Chapter 9 #2
"And their debt increased proportionally. Bank loans, lines of credit maxed out, payment plans with suppliers." I follow the pattern with my finger. "Someone got desperate."
"Desperate enough to burn down the competition?"
"Maybe. Or desperate enough to hire someone who would." I switch to another spreadsheet. "But here's what's interesting—they're still making regular payments to a consulting firm. Five thousand a month, every month, even when they're missing payments to critical vendors."
Shaw goes still. "What consulting firm?"
"Hartley Industrial Consulting Services." I meet his eyes. "Registered only a year before the first fire."
Understanding flashes across his face. "Hartley could be the arsonist.”
"Or being paid to set the fires by someone who planned to frame him if things went wrong.
" My mind races through the implications.
"Cascade Services creates a paper trail linking payments to Hartley's company.
So when we investigate, we find Hartley's financial desperation, his grudge against the Brotherhood, and what looks like motive and means. "
"While the actual mastermind stays clean."
"Exactly." I pull up more files, cross-referencing transaction dates. "Look—every payment from Cascade to Hartley's consulting firm happens within a week of a fire. Could be coincidence."
"Could be payment for services rendered." Shaw's expression goes hard. "We need to find out who owns Cascade Services. Who's actually making these decisions."
"Already working on it." My fingers fly across the keyboard. "Corporate structure is deliberately obscured. Multiple shell companies, registered agents instead of actual owners. Classic setup for hiding identity."
"How long to break through it?"
"Give me time."
Shaw's hand finds the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the tension there. "Take your time. Do it right."
I settle in, fingers flying across the keyboard while Shaw reviews paper files beside me.
The rhythm feels natural—me digital, him analog, both of us hunting the same truth from different angles.
Corporate registries, secretary of state filings, business licenses.
Layer after layer of deliberate obfuscation.
An hour later, Will brings lunch without being asked—sandwiches and fries that smell incredible.
"Brothers look after family," Will says, setting plates in front of us.
"I'm not family," I point out.
"Shaw's claimed you. Close enough." Will heads back to the bar before I can respond.
Shaw doesn't contradict him. He just hands me a sandwich and returns to vendor contracts like Will didn't just casually declare me part of the Brotherhood.
We eat in companionable silence, and I'm hyperaware of every small gesture. Shaw makes sure I have napkins. How he trades me the better half of his sandwich when mine falls apart. Small acts of care that Todd never bothered with because control was more important than consideration.
"Tell me about your worst case," Shaw says suddenly. "Before this one."
I swallow a bite of sandwich, considering.
"Tech startup founder. He burned his company's warehouse three months after a failed funding round.
Had everything lined up perfectly—moved inventory the week before, increased insurance coverage the month before, created an elaborate story about a disgruntled employee. "
"What gave him away?"
"He got greedy. He filed for lost inventory that never existed. I cross-referenced his purchase orders with manufacturing records and found thirty percent of claimed losses were fabricated." I take a sip of coffee. "He thought he was clever. They always do."
"You enjoy it." Not a question.
"Catching fraud?" I meet his eyes. "Yeah. There's satisfaction in proving someone's lying, in protecting honest people from increased premiums because some asshole thinks insurance companies are bottomless pits of money."
"Ruthless."
"It's necessary. You can't be soft in fraud investigation or people walk all over you." I pause. "That's probably why Todd and I didn't work. He wanted someone soft. Compliant. I'm neither of those things when it comes to my work."
Shaw leans back, studying me. "But you wanted to be compliant with him. In other contexts."
Heat creeps up my neck. "That's different."
"Is it?"
"Choosing to submit to someone who respects boundaries is different from being forced into compliance by someone who doesn't." I hold his gaze. "You know the difference."
"I do. The question is whether you trust that you know it too."
Fair point. That's exactly what I've been struggling with—trusting my own judgment about what I want versus what I was conditioned to accept.
"I'm trying," I say quietly.
"I know." His hand finds mine again, and this time he threads our fingers together. "That's why I'm willing to try too."
The weight lifts from my chest. Not completely—days of guilt don't evaporate in one conversation—but enough that breathing feels easier.
We work through the afternoon, building the case piece by piece. By the time we finish, we have a timeline, financial analysis, and a list of facts to check over that should finally give us the evidence we need.
Shaw walks me outside when the sun starts dropping toward the horizon. Coast fog rolling in makes the air taste like salt and cold. We stand in the parking lot, neither quite ready to separate yet.
"Thank you," I say. "For giving me another chance."
"You gave yourself another chance. I'm just here to catch you if you stumble." He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and the gesture is so gentle it makes my chest ache. "You're stronger than you think, Mira. Braver too. You just need to trust that."
"I'm working on it."
"Good." He steps closer, and I can smell leather and smoke and something that's purely Shaw. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing along my cheekbone while his eyes search mine.
Reading me. Calculating my reaction. Giving me time to pull back if I need to.
I don't pull back.
His mouth meets mine, and it's different from the intensity at the Forge. Softer. Slower. Like he's savoring rather than claiming. His hand cups the back of my neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive spot behind my ear that makes me shiver.
I rise on my toes to get closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat straight through me. One of my hands fists in his kutte, holding on, and he pulls me flush against him.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless.