Chapter 1 — Tess #2
The office feels smaller than it is. Or maybe I'm just aware of how little space there is between his desk and the chair I'd need to sit in. How close we'd be if I sat down right now.
"I should meet your crew first," I say. "Get a sense of station operations."
"Right. Of course." He moves toward the door, and I follow him back down the hall toward the kitchen.
Two men are sitting at the table when we walk in. One is tall, broad-shouldered, with dark skin and an air of calm competence. The other is older, maybe early fifties, with silver hair and pale eyes that take me in with the kind of neutral assessment that comes from years of experience.
"Tess Holt, county investigator," James says. "She'll be conducting our assessment over the next two days."
The first man stands. He's tall, with dark skin and an air of calm that makes me think paramedic before I see the certification on his shirt. "Travis Mercer. Good to meet you."
"You too."
The second man doesn't stand, but he nods from his seat. Older, maybe early fifties, with silver hair and pale eyes that assess me with the particular neutrality of someone who's seen enough not to be impressed easily. "Garrett Hale."
"Garrett," I echo, filing the name away.
"There's coffee if you want it," Travis offers, already moving toward the counter. "Fair warning, Rhett made it, so it's either going to be the best you've had all week or strong enough to strip paint."
"I'll risk it."
He pours me a mug, hands it over. The coffee is, in fact, excellent, dark and smooth and exactly what I need if I'm going to survive the rest of this morning.
James is watching me drink it. I can feel his attention even though I'm not looking at him directly, and something about that makes me take another sip just to have something to do with my hands.
"Captain runs a tight ship," Garrett says, still seated. "You'll find everything in order."
There's something in the way he says it, not defensive, just matter-of-fact. The tone of someone who's been doing this long enough to know the difference between an assessment that matters and one that's checking boxes.
"I'm sure I will," I say.
Murphy appears in the doorway again, this time with another man behind him, quiet, watchful, with dark hair and a stillness that makes him easy to overlook until you realize he's the one actually seeing everything.
"Rhett Cavanaugh," James says. "Lieutenant. My second."
Rhett nods once. Doesn't smile. Doesn't need to. There's a competence to him that reads immediately, the kind of second-in-command who doesn't require volume to be heard.
"You're all set for the records review this afternoon?" I ask James, pivoting back to the reason I'm supposed to be here.
"Everything's in my office. I'll get out of your way once you're ready to start."
"I'd prefer if you stayed." The words come out more definitive than I intended, and I catch the flicker of something in his expression before it smooths out again. "Standard protocol. Captain should be available for questions."
"Of course."
Murphy, who has been leaning against the counter looking between James and me with entirely too much interest, clears his throat. "You sticking around for lunch, Investigator Holt? We're cooking, and there's always extra."
I should say no. I should maintain professional distance and eat in my car and not spend more time than necessary in this building with these people and this man who is standing six feet away looking like he's aged into exactly the person I knew he'd become.
"If it's not an imposition," I hear myself say.
"Never an imposition," Murphy says cheerfully. "More people just means Declan has to share the garlic bread, and he could use the practice."
The man next to him, Declan, apparently, elbows him without heat.
Travis refills his own coffee. "You've been warned. Lunch around here is a full production."
"I'll manage."
I'm not sure I will, but I'm committed now.
The morning passes in the particular rhythm of assessment work—checking logs, reviewing training records, inspecting equipment with the kind of thoroughness that makes Murphy joke I should just move in if I'm going to get that familiar with their turnout gear.
I'm aware of James in my peripheral vision more often than I should be. Aware of the way he moves through the station like he knows every inch of it, the way his crew defers to him without hesitation, the way he looks when he's concentrating on something and doesn't realize I'm watching.
Aware, most of all, of the fact that I have twenty-six more hours of this.
By noon, the kitchen smells like garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread, and the table has been set with the kind of casual efficiency that speaks to years of practice.
