Rogue
Chapter Twenty-Four
I woke up one morning to find my face on CNN.
Not local news anymore. Not just the Arizona stations that had been running the story on loop for a week. National news. My worst day, my most controversial decision, my face with its intimidating angles and visible tattoos—all of it broadcast to millions of people over their morning coffee.
Vera was already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop open and her expression carefully blank. The kind of blank that meant she was working very hard not to show what she was feeling. When she saw me standing in the doorway, she closed the laptop quickly, but not quickly enough.
"Don't," I said quietly, moving toward her. "Don't hide it from me."
"Diana said not to read—"
"I don't care what Diana said. Let me see, please."
She hesitated, then reopened it. The CNN homepage filled the screen, and there I was, right below a story about congressional budget negotiations and above a piece on the latest celebrity scandal.
"Rogue Firefighter Disobeys Orders, Six Homes Destroyed"
The headline hit like a gut punch. Rogue. Not "embattled" or "controversial" or even "suspended." Rogue. Like I was some kind of vigilante, some loose cannon who'd gone off script and burned the world down for fun.
"It's a slow news week nationally," Vera said, her voice tight. "They needed something to fill airtime."
I leaned over her shoulder, scanning the article.
It was worse than the local coverage. More sensationalized, less nuanced, filled with dramatic language about "property destruction" and "chain of command" and "split-second decisions with devastating consequences.
" They'd included a photo of one of the burned homes, the charred skeleton of what used to be someone's life, and juxtaposed it with my official station photo where I looked every inch the dangerous outsider.
"Portugal-born immigrant," I read aloud, the words bitter on my tongue. "They made sure to mention that. Again."
"Because they're trying to paint a narrative." Vera's hand found mine, squeezed. "And it has nothing to do with the actual facts of what happened."
I scrolled down, reading more. The article presented multiple angles, as if this was some kind of balanced journalism instead of a hit piece disguised as objectivity:
Property Rights: Homeowners devastated after firefighter's controversial call leaves six families without homes and a lifetime of memories reduced to ash.
Chain of Command: When should firefighters disobey direct orders? Experts weigh in on the dangerous precedent of insubordination in high-stakes emergency situations.
Gender Dynamics: Female firefighter's judgment questioned—critics wonder if a male crew member would face the same level of scrutiny for an identical decision.
That last one made something twist in my gut. Because they weren't wrong, were they? Would a man in my position be called "rogue"? Would his immigrant status be mentioned in the first paragraph? Would the focus be on his "emotional decision-making" and "failure to respect authority"?
Or would he be "bold," "decisive," "a hero who trusted his instincts to save his crew"?
I'd never know. And that uncertainty was its own special kind of torture.
"There are more," Vera said quietly, clicking to another tab. "Opinion pieces. Think pieces. Everyone has something to say."
She was right. The story had metastasized, spawned a dozen editorials and hot takes and social media threads dissecting every aspect of my decision, my background, my character.
Some defended me, such as journalists who'd covered wildfire incidents before, retired firefighters who understood the impossible calculation of life-or-death decisions in changing conditions.
But those voices were drowned out by the chorus of condemnation.
"Reckless endangerment of property for what? Six firefighters who were doing their jobs? Memories can't be replaced. Lives can be rebuilt. She destroyed irreplaceable family history to avoid the consequences of her own poor planning."
"This is what happens when we lower standards to increase diversity. Not every woman is cut out for firefighting, and this incident proves why rigorous physical and mental requirements exist. She panicked and cost six families everything."
"The chain of command exists for a reason. You can't have firefighters freelancing in the middle of an operation. If she thought the captain's orders were wrong, she should have raised concerns through proper channels, not unilaterally decided she knew better."
I read them all. Every single one. It was self-flagellation disguised as staying informed, pressing on the bruise again to see if it still hurt, knowing it would but unable to stop myself.
Each article was another weight added to the pile I was already carrying, another voice telling me I'd failed, I'd fucked up, I'd let everyone down.
"Stop," Vera said, reaching over to close the laptop. "You're torturing yourself."
"I need to know what they're saying."
"No, you don't." Her voice was firm. "You need to eat breakfast and take a shower and remember that these people weren't there. They don't know what you know. They're just armchair critics with deadlines to meet."
She was right. I knew she was right. But the damage was already done. The words were in my head now, adding to the endless loop of doubt and recrimination that had been playing since the moment I'd called for that evacuation.
Three days later, everything got worse.
I was in the middle of mindlessly scrolling through my phone—a habit I couldn't seem to break despite knowing it was slowly poisoning me—when I saw it. A notification from Instagram, a message from someone I didn't know.
Looks like they found your girlfriend.
The message included a link. My hands were shaking as I clicked it, already knowing it would be bad, already bracing for impact.
The article was from one of those gossip-adjacent news sites, the kind that blurred the line between journalism and tabloid sensationalism.
And there, front and center, was a photo I recognized—Vera and me at the barbecue cookout at the station, her laughing at something I'd said, my arm around her waist, both of us looking disgustingly happy and domestic. A picture she’d innocently uploaded to her social media weeks ago.
"Rogue Firefighter in Relationship with Local Librarian: Who Is Vera Montgomery?"
No. No, no, no.
My vision tunneled, the edges of my phone screen going fuzzy.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Vera was supposed to stay separate from this mess, protected from the shitstorm that had become my life.
She was supposed to be safe in her quiet library with her books and her reading programs and her peaceful, drama-free existence.
But someone had found us. Had gone through our social media; mine was mostly private, locked down tight, but Vera's was more open, more public.
She posted pictures of book recommendations and library events, and yes, occasionally, photos of us together.
Nothing inappropriate, nothing scandalous.
Just two women in love, living their lives.
And now that love was being used as ammunition.
I kept reading, each sentence making me feel sicker.
Sources say Montgomery, 30, has been in a relationship with controversial firefighter Perpetua Alves, 34, for approximately six to eight months.
Sources describe her as "dedicated" and "passionate about literacy programs," but some wonder if her judgment has been compromised by her personal relationship.
"It's concerning that she's defending someone who clearly violated protocol," said one local anonymous library patron. "What kind of message does that send to the children who come here?"
Montgomery's social media accounts show numerous photos of the couple, including several that appear to have been taken at firefighter events, suggesting a close integration of their professional and personal lives.
Some critics question whether this relationship represents a conflict of interest...
The article went on, dissecting our relationship like it was evidence in a trial, scrutinizing every photo, every caption, every public display of affection.
They'd even found pictures from the library event where I'd met her coworkers, managed to track down quotes from people wondering about "the intimidating woman with the tattoos" who'd shown up to support Vera.
This was my worst fear realized. Not the suspension, not the investigation, not even the national news coverage. This. Vera being dragged into the spotlight because of me, her quiet life invaded by cameras and questions and strangers dissecting our relationship for entertainment.
I called her immediately, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone.
She answered on the second ring. "Hey, I was just about to call you—"
"I saw the article." My voice came out rough, panicked. "Vera, I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
"Petra, baby, breathe.”
"They found us. They're writing about you, about us, they have pictures.”
"I know." Her voice was calmer than mine, but I could hear the tension underneath. "It's been... a morning."
"What do you mean?"
She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was carefully controlled. "There were reporters outside the library when I got to work. With cameras."
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. "No."
"It's fine. They're gone now."
"Vera—"
"I'm fine, Petra. I promise."
But she didn't sound fine.
"What did they say? What did they ask you?"
Another pause. "The usual questions. If I was your partner. If I thought you made the right call. If I was concerned about your judgment."
Jesus Christ. "And what did you say?"
"I told them you saved lives that day. And that if they couldn't see that, they weren't paying attention." I could hear the steel in her voice now, the same fierce certainty she'd had in the grocery store. "Then I walked away."
"Did they follow you?"