Chapter 3
Riley
The crowd at Riverside Park Pavilion is approximately three times larger than Hazel promised.
My stomach does a slow barrel roll as I scan the sea of faces pressed against the stone columns, families spreading picnic blankets, local news crews adjusting equipment like vultures preparing for a feast.
So much for "intimate community gathering."
Aiden's hand finds mine as we approach the makeshift stage, his fingers warm and steady. The contact should feel rehearsed. Fake. Like the four-second practice session in my lab that I definitely haven't been thinking about for three days straight.
It doesn't feel fake. That's the problem.
"Breathe," he murmurs near my ear. "They're here for fire safety tips, not to dissect our relationship."
Easy for him to say. The man was born for crowds. I was born for evidence lockers and chemical analysis—environments where no one expects me to smile on command.
Captain Elena Vasquez takes the podium, silver-streaked hair catching the afternoon light.
She's got the kind of commanding presence that makes people pay attention without demanding it.
"Today we're proud to showcase not only our fire safety expertise, but the personal dedication of our team members. "
Translation: watch the awkward investigator pretend to be in love.
Camera flashes explode as we step forward. My glasses catch the light, probably making me look like a deer caught in headlights. A very nerdy, extremely uncomfortable deer.
Aiden squeezes my hand. His thumb traces a small circle across my knuckles—invisible to the crowd, but my entire nervous system registers the contact like a five-alarm call.
Aiden launches into his presentation about fire prevention with that natural confidence I used to find insufferable. Now, watching him explain ladder operations to a cluster of eager kids, I'm finding it... problematic.
A girl with pigtails and grass-stained knees pushes to the front. "How high does the ladder go?"
"Can you really break down doors?" A boy bounces beside her.
Aiden crouches to their eye level without missing a beat, his entire demeanor shifting to match their energy. When he notices a shy six-year-old hanging back, he unclips his helmet and walks over.
"Want to try this on? It's heavier than it looks."
The kid's face lights up like Christmas morning. His mother fumbles for her phone, but Aiden's focus stays on the boy, adjusting the strap with careful attention.
"There you go, buddy. Now you look official."
The kid beams. His mother mouths "thank you" over his head, and Aiden just nods like this is nothing. Like making a shy child feel special is just part of the job description.
Something twists in my chest—warm and unexpected.
He's good with kids. Really good. Not performative good—genuine good. The kind of good that comes from actually caring whether a shy six-year-old feels included.
An elderly woman tugs my sleeve. "You two make such a lovely couple. How long have you been together?"
The question sends my brain into immediate crisis mode. Hazel gave us talking points for this. What were the talking points? Something about organic connection and mutual respect and—
"It's recent," I hear myself say. "We're still figuring things out."
The woman pats my arm. "The best ones take time, dear. My Howard and I couldn't stand each other for the first two years. Married fifty-three years next month."
Fifty-three years. With someone who started as an adversary.
I file that information away and excuse myself to check on... something. Anything. The fire truck, maybe. Fire trucks don't ask uncomfortable questions about relationship timelines.
Aiden catches my eye across the crowd and raises an eyebrow. You okay?
I give him a small nod that probably reads as "totally fine" and absolutely does not communicate "an elderly stranger just asked about our relationship timeline and I had a minor stroke."
The demonstration continues. Aiden walks the crowd through stop-drop-and-roll with the help of three enthusiastic children who treat the ground like a gymnastics mat.
He explains smoke detector maintenance using props that Hazel must have prepared.
He makes fire safety genuinely entertaining, which shouldn't be possible and yet here we are.
I hate that I'm noticing this. I hate that it matters.
"Quite the publicity stunt."
The voice slices through the lighter atmosphere like a scalpel. Lieutenant Wade approaches with military-straight posture, his pressed uniform radiating disapproval. Sharp blue eyes fix on Aiden with calculated precision.
"Hope the cameras are getting your good side, Gentry."
The temperature drops about ten degrees. Nearby families pause their conversations, sensing the shift.
Aiden straightens slowly, his easy smile going careful. "Just focusing on community education, Lieutenant."
