Flashpoint (Copper Ridge)

Chapter 1

Riley

The acrid tang of smoke mixed with wet ash hits my nostrils the moment my boots crunch onto the gravel lot.

Three days post-blaze, and the warehouse skeleton still exhales ghostly wisps that make my eyes water behind my glasses.

Perfect conditions for evidence collection.

Nothing says "fun Monday morning" like sifting through soggy char while my sinuses stage a full revolt.

My camera emerges from its protective case, and the familiar weight settles my nerves. This is what I'm good at. Evidence. Patterns. The story that fire tells when you know how to listen.

Being the youngest certified arson investigator in Copper Ridge Fire Department history means plenty of practice talking to myself at crime scenes. It's either that or start having philosophical debates with burned debris, and I'm not quite there yet. I'm only in my late twenties, not eighties.

Give me another year of dealing with Lieutenant Aiden Gentry, though, and all bets are off.

The burn patterns here tell a story that definitely doesn't match the "electrical fire" narrative someone's trying to sell. Each photograph captures angles that will matter later—assuming this investigation leads to where my gut says it will.

Click. A V-shaped scorch mark climbs the concrete wall like someone drew an arrow pointing straight to insurance fraud.

Click. Debris patterns that scream accelerant use louder than my neighbor's midnight karaoke sessions.

Click. Metal fixtures warped in ways that would make a yoga instructor weep with envy.

My field recorder emerges from my jacket pocket. "Point of origin approximately fifteen feet from southwest corner. Burn patterns consistent with—"

The rumble of a diesel engine drowns out my voice. Then comes the wail of sirens, which seems excessive given that this fire's been out for seventy-two hours. But no, someone has to make an entrance like they're arriving at a four-alarm blaze instead of a cold investigation site.

Engine 19's rebuilt Detroit diesel has a distinctive throat-clearing rumble. Kind of like its lieutenant.

Sure enough, Aiden jumps down from the cab with that irritatingly athletic grace that belongs in a slow-motion sports drink commercial. Dark hair catches the morning sunlight. Turnout coat stretches across shoulders that have no business being that broad. Those brown eyes that—

Nope. Not cataloging anything. I'm a professional with work to do and zero interest in how unfairly photogenic he manages to be at eight in the morning.

"Whitaker, establish a perimeter on the east side," he calls out, his voice carrying that natural authority that makes people actually want to follow orders. "Johnson, check those support beams on the west wall. Nobody goes near the structure until we confirm it's stable."

Time to establish boundaries before Lieutenant Hollywood turns my crime scene into his personal photo op.

My steel-toed boots crunch through broken glass as I straighten from my crouch. "Lieutenant Gentry." All the authority five years of crime scene management can muster goes into that greeting. "This is an active investigation. Your crew needs to maintain distance from my evidence grid."

He turns, and his eyes actually twinkle.

Twinkle. Like he's some kind of Disney prince who fights fires instead of dragons. The man has weaponized charm to the point where it should require a permit and a background check.

"Pritchard." He strolls over with his helmet tucked under one arm like he's posing for a charity calendar.

Which, knowing him, he probably is. "We need to ensure structural safety before you spend all day playing detective.

Can't have Copper Ridge's finest investigator getting squished by a falling beam. "

Playing detective.

Three responses spring to mind, all of which would get me written up by HR.

"This isn't a game, Gentry." The words come out sharper than intended as I step closer. Close enough to see those laugh lines around his eyes that suggest he finds most of life amusing. Must be nice. "Evidence preservation protocols exist for reasons that apparently exceed your comprehension."

His eyebrows rise, and something shifts in his expression.

Genuine surprise, maybe. "My comprehension?

I comprehend just fine. Those support beams"—he points at the skeletal remains of the warehouse—"are held up by hopes, dreams, and maybe some old chewing gum.

But hey, if you want to risk becoming a Riley pancake for the sake of protocol, be my guest."

The structural engineer's report makes a satisfying whap as I pull it from my jacket and wave it between us. "This section was cleared yesterday. But I suppose you were too busy updating your Instagram to read the safety briefings."

That lands. His easy confidence flickers for half a second before smoothing over.

