Chapter 5
Riley
The commercial building is still smoldering when we arrive, tendrils of smoke curling into the night sky like ghostly fingers.
Red and blue lights from emergency vehicles paint the scene in alternating flashes.
The moment I open the truck door, the acrid smell of burned plastic and wet insulation hits me hard enough to make my eyes water.
This is what I'm good at. This is where I belong.
Not on couches with attractive firefighters, almost kissing like some kind of romance novel protagonist.
"You okay?" Aiden's voice cuts through my mental spiral.
"Fine." I'm already mentally cataloging what I'll need to get my job done properly. "Just getting my head in the game."
The scene is controlled chaos. Fire crews finishing overhaul, police establishing a perimeter, a cluster of displaced business owners huddled near an ambulance with shock blankets around their shoulders.
I spot the investigator SUV in the staging area—someone from the department must have brought it over.
I scan for the incident commander and spot Captain Vasquez near the main entrance, her silver-streaked hair illuminated by portable work lights.
"Pritchard." She nods as I approach. "Thanks for coming in. Garcia's got a stomach bug that's taking out half the department."
"What do we know?"
"Fire started approximately three hours ago.
Building's a mixed-use commercial space—accounting firm where the staff was working late on the ground floor, graphic design studio on the second that was empty, storage on the third.
" She hands me a tablet with preliminary notes.
"First responders contained it to the second and third floors, but there's significant damage. "
"Point of origin?"
"That's why you're here." Vasquez glances past me to where Aiden hovers at a respectful distance. "Gentry. Didn't expect to see you."
"I was nearby." His voice is carefully neutral. "Thought I'd observe, if that's permitted."
Vasquez's eyebrow rises a fraction—she's not stupid, and "nearby" doesn't explain why he's arriving with me at 10 PM—but she just nods. "Stay out of Pritchard's way and don't touch anything."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I shoot him a look that I hope communicates "we are absolutely not discussing the almost-kiss right now" and head toward the building's entrance. The structure is stable enough for investigation—fire crews have already done their assessment—but I still pause at the threshold to take stock.
Burned buildings have a specific smell. Not just smoke, but the chemical signatures of everything that burned—plastics, textiles, wood, paper. This one has an undertone I recognize immediately.
Accelerant.
My pulse kicks up, and not in the inconvenient way it does around Aiden. This is professional excitement. The thrill of a puzzle presenting itself.
"I'm going to need full access to the second floor," I tell Vasquez. "And I want this scene locked down until I've completed my walkthrough. No cleanup, no salvage operations."
"You got it."
I head to my SUV to grab my gear—boots, turnout jacket, gloves, evidence kit, camera. The familiar routine of gearing up centers me, transforms me from Riley-who-almost-kissed-Aiden into Riley-the-investigator. By the time I'm suited up, the professional armor is back in place.
The stairs creak under my boots as I climb, my flashlight cutting through lingering haze.
The second floor is gutted—ceiling tiles hanging like broken teeth, walls scorched black, the remains of desks and computer equipment reduced to twisted metal skeletons.
Water from the firefighting efforts has pooled in low spots, creating muddy ash soup that squelches under my boots.
But the burn patterns are wrong.
I crouch near what used to be a reception area, examining the char on the floor.
The V-pattern points toward a specific origin point near the back corner—not near any electrical outlets or equipment that might explain an accidental start.
The depth of the char here is significantly greater than the surrounding area, suggesting sustained heat from a concentrated fuel source.
Classic pour pattern. Someone splashed accelerant and lit a match.
My camera comes out. Click. Click. Click.
I move methodically through the space, documenting everything. Char depth measurements. Smoke staining patterns on the remaining wall sections. The way the fire traveled—fast and hungry, fed by something it shouldn't have had access to.
"You're smiling."
I nearly jump out of my skin. Aiden stands in the doorway, keeping his distance as promised, but watching me with an expression I can't quite parse. He's borrowed turnout gear from somewhere—boots, jacket, helmet tucked under one arm. At least he's taking the safety protocols seriously.
"I'm not smiling."
"You are. It's terrifying and also kind of hot."
"This is a crime scene, Gentry."
"I know. That's what makes the smile terrifying." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "What do you see?"
I should tell him to leave. This is my investigation, my process, and I don't need distractions—especially distractions who make my coffee taste like regret by comparison.
Instead, I hear myself explaining.
"The burn patterns are inconsistent with accidental ignition." I gesture toward the V-pattern. "See how the char is deeper here? That's the point of origin. But there's no electrical source, no equipment that would generate enough heat to start a fire this intense."
"So, someone set it deliberately."
"That's my working theory." I move deeper into the space, picking my way through debris. "And there's an accelerant signature. I could smell it from the entrance."
Aiden's expression shifts from curious to serious. "Like the warehouse."
"Maybe." The connection has been nagging at me since I walked in. "Could be coincidence. Commercial fires aren't uncommon, and accelerants are the easiest way to ensure a fire spreads quickly."
"But you don't think it's coincidence."
I pause, considering. "I think I need more evidence before I draw conclusions. That's how this works."
"Evidence over instinct."
"Evidence supports or refutes instinct. Instinct alone gets thrown out of court."
He's quiet for a moment, and when I glance back, he's watching me with that expression again—the one from his couch, right before his hand almost reached for mine. The one that makes my carefully compartmentalized feelings threaten to spill everywhere.
"What?" I snap, more defensive than intended.
"Nothing. Just..." He shakes his head. "Watching you work is impressive. That's all."
The compliment catches me off guard. I turn back to my evidence before he can see the effect.
"I need to collect samples. This is going to take a while."
"I'll wait."
"You don't have to—"
"Riley." His voice is soft but firm. "I'll wait."