"Right." Wade's gaze slides to me, cold and assessing. "And you, Pritchard? Finding public relations more interesting than actual investigation work?"
The words land like a punch. My deepest fear about this arrangement, spoken aloud by someone who clearly means it as an insult.
Before I can formulate a response that won't tank my career, Aiden steps slightly forward. The movement is subtle—protective without being aggressive.
"Actually, Riley was just explaining some details about molecular analysis in arson investigation." His voice warms—genuine enthusiasm, or a very good fake. "Did you know her spectrometer work helped solve that insurance fraud case the police wrote off as accidental?"
Wade's expression suggests he finds this information about as interesting as watching paint dry, but Aiden's redirect has shifted the conversation away from personal attacks.
"If you'll excuse us," Aiden continues, polite but firm, "we promised to answer some questions about fire prevention."
Wade nods curtly and moves away, but not before his gaze lingers on our joined hands with obvious skepticism. Message received: he's not buying this for a second.
As the tension gradually dissipates, Aiden guides me toward the river's edge where the walking path offers privacy. The sound of flowing water provides natural cover, and shade from overhanging trees makes the space feel almost private.
"You okay?" He's watching me with concern that looks annoyingly real.
"Fine." The word comes out clipped. "I'm used to Wade's particular brand of encouragement."
"That wasn't encouragement. That was him being an ass."
"Same thing, coming from Wade." I pull my hand free and cross my arms—a defensive gesture I recognize even as I'm doing it. "He's not wrong, though. About the publicity angle."
"He's completely wrong." Aiden's voice sharpens. "You're not here for publicity. You're here because Chief Rodriguez gave us an order, and you follow orders even when they make you miserable. That's called professionalism, not selling out."
The vehemence catches me off guard. "You sound almost angry."
"I am angry." He runs a hand through his hair. "Wade's been gunning for me since I got here. Fine, I can handle that. But dragging you into it? Implying you'd abandon real work for photo ops?" His jaw tightens. "That's not okay."
Warmth spreads through me. I aggressively ignore it.
"I can fight my own battles, Gentry."
"I know you can." His eyes meet mine. "Doesn't mean you have to fight them alone."
The moment stretches. A family walks past with a stroller, breaking whatever spell has temporarily short-circuited my common sense.
Aiden clears his throat. "Tell me about your father's influence on your career. You mentioned he believed in letting work speak for itself."
The question catches me off guard. Most people, when they ask about my dad, want dramatic stories—heroic rescues, dangerous calls. Aiden's asking about philosophy. About the values that shaped who I became.
"He used to say truth was like fire." A small laugh escapes. "I know that sounds too poetic for an arson investigator, but he meant that truth burns away everything false if you give it enough air and time. Evidence doesn't lie. People do."
Aiden nods slowly, processing. "So when you investigate a scene, you're not just looking for how the fire started. You're looking for what people are trying to hide."
"Exactly." The relief of being understood without lengthy explanation is unexpected. "Every burn pattern, every point of origin, every chemical signature tells part of the story. People can claim anything they want, but evidence reveals what actually happened."
"And this whole situation we're in..." He trails off, then tries again. "Faking something for cameras. That's got to feel like betraying everything he stood for."
My throat tightens. Three days into this charade, and Aiden Gentry has identified the exact source of my discomfort better than I have.
"He would have hated the social media circus," I manage. "Dad believed good work should be recognized, but he never understood wanting attention for just doing your job. Publicity was for politicians and entertainers. Not public servants."
"How much pressure do you feel to live up to his reputation?"
Another gut-punch question. Most people see my early success as purely positive—proof of exceptional skill. Aiden's the first to recognize that early recognition comes with weight attached.
"Constant." The word slips out before I can soften it. "Every case, every court appearance, every time someone mentions his name and then looks at me to see if I measure up."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." I kick a pebble into the river, watching it disappear into the current.
"Sometimes I wonder if I chose arson investigation because it was adjacent to his work but different enough that I couldn't be directly compared.
Structure fires require quick decisions under pressure, reading situations in real time.
Investigation is methodical, analytical. You can take time to get it right."