Chapter 13
Shane
I still went home to my apartment after the shift.
Technically. I kept clothes there, paid rent there, and slept there occasionally when Maya had an early morning or Zoe had a friend sleeping over.
But most of my time was spent in a cramped Queens apartment that smelled like coffee and dry-erase markers and something floral from the shampoo Maya used.
My toothbrush lived in her bathroom now. My jacket hung on her coat rack. Even my coffee mug sat in her cabinet like it had always been there
I was building a life with her. With both of them. And it felt more real than anything I'd had in years.
But Tommy Vickers hung over everything.
I couldn't stop thinking about him. I couldn't stop picturing the kid Maya had described. Ten years old. Small for his age. Flinching when adults moved too fast. Coming to school hungry. Wearing the same clothes. Hiding bruises under long sleeves.
A kid who'd trusted Maya, who'd written her a card thanking her for noticing him.
And then he'd vanished into a system that was supposed to save him and instead had chewed him up and spit him out.
Now he was nineteen. Burning schools. Spray-painting messages on walls in letters that slanted backward.
You forgot us.
They left us to burn.
Maya was his target. I knew it in my gut, the same way I knew when a building was about to come down on its own. The other schools were practice. Warm-ups. Tests. Tommy was working up the nerve to face the woman who'd changed everything.
I'd seen what fire did to people. I’d pulled bodies from buildings, watched families lose everything in the time it took to make a phone call. I knew the smell of smoke and burning flesh. Knew the sound of screams. Knew the weight of carrying someone out and not knowing if they'd make it.
The thought of Maya in Tommy's crosshairs made me feel sick in a way I couldn’t shake off.
I had to do something. I couldn’t just wait for him to make his move.
Not when Maya was in his sights.
I found Captain Rodriguez first thing when I came back on shift.
"I know who the arsonist is," I said.
Rodriguez's coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth. "What?"
I pulled the card from my jacket pocket. Yellowed, edges softened by time. Careful letters from a child who'd been trying so hard to be neat.
Thank you for the granola bars. Thank you for noticing. —Tommy V.
I set it on his desk next to my phone, which showed the crime scene photos. The spray-painted messages. The backward slant. The distinctive T's.
"Maya taught Tommy Vickers nine years ago," I said. "She reported his abuse. She kept the card he wrote her." I pointed at the side-by-side comparison. "This is his handwriting."
Rodriguez set down his coffee and leaned forward to study the images. His face had gone grim.
"She's not just a potential target," I said. "She's the target. He's been building toward her this whole time."
"You're sure about this?"
"Left-handed. Distinctive letter formation. The same backward slant on every letter." I tapped the card. "It's him."
Rodriguez studied the images for a long moment. Then he picked up his phone.
Within an hour, we had a full briefing. Fire marshal. Two NYPD detectives. Someone from the DA's office was on speakerphone. Tommy's card sat in an evidence bag on the conference table, the childish handwriting now a key piece of an arson investigation.
One of the detectives, Diaz, with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, spent twenty minutes comparing the card to enlarged photos of the crime scene messages. She had a background in forensic document examination, Rodriguez told me later. When she finally looked up, her expression was grim.
"It's a match," she said. "The letter formation, the baseline slant, the way he loops his Y's and crosses his T's. This was written by the same person."
The room went quiet. We had a name now. A face. Somewhere out there
They ran Tommy Vickers through every system they had access to.
And they came up with nothing.
Last known address: a group home in the Bronx. Aged out a year ago. After that, the trail went cold. No forwarding address. No driver's license. No employment records. No social media accounts. No credit history. No utility bills in his name.
Tommy Vickers didn't exist on paper anymore.
"This is the problem with aged-out foster kids," the NYPD liaison said, rubbing his eyes.
He looked as tired as I felt. "The system tracks them until they're eighteen, then cuts them loose.
After that, they're ghosts. Could be couch-surfing.
Could be homeless. Could be working cash jobs under the table.
" He shook his head. "We've got a name, but no way to find him. "
My jaw tightened. The system had failed Tommy for nine years—and now couldn’t even locate him because it stopped paying attention the moment he became an adult.