I end up sitting between Travis and a younger guy who introduces himself as Anthony and immediately launches into an explanation of the station's last major call that includes way more detail than I asked for.
James takes the seat directly across from me.
Of course he does.
I should have eaten in my car. I should have made an excuse about needing to review notes or having calls to return. Instead I'm sitting at this table with his crew watching us, and he's three feet away, and I can feel the weight of his attention even when I'm deliberately not looking at him.
Travis sets a bowl of pasta in front of me. "Declan made the sauce from scratch. Fair warning, he's very proud of it."
"As he should be," Declan calls from the counter, where he's slicing what looks like fresh garlic bread. "This is art!"
The pasta is actually very good. The sauce has depth, the garlic bread is perfectly crispy on the outside and soft inside, and someone put real effort into the salad instead of just dumping bagged lettuce into a bowl.
I take a bite and try to focus on the food instead of the man sitting across from me.
"So last month," Declan says, settling into his chair with his own plate, "we get a call about a cat stuck in a chimney."
Murphy groans. "Here we go..."
"A chimney," Declan continues, ignoring him. "Not a tree, which would be normal. A chimney. And the homeowner is convinced the cat climbed down from the roof, which—"
"Which is not what happened," Murphy interrupts.
"Which is exactly what happened, according to the homeowner."
"The homeowner was wrong."
"The homeowner was very insistent." Declan grins. "Anyway, we get there, and we can hear this cat yowling from inside the chimney. Cap makes the very reasonable decision to send the smallest person up to the roof."
Anthony groans. "I'm never living this down."
"You're the one who volunteered," Travis points out.
"I didn't volunteer, I was voluntold!"
I find myself smiling, caught up in the rhythm of their banter. There's an ease here, a warmth that feels genuine rather than performed.
"So Anthony gets up on the roof," Declan continues, "and he's trying to coax this cat out, and the cat is having absolutely none of it—"
"Because the cat went up from the bottom," Murphy says. "Not down from the top."
"We didn't know that yet. So Anthony's hanging over the edge of this chimney, and the cat finally makes a break for it—"
"Straight past Anthony, down through the living room, out the open front door," Travis finishes, shaking his head.
Anthony reaches for his water. "The homeowner didn't even say thank you. Just complained that we took too long."
"To be fair, you did spend twenty minutes on the roof talking to a cat that wasn't listening," Declan says.
Anthony laughs so hard he nearly chokes, and Murphy has to slap him on the back.
I'm smiling. Actually smiling, in the middle of what's supposed to be a professional assessment, and for a moment I forget why that's a problem.
Then I look up.
James is watching me.
Not obviously or in a way anyone else would necessarily notice. But his eyes are on my face.
It's the same way he used to look at me. Fourteen years ago, sitting across from me at a diner at midnight, both of us knowing we should leave and neither of us moving. Like I was the only person in the room. Like everything else had gone quiet.
The smile fades from my face.
I look down at my plate, suddenly hyperaware of my own heartbeat.
Travis passes me the salad bowl. "How long have you been doing assessments?"
"Seven years. Started right after I left the service."
"Air Force?"
"Yeah. Logistics support, one deployment." I take more salad than I actually want just to have something to focus on. "Fire investigation felt like a good fit after."
"It's good work," Garrett says from the end of the table. He hasn't said much during lunch, but when he does speak, people listen. "Thorough investigator makes everyone's job easier."
"I try."
"She's being modest," James says, and my head snaps up because he hasn't spoken directly to me since we sat down. "Tess has a reputation for being extremely thorough."
There's nothing inappropriate in the words. Nothing unprofessional.
But the way he says my name, like he's testing the shape of it after years of not saying it out loud, makes my head spin.
"I do my job," I say, keeping my voice level.
"Better than most, from what I've heard."
I should let it go. I should smile and accept the compliment and move on.
Instead, I meet his eyes across the table and say, "You've been checking up on me?"