Chapter 7
Riley
I'm sitting cross-legged on my living room floor, surrounded by case files and property records, running on coffee and stubbornness. The warehouse fire. The commercial building. Two seemingly unrelated properties, two seemingly random targets.
Except they're not random.
Both buildings were owned by subsidiary companies. Different names, different registration dates, but when I dig through the corporate filings—really dig, past the shell companies and holding groups—they trace back to the same source.
Blackwood Properties LLC.
My hands shake slightly as I pull up everything I can find on Blackwood.
It's a real estate development company, mid-sized, headquartered in Copper Ridge.
They specialize in commercial properties and urban renewal projects.
Their public image is squeaky clean—community involvement, charitable donations, the whole package.
But someone is burning down their buildings. And based on the accelerant patterns and the escalating damage, that someone is angry.
I grab my phone and almost call Aiden before I catch myself. It's 2 AM. Normal people are asleep at 2 AM. Normal people don't wake up their boyfriends to discuss corporate property ownership and arson patterns.
Boyfriend. The word still feels strange in my head. Three days of being officially, actually together, and I'm still not used to it.
I set the phone down and force myself to focus on the evidence instead of the warm memory of falling asleep on his couch. The case first. Personal life later.
Blackwood Properties. Someone with a grudge against them.
The fires are targeted, deliberate, designed to cause maximum damage while minimizing risk of casualties.
Both buildings were empty when they burned—the warehouse was scheduled for demolition, the commercial building was hit after business hours.
Whoever's doing this wants to hurt Blackwood financially, not physically hurt anyone.
Insurance fraud is still on the table, but the pattern doesn't fit. If Blackwood was burning their own buildings, they'd be more careful about making it look accidental. These fires are obviously arson to anyone with basic training. It's almost like the arsonist wants us to know.
My phone buzzes. A text from Aiden:
Aiden: You're awake, aren't you?
I stare at the screen.
Me: How do you know?
Aiden: Your apartment light is visible from the street. I may have driven by to check on you.
Me: That's either sweet or creepy.
Aiden: I prefer sweet. Can I come up?
I glance around at the chaos of my living room—files everywhere, empty coffee cups, me in pajama pants and an old academy t-shirt with my hair in a disaster of a bun.
Me: Give me five minutes.
Aiden: Take your time. I brought food.
He shows up with Thai takeout and a smile that makes my stomach flip even at 2:30 in the morning. I've managed to consolidate the worst of the file chaos into semi-organized piles and change into slightly more presentable pajamas, which is the best I can offer at this hour.
"You found something." It's not a question. His eyes search my face with the same intensity I bring to burn patterns—looking for the story.
"Blackwood Properties." I gesture toward the files as he sets the food on my kitchen counter. "Both buildings trace back to the same ownership. Someone's targeting them specifically."
Aiden's expression sharpens. "That's a hell of a connection."
"It gets better." I pull up my laptop, showing him the corporate filings I've been wading through.
"Blackwood has been acquiring properties all over Copper Ridge for the past three years.
Mostly older buildings in neighborhoods marked for urban renewal.
They buy cheap, sit on the properties, then sell to developers when the area gentrifies. "
"And someone doesn't like that."
"Someone really doesn't like that." I accept the container of pad thai he offers and eat standing up, too wired to sit. "The question is who. Disgruntled former employee? Displaced tenant? Competitor trying to sabotage them?"
"Or someone with a personal vendetta."
"Could be all of the above." I chew thoughtfully. "The accelerant pattern suggests amateur work, but the target selection is sophisticated. Whoever's doing this understands how Blackwood operates. They know which buildings are valuable, which ones are empty, when to strike for maximum damage."
"Inside knowledge."
"Exactly."
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the click of chopsticks against containers and the distant hum of late-night traffic.
Having Aiden here at 2 AM, helping me think through a case, feels natural in a way that surprises me.
I've always worked alone. Preferred it, even.
But this—his quiet presence, his smart questions, the way he lets me process without trying to fill every silence—this works.
"I should interview Blackwood's management," I say finally. "See if they have any idea who might want to target them. Check their employee records for recent terminations, contract disputes, anything that might point to a motive."