"Right, because God forbid anyone connect with the community in ways that don't involve spreadsheets and technical jargon." His volume rises to match mine.

"Some of us prefer competence over popularity contests."

"And some of us understand that public support keeps this department funded!" He's loud enough now that Johnson stops pretending to check beams and just openly stares. "But sure, let's prioritize your precious protocols over actually serving the people who pay our salaries."

We're standing toe-to-toe. Close enough that his cologne—something woodsy and warm that has no business being this distracting—mixes with smoke and coffee.

The gleaming red fire trucks provide an absurdly dramatic backdrop for what is essentially two grown adults having a kindergarten-level argument about who gets to play in the burned-down warehouse.

A small crowd has gathered. His crew. A few curious civilians. Is that Mrs. Torres from the corner bakery?

Great. Free entertainment with the morning commute.

"You know what?" My boots grind debris into dust as I pivot. "Fine. Do whatever you want. When you compromise my scene and a potential arsonist walks free, I'll make sure everyone knows exactly who to thank. Including the DA."

"Riley, wait—"

His voice follows as I storm toward my equipment kit near the south wall. Footsteps crunch behind me. He's actually following.

"What?" No slowing down. My mother always said stubbornness would get me in trouble. She also said I'd never land an arson job with my attitude, so her prediction record is questionable.

"Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot—"

"The wrong foot?" The spin happens so fast he nearly collides with me.

"Gentry, we've been on the wrong foot since the day you started here and immediately got yourself featured in that 'Hottest First Responders' article.

Do you know how hard it is to be taken seriously as a female investigator when the media keeps focusing on which firefighters belong in a calendar? "

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "I didn't ask for that article."

"No, but you didn't exactly discourage it either.

" Three years of frustration bubble up like chemicals in an unstable reaction.

"Every time I present findings at a council meeting, someone brings up how we need more 'community engagement' like yours.

As if posting thirst traps in turnout gear is equivalent to solving arson cases. "

"Thirst traps?" His voice cracks on the words—caught between indignation and what might be embarrassment. "That's what you think I'm doing?"

"What else would you call that charity car wash post? You posted seventeen different angles. Seventeen."

"I was raising money for the children's hospital!"

"One angle would have accomplished the same thing!"

We're both breathing hard now. The morning sun has climbed higher, casting dramatic shadows through the warehouse's skeletal remains. Everything smells like smoke and righteous indignation.

His hand reaches toward my shoulder—probably offering some patronizing comfort—and I jerk away on instinct. The movement is sharp enough that my boot catches on debris.

The stumble happens in slow motion. Arms pinwheeling. Dignity evacuating the premises.

Aiden's hand catches my elbow, steadying me with surprising gentleness. Two seconds of contact. Two seconds of his palm warm against my arm. Two seconds where his face is close enough that the morning light catches flecks of amber in his brown eyes.

Two seconds that feel like a total betrayal of my professional composure.

I don't notice the Gazette reporter near the perimeter until much later. By then, it's far too late.

We spring apart like we've touched a live wire. His hand hovers in the air for a moment before dropping to his side. My elbow tingles where he grabbed it. Annoying. Not worth analyzing.

"I should get back to my evidence." A strand of copper hair has escaped my bun. I tuck it behind my ear with more force than necessary.

"Right. Evidence. Important." He clears his throat. "We'll work on the north section. Away from your grid."

"Good. That's... good."

Awkward silence stretches between us. The air feels charged, like the atmosphere before a flashover.

"Lieutenant!" Whitaker's voice cuts across the lot. "You need to see this!"

Aiden backs away slowly, like I might explode if he moves too fast. Given my current state, not entirely inaccurate.

Evidence collection resumes with the focused determination usually reserved for bomb disposal.

The burn patterns are fascinating. Much more interesting than thinking about how Aiden Gentry's hand felt warm through my jacket.

Or how for just a moment, leaning into his grip instead of pulling away seemed tempting.

Nope. Not thinking about any of that.

Evidence to collect. Patterns to analyze. Crime to solve.

If my hands shake slightly while adjusting camera settings, it's obviously from too much coffee this morning.