Chapter 8
Aiden
The industrial building is fully engulfed when we arrive, flames clawing at the night sky like something alive and hungry. Heat radiates across the parking lot in waves, and even from fifty feet back, I can feel it pressing against my skin.
This one's different. Bigger. Angrier.
Riley's out of the truck before I've fully stopped, her face lit orange by the firelight. She's already scanning the scene, that brilliant brain cataloging details faster than most people can process what they're seeing.
"Same accelerant signature," she says, almost to herself. "I can smell it from here."
"You can identify accelerants by smell from fifty feet away?"
"This one's obvious. Gasoline and something else. Chemical undertone." Her jaw tightens. "He's escalating."
Fire crews are already working—Engine 19 among them, I notice, which means my team got called in for mutual aid. I spot Whitaker on the deck gun and Johnson running hose lines, their movements precise despite the chaos.
Today's my Kelly day—scheduled day off in the rotation. Part of me wants to suit up and join them anyway. That's my crew. My job. But tonight, I'm here as something else—partner, support, whatever Riley needs me to be.
I follow her toward the perimeter where Captain Vasquez stands, her silver hair tucked under her helmet, face streaked with soot.
"Gentry," Vasquez nods to me, then turns to Riley. "Building was supposed to be empty. Old manufacturing plant, scheduled for demolition next month. But we've got reports of a possible occupant—security guard who may have been doing rounds."
Riley's head snaps toward her. "Someone's inside?"
"Unconfirmed. We're doing a search now, but the structure's compromised. Third floor is already collapsed into the second."
"The previous fires were all empty buildings," Riley says, her voice tight. "He's been careful about that. Hitting targets after hours, when no one's around."
"Maybe he didn't know about the guard," I say.
"Or maybe he stopped caring."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. If the arsonist has escalated from property damage to potential murder, this just became a very different case.
"I need to get closer," Riley says. "As soon as the scene is safe, I need access."
"Pritchard—" Vasquez starts.
"I know the protocols, Captain. But this is the third fire in two weeks, and if there's a victim inside, this becomes a homicide investigation. I need to see the point of origin before the scene degrades any further."
Vasquez studies her for a moment, then nods. "As soon as we've cleared the structure. Not before. Here," she hands her the helmet that she’s wearing, “take mine.”
Riley nods tightly, takes the helmet, and moves toward the perimeter tape, positioning herself as close as safely possible. I follow, because that's what I do now—where she goes, I go.
The fire roars. Glass shatters somewhere inside, sending a shower of sparks into the night. I watch Riley's face in the flickering light, see the intensity of her focus, the way her mind is already working the case even as the building burns.
"Daniel Marsh," she murmurs. "It has to be him. The timing, the targets, the escalation pattern—it all fits."
"We haven't even talked to him yet."
"No. But I will." Her hands clench at her sides. "If someone died in there because I didn't put this together fast enough—"
"Hey." I step in front of her, blocking her view of the flames. "You identified the connection, found the suspect, built a profile. That's not failure—that's exceptional work."
"Exceptional work doesn't matter if people die."
"You can't prevent every fire, Riley. You can only catch the people who set them."
"That's not good enough."
"It has to be. Because the alternative is burning yourself out trying to be omniscient, and that helps no one."
She stares at me, green eyes reflecting firelight, and for a moment I think she's going to argue. Then her shoulders drop a fraction.
"I hate that you're right."
"I know. It's one of my most annoying qualities."
A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "One of many."
"Now you're just being mean."
Riley's radio crackles. Vasquez's voice: "Search team's coming out. No occupant found. Building's clear."
The relief that floods Riley's face is immediate and profound. Her whole body sags slightly, the tension draining out of her.
"No victim," she breathes. "Thank God."
What happened to the security guard, then? Must have finished his rounds early or never started them. Either way, we got lucky.
Riley's already refocusing, shifting from relief back to investigation mode. "I need to talk to whoever manages this property. Find out if the guard was scheduled, if anyone knew the building would be empty tonight."
"You think the arsonist knew?"
"I think he's been too careful to suddenly get sloppy. Either he had inside information, or he got lucky." Her jaw sets. "I don't believe in luck."
The fire takes four more hours to fully contain. By the time Vasquez clears Riley for scene access, dawn is breaking over Copper Ridge in shades of pink and gold that seem obscene against the blackened skeleton of the building.
My crew has been released back to the station—they did good work tonight. I should probably head home too, but the idea of leaving Riley alone at a crime scene doesn't sit right.
"You don't have to stay," she says, reading my mind as she pulls on her evidence collection gear.
"I know."
"You've been up all night."
"So have you."
"I'm used to it."
"So am I." I lean against the hood of my truck, arms crossed. "Stop trying to get rid of me, Pritchard. It's not going to work."
She pauses, gloves half-on, and looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. "Why are you like this?"
"Like what?"
"Stubborn. Supportive. Annoyingly present."
"It's a gift."
"It's something." But there's warmth under the exasperation, and she doesn't tell me to leave again.
For the next two hours, she moves through the wreckage with methodical precision.
Photographs everything, collects samples, documents details I wouldn't notice in a hundred years.
Every few minutes she murmurs observations into her recorder, building a picture of what happened here from the ashes up.
Watching her work is fascinating. The focus. The precision. The way she reads the scene like it's a language only she speaks.
Around eight, she emerges from the building with soot on her face and a grim expression that tells me she's found what she was looking for.
"Same accelerant pattern as the other two," she confirms. "Same MO. Same signature. This is definitely our guy."
"Marsh."
"He's our strongest lead." She strips off her gloves, tossing them into an evidence bag. "The pour pattern started near the main entrance—same as the commercial building. Whoever's doing this is consistent. Which means they're either cocky or compulsive."
"Can you use that?"
"I can use everything." She meets my eyes, and there's fire in her gaze that has nothing to do with the smoldering building behind her. "I'm going to find him, Aiden. Today. Before he has a chance to light another match."
"What do you need from me?"
She hesitates, and I can see the internal struggle—the part of her that wants to handle everything alone warring with the part that's learned to let me in.
"Come with me to interview Marsh," she finally says. "If he's our guy, I want backup. And if he's not, I want a second perspective on his story."
"Done."
"It might be dangerous. If he realizes we're onto him—"
"Riley." I push off from the truck and close the distance between us. "I've run into burning buildings for strangers. You think I'm going to let you face a potential murderer alone?"
"He's not a murderer. No one died tonight."
"Not for lack of trying." I take her hands, soot-stained and cold. "We do this together. That's how it works now."
She looks at our joined hands for a long moment. When she looks up, there's vulnerability in her expression that makes my chest ache.
"I'm not used to this," she admits quietly. "Having someone. Depending on someone."
"I know."
"It scares me."
"I know that too."
"But I'm glad it's you." The words come out soft, like she's paying for each one.
I lift her hands and press a kiss to her knuckles, tasting soot and determination. "Let's go catch an arsonist."
Daniel Marsh lives in a rundown apartment complex on the east side of Copper Ridge, the kind of place where the stairwell lights flicker and the hallways smell like mildew and old cigarettes. We've coordinated with the police—Detective Orozco is meeting us here with two uniforms as backup.
"You ready for this?" I ask as we wait in the parking lot.
"I'm always ready." But her knee is bouncing, and she keeps checking her phone for updates.
Orozco pulls up in an unmarked sedan, a stocky woman with a no-nonsense haircut and the kind of eyes that have seen too much. She nods to Riley with professional respect.
"Pritchard. Heard you've got a solid lead."
"Daniel Marsh. Former property manager for Blackwood Properties, fired eight months ago for falsifying inspection reports. Lost his wrongful termination suit three months ago. All three fire targets were Blackwood-owned buildings."
"That's solid motive."
"People have killed for less."
Orozco nods to her uniforms. "Let's do this."
The walk up to Marsh's third-floor apartment feels endless. Every creaking step, every flickering light, ratchets up the tension. Riley's got her hand near her hip—she's not armed, but the gesture speaks to how keyed up she is.
Orozco knocks. "Daniel Marsh? Police. We need to speak with you."
Silence.
Another knock. "Mr. Marsh, open the door please."
Movement inside—footsteps, then a crash, then the unmistakable sound of a window sliding open.
"He's running," Riley says, already moving toward the fire escape she must have clocked on our way up.
"Pritchard, wait—" Orozco calls, but Riley's gone, boots pounding down the hallway toward the back stairwell.
I'm right behind her.
We burst through the fire exit to find Marsh halfway down the metal stairs, a wild-eyed man in a stained t-shirt and sweatpants. He sees us and freezes for a split second—long enough for Riley to close the distance.
"Daniel Marsh." Her voice carries the authority of someone who's spent years testifying in courtrooms. "Stop right there."
He doesn't stop. He swings at her instead—a clumsy, panicked punch that she dodges with surprising agility.
"Aiden!"
I'm already moving, catching Marsh's arm as he winds up for another swing and using his momentum to spin him against the railing. He struggles, but he's out of shape and I'm running on adrenaline and protective fury.
"Easy," I say through gritted teeth. "Stop fighting and this goes easier."
Marsh sags against the railing, all the fight draining out of him.
The uniformed officers reach us, one pulling out handcuffs while the other takes over restraining Marsh from me.
Up close, he looks less like a criminal mastermind and more like a man who's been hollowed out by bitterness.
Bloodshot eyes, three-day stubble, the sour smell of someone who's stopped taking care of himself.
"I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt," he gasps. "The buildings were empty. They were always empty."
"There was a security guard scheduled at last night's location," Riley says coldly. "He could have died."
"I checked! I always check!" Marsh's voice cracks. "Blackwood ruined my life. They lied about me, destroyed my career, took everything. I just wanted them to feel what it's like to lose something."
"So you burned down their buildings."
"They deserved it." But the words have no conviction. He sounds exhausted. Defeated. "They deserved worse."
Orozco steps forward, her voice flat and professional. "Daniel Marsh, you're under arrest for three counts of arson in the first degree." She nods to one of the uniforms, who begins reading him his rights.
I tune out the Miranda warning, focused instead on Riley. She's watching Marsh with an expression I can't quite parse—satisfaction, yes, but also something heavier. Sadness, maybe. Or disappointment.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
"He's not a monster," she says, equally quiet. "He's just a man who let his anger burn hotter than he could control."
"That doesn't excuse what he did."
"No. It doesn't." She takes a breath, squaring her shoulders. "I need to process the scene at his apartment. Document any evidence before his lawyer starts making noise about chain of custody."
"Want company?"
She glances at me, and some of the tension in her face eases. "Yeah. I do."
The sun's fully up now, painting the shabby apartment complex in unforgiving daylight. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks. Traffic hums on the main road. Copper Ridge waking up to a Tuesday morning like any other, unaware that the fires that have been plaguing it are finally out.
We did it. We caught him.
But as I follow Riley up the stairs to Marsh's apartment, I can't stop thinking about what she said. A man who let his anger burn hotter than he could control.
That's all it takes, sometimes. One spark of rage, fed and nurtured until it consumes everything.
I look at Riley—brilliant, guarded, slowly learning to let someone in—and make a silent promise.
Whatever she's still carrying—the weight of her father's legacy, the fear of letting someone close—I'm not going anywhere. She'll figure that out eventually.