"Want backup?"
I raise an eyebrow. "You're offering to come to a corporate interview?"
"I'm offering to be there if you need me." He sets down his container and leans against my counter, arms crossed. "This is getting bigger than a couple of random fires, Riley. If someone's systematically targeting a company, that's organized. Planned. Dangerous."
"I can handle dangerous."
"I know you can. But you don't have to handle it alone."
The words land somewhere soft. I look away, focusing on my pad thai like it contains crucial evidence.
"I'll call them first thing in the morning to set it up," I say. "If you're serious about coming."
"I'm serious."
"It'll be boring. Lots of paperwork questions and corporate double-speak."
"I'll survive."
"You'll have to wear something other than your calendar-ready firefighter look."
He steps closer, hands finding my waist and pulling me against him. "Are you saying you don't want me showing up in turnout gear?"
"I'm saying Blackwood Properties might take the investigation more seriously if my boyfriend doesn't look like he's about to pose for a charity auction."
"Boyfriend." His grin softens into something warmer. One hand slides up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "I like hearing you say that."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." He leans down and kisses me—soft at first, then deeper when I melt into him.
My hands find his shoulders, those unnecessarily broad shoulders I apparently talk about in my sleep, and I stop caring about corporate interviews or arson patterns or anything that isn't the warmth of his mouth on mine.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing harder.
"It's after three," he says, voice rough. "I should probably let you get some sleep."
"You could stay." The words come out before I can second-guess them. "If you want."
His eyes search mine. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Okay." He kisses me again, soft and sweet. "But you're actually sleeping. Not staying up analyzing employee records until dawn."
"I make no promises."
"Riley."
"Fine. Sleep. I'll try."
He grins and pulls me toward the hallway. "Come on. Before you change your mind and pull out more spreadsheets."
Blackwood Properties occupies the top two floors of a glass-and-steel building downtown, the kind of aggressive modern architecture that screams money without bothering to whisper taste. The lobby is all marble and chrome, with a reception desk that probably cost more than my car.
Aiden, true to his word, has dressed down—dark slacks, a blue button-down that brings out his eyes, no turnout gear in sight. He's toned down the megawatt smile, replaced it with something more serious. Still irritatingly handsome, but in a way that might pass for professional.
"Stop fidgeting," I mutter as we wait for the elevator.
"I'm not fidgeting."
"You've adjusted your collar three times."
"This shirt is uncomfortable. I feel like I'm being slowly strangled by business casual."
"Welcome to my world."
The elevator deposits us on the fourteenth floor, where a sleek receptionist directs us to a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of Copper Ridge that probably makes executives feel like gods.
Harrison Blackwood himself meets us. Late fifties, silver hair, the kind of tan that suggests golf vacations rather than actual outdoor labor. His handshake is firm but not aggressive, his smile practiced but not insincere.
"Ms. Pritchard. Thank you for coming." His eyes flick to Aiden with polite curiosity. "And you are?"
"Lieutenant Aiden Gentry, Copper Ridge Fire Department." Aiden's charm is dialed to professional rather than dazzling. "I'm consulting on the investigation."
"Of course." Blackwood gestures toward leather chairs arranged around a polished conference table. "Please, sit. I want to help in any way I can. These fires have been devastating for our company."
I pull out my notebook, settling into interview mode. "Mr. Blackwood, we've confirmed that both the warehouse on Henderson and the commercial building on Maple were owned by your subsidiaries. Can you think of anyone who might want to target your properties specifically?"
Blackwood's practiced smile falters slightly. "Target us? You think these fires were deliberately set?"
"The evidence strongly suggests arson, yes."
"I see." He's quiet for a moment, processing. "We're a real estate development company, Ms. Pritchard. We buy properties, improve them, sell or lease them. It's business. I can't imagine why anyone would want to burn down our buildings."
"No disgruntled former employees? Contract disputes? Tenants who might have felt wronged?"
"We run a tight ship here. Sure, there are disagreements from time to time, but nothing that would lead to..." He trails off, shaking his head. "This is shocking. Truly shocking."