Rodriguez put a hand on my shoulder. "We'll get protective detail on P.S. 147 and any other schools connected to his history. Canvas shelters, soup kitchens, anywhere he might turn up. Someone knows where this kid is."
"I want on that detail."
Rodriguez studied me. His eyes were sharp, assessing. "You're involved with her."
"Yes." There was no point in lying. Brian had been giving me shit for weeks about how I smiled at my phone every time Maya texted. And Rodriguez wasn't stupid. He'd known something was different the moment I started volunteering for every call in Maya's district.
Rodriguez didn’t say anything. I could see him weighing it. The protocol said no. Common sense said no. But he had been doing this job for twenty years. He knew that sometimes the rules were bent for a reason.
"I'll see what I can do," he said finally. "But Shane—if this gets personal, you're off. Understood?"
"Understood."
I'd take it. For now.
That next morning, I told Maya everything.
The briefing. Detective Diaz confirmed the handwriting match. The search for Tommy came up empty because the system stopped tracking him the moment he turned eighteen. The protective detail was being set up at her school. And the fact that I'd asked to be assigned to it.
She listened without interrupting, curled up on the couch with her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold. When I finished, she was quiet for a long moment.
"So what happens now?" she asked.
"Now we wait. We watch. NYPD is canvassing shelters, soup kitchens, anywhere Tommy might turn up." I hesitated. "And I think… you should consider taking some time off. Just until we find him."
The words hung in the air between us. Maya set down her mug. Slowly. Deliberately.
"You want me to take time off." It wasn't a question. She'd seen it in my face before I even opened my mouth. "You're asking me to hide."
"I'm not hiding, Shane."
"It's not hiding. It's being smart—"
"It’s still hiding."
"It's hiding." She stood up from the couch, arms crossed over her chest. "You want me to stay home, lock the doors, wait for someone else to fix this."
"I want you alive."
"Shane, those kids need me. And I need them." She shook her head. "I can't just hide and wait for this to be over. I've been surviving without anyone protecting me for thirty years, Shane.”
"Maya—"
"No." Her voice was sharp. Final. "You don't get to make this decision for me. I've been surviving without protection for thirty years, Shane. I don't need you to rescue me."
The words hit harder than she probably intended. I flinched, and she saw it.
"That's not what I meant," she said, softer now.
"I know." But it still stung. "I'm not trying to control you. I'm not trying to sideline you. I just—" I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. "I just found you, Maya. I can't lose you. Not to some fire. Not to some kid with a grudge. Not to anything."
"Then trust me." She took my hands. "Trust that I know what I'm doing. Trust that I can handle this."
"I do trust you. It's Tommy I don't trust."
"Then let's catch him. Together," she said, squeezing her hands through my fingers. "I'll cooperate with the investigation. I'll stay aware. I won't take stupid risks. But I'm not going to hide. I can't. Those kids need me."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to throw her over my shoulder and lock her somewhere safe until this was over.
But that wasn't who she was. And I'd fallen in love with her—all of her, including the stubborn, fierce, refuses-to-back-down parts.
"Okay," I said finally. "Okay. We do this together."
"Together."
Neither of us was happy. But we weren't fighting anymore.
It was the best I was going to get.
Rodriguez came through.
I got assigned to Maya's school as part of the protective detail. FDNY coordinated with NYPD, rotating shifts, eyes on every entrance. Unmarked cars in the parking lot. Plainclothes officers walking the perimeter.
The captain pulled me aside before my first shift.
"You asked for this," he said. "I gave it to you. But if you can't keep your head straight, you're off. Understood?"
"Understood."
"I mean it, Briggs. The second your judgment gets compromised, you're done. I don't care how much you care about her."
"I understand, Cap."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Go. Keep her safe."
I had every intention of keeping my head straight. I had every intention of keeping my head straight. I also had every intention of never letting Maya out of my sight.
A routine settled in over the next few days.
Maya stayed late grading papers while Millie watched Zoe at the apartment.
I patrolled the perimeter, checked the entrances, and watched for anything out of place.
The NYPD officers rotated through, and I got to know them by name: Michael, Joel, and a rookie named Jake who looked barely old enough to shave.