but maybe the principle applied to other kinds of dangerous territory. Erin straightened her shoulders, checked her coffee supply, and waited for Detective Lena Soto to arrive.
Twenty minutes later, Lena knocked—three precise raps that sounded like her personality. Erin opened the door to find her in full detective mode: pressed slacks, blazer, and case files tucked under her arm like armor.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet,” Lena said, stepping inside with careful politeness. “I brought all the files for the case.”
“Coffee’s ready.” Erin gestured toward the kitchen, hyperaware of how domestic this felt having Lena in her space.
They settled with steaming mugs and case files spread between them, both working very hard to pretend this was a routine, professional collaboration. Lena’s notes were meticulous as always, but Erin caught her glancing up more than necessary.
“Todd Varo had a solid alibi,” Lena said, pen clicking against her notepad. “And Nicole confirmed anyone with enough clearance could access Webb’s reports.”
“So we’re back to square one.” Erin leaned closer to read Lena’s timeline, catching the faintest scent of her perfume. “Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“We’ve been focused on who had access to Webb’s information.” Erin’s finger traced the map of fire locations. “But what if we’re asking the wrong question?”
Lena’s eyes followed Erin’s movement, their hands almost touching over the papers. “What question should we be asking?”
“Not who could target these buildings,” Erin said, suddenly seeing a pattern.
“But who would want to target these specific spaces. Look. The warehouse near the docks was an unofficial queer young adult meetup spot, the community center hosted a gay seniors’ group, and the library had teen support programs.”
Lena straightened, something shifting in her expression. “You think this is about targeting the community?”
“Exactly.” Erin felt the thrill of a breakthrough, the same rush she got from solving fire puzzles. “Someone with a grudge against Phoenix Ridge’s queer community specifically.”
They were leaning across the small table now, energized by the connection Erin made. Lena’s fingers brushed hers as she reached for the pen, and neither pulled away.
“That narrows the suspect pool considerably,” Lena said softly.
“And it gives us a motive beyond just random arson.” Erin’s voice was barely above an excited whisper.
The case files lay forgotten as they stared at each other, professional distance evaporating in the morning light streaming through the windows.
“Erin,” Lena began, her voice rougher than usual.
“I know,” Erin whispered. “Last night—”
Lena’s radio crackled to life, sharp and urgent. “All units, structure fire reported at Phoenix Ridge Community Arts Center, 412 Grove Street. Fire department responding.”
They froze, the spell broken by the reality of an emergency.
“That’s four blocks from here,” Erin said, already standing.
“I have to go.” Lena gathered files, but her eyes stayed on Erin’s face.
“Me too.” Erin grabbed her gear bag from beside the door. “I’ll see you there.”
Lena paused at the threshold, looking back. “This conversation—”
“Later,” Erin said, knowing they both needed to focus. “We’ll finish this later.”
Lena nodded and disappeared down the hallway. Erin locked her apartment and headed for her truck, her pulse racing with adrenaline that wasn’t only from the fire call.
The Phoenix Ridge Community Arts Center was a converted warehouse painted in cheerful blues and yellows, with hand-lettered signs advertising youth theater workshops and community art classes.
By the time Erin had arrived, smoke was already pouring from the building’s north side, but the fire department had responded fast.
She pulled up behind Engine 3, grabbing her gear and surveying the scene with professional eyes.
The fire was contained to one section—the backstage area, she guessed from the smoke pattern.
People clustered on the sidewalk across the street: teenagers in paint-splattered clothes, elderly volunteers clutching clipboards, and a few parents who’d been picking up kids from after-school programs.
“Marshal Vance.” Captain Hallie Hunter jogged over, her helmet tucked under her arm. “The fire started in the costume storage area. The building was still occupied when the call came in, but we got everyone out.”
Erin’s stomach dropped. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No injuries. Theater kids were rehearsing in the main space, heard the smoke alarm, and followed evacuation protocol.” Hallie gestured toward the building. “Looks like our arsonist struck again.”
“Time of ignition?”
“Approximately five-thirty. Bold bastard started the fire while people were still inside.”
Erin nodded, already analyzing the scene. The arsonist was escalating. First the empty buildings, then the library during the evening, and now this during prime after-school hours. It was far more aggressive and dangerous.