Three hours later, I've photographed every inch of the second floor, collected fourteen samples for lab analysis, and documented enough evidence to confirm my initial suspicion: this fire was deliberately set.
The accelerant pattern suggests someone splashed liquid—probably gasoline, based on the smell—in a rough circle around the reception area before igniting it.
Amateur work, honestly. A professional would have been more careful about distribution, would have created a pattern that looked more natural.
This feels angry. Impulsive. Personal.
The question is: personal against whom? The graphic design studio that occupied this floor, or someone else entirely?
I bag my samples carefully, label each one with location and time, and make notes about chain of custody. Defense attorneys love to attack evidence handling. I've never given them the opportunity.
Aiden is still waiting when I emerge from the building, leaning against his truck with two cups of coffee that he must have procured from somewhere. The night has gone cold, and I'm suddenly aware of how exhausted I am—the adrenaline of investigation fading into bone-deep fatigue.
"From the 24-hour place on Maple," he says, offering me a cup. "Not as good as mine, but it's hot."
"Thanks." The coffee is mediocre, but I drink it anyway, grateful for the warmth.
We stand in silence for a moment, watching the last of the emergency vehicles pack up. The building looms dark and wounded behind us, yellow caution tape marking it as off-limits until my investigation is complete.
"Arson," Aiden says. Not a question.
"Almost certainly. I'll need the lab results to confirm, but the evidence is pretty clear."
"Any connection to the warehouse?"
"Too early to say." I take another sip of subpar coffee. "Different accelerant pattern, different building type, different ownership. But the timing is... notable."
"Two arsons in less than two weeks."
"Could still be coincidence." But my gut says otherwise, and my gut is rarely wrong about fire.
Aiden shifts closer, and I'm suddenly very aware that we're standing in a dark parking lot at 1 AM, and the last time we were alone together, we almost—
"About earlier," he starts.
"We don't have to talk about it."
"I think we do."
"I think I need sleep and a shower and about sixteen hours before I'm capable of having that conversation." I meet his eyes, hoping he can see that I'm not deflecting—just genuinely at capacity. "Rain check?"
"Rain check." His mouth curves into a small smile. "But I'm holding you to it."
"I'd expect nothing less."
We stand there for another beat, the air between us thick with everything unsaid. Then Aiden opens the passenger door with exaggerated chivalry.
"Your chariot awaits. Again."
"You're ridiculous."
"You've mentioned."
I climb in, and he closes the door gently before circling to the driver's side. The truck's interior is warm, and as we pull away from the scene, my eyes start to drift closed despite my best efforts.
"Hey." Aiden's voice is gentle. "Sleep if you need to. I'll get you home safe."
"I'm not sleeping. I'm resting my eyes."
"Sure you are."
The last thing I register before exhaustion wins is the low sound of the radio and the feeling of Aiden's jacket being draped carefully over me like a blanket.
I wake up in my own bed with no memory of how I got there.
Sunlight streams through curtains I didn't close, and there's a glass of water on my nightstand that I don't remember putting there. My boots are off, placed neatly by the door, and I'm still in yesterday's clothes minus my jacket.
A note on the nightstand in handwriting that's surprisingly neat for a guy who probably writes incident reports in crayon:
Didn't want to wake you. You mumbled something about accelerant patterns and then called me an idiot, so I figured you were fine. Drink the water. Text me when you're awake.
— A
P.S. Your neighbor thinks I'm your boyfriend now. I didn't correct her. Hope that's okay.
I stare at the note until the words blur. My throat feels tight.
Embarrassment that I passed out in his truck. Warmth that he got me home safely. Annoyance that Mrs. Anderson from 3B now has ammunition for her gossip network.
And underneath all of that, something soft and inconvenient that I don't have the energy to examine right now.
My phone buzzes. A text from Hazel:
Hazel: School visit in THREE days! Starting outfit planning now. I'm thinking navy and gray. Very professional, very couple-y.
Right. The school visit. The fake relationship. The reason any of this started in the first place.
I drag myself out of bed, every muscle protesting the four hours of sleep and three hours of crouching over evidence.
The shower helps marginally. Coffee helps more.
By the time I'm dressed in clean clothes and feeling semi-human, I've got a plan: drop the samples at the lab, check in with Captain Vasquez, and spend the afternoon reviewing everything I documented last night.
Normal investigator things. Things that make sense.
Not feelings. Feelings don't make sense.
Except nothing about last night felt fake. Not the way Aiden waited for hours while I worked. Not the way he brought me coffee and drove me home and apparently carried me to bed without making it weird.
The lines are blurring. The professional boundaries I've relied on are becoming less clear.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Aiden:
Aiden: You alive? Mrs. Anderson says hi, btw. She wants to know when the wedding is.
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
I type back:
Me: Tell her spring. Good weather for outdoor receptions.
His response is immediate:
Aiden: I KNEW you'd come around. I look great in a tux.
Then, a second later:
Aiden: Seriously though. You okay?
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The honest answer is complicated. I'm exhausted. I've got evidence samples that might connect two arson cases and a fake boyfriend who's starting to feel very real.
I finally type:
Me: I'm okay. Thank you for last night.
Aiden: Anytime, Pritchard. Rain check still stands whenever you're ready.
I set the phone down and reach for the water glass, taking a long drink. Through the window, Copper Ridge is waking up—cars starting, people walking dogs, the ordinary rhythm of a Tuesday morning.
My life hasn't felt ordinary in weeks.
The arson investigation waits in my bag, evidence samples ready for the lab. The school visit looms in three days. The fake relationship continues.
And somewhere in all of this, I need to figure out what's real and what's performance before I lose track of the difference entirely.