Chapter 5
Beck
The box appears a few mornings after she moves in, sitting on my kitchen counter like an accusation. The kitchen is still gray with early light, Ivy not up yet, the only sound the coffee maker finishing its cycle.
Peak Grounds Bakery. I recognize the logo---passed it on Main Street the other day. The box is tied with string, the kind that's too cheerful for before sunrise, and there's a note stuck to the top in looping handwriting that makes my jaw tighten.
Thanks for not making me live in my car. ---G.
"What's that?" Ivy materializes beside me, still in her dinosaur pajamas, hair sticking up in seventeen different directions.
"Nothing."
"It's a box."
"Very observant."
She stands on tiptoes, trying to see inside. "Is it cookies?"
I should throw them away. Send a message that we don't need her gratitude or her baked goods or whatever neighborly bullshit she's trying to pull.
But Ivy's already got the box open, and the smell hits me---cinnamon and brown sugar and something else, something that reminds me of Saturday mornings before everything went to hell.
"They're COOKIES!" Ivy announces this like she's discovered fire. "Can I have one?" Ivy asks.
"After breakfast."
"Can Gemma have breakfast with us?" She's already climbing into her chair, eyes wide with the particular strategy of a child who thinks asking nicely is a loophole.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because she has her own suite and her own kitchen."
Ivy considers this, one hand already sneaking toward the box. "But she brought us cookies. That's nice. We should be nice back."
I catch her wrist before she can grab one. "Eat your cereal first."
She huffs but heads to the table, shooting longing looks at the box every three seconds. I should definitely throw them away. Instead, I try one while she's not looking.
Goddammit. They're perfect.
Within days, I've accepted that Gemma Lockhart is going to be a problem.
Not because she's loud---she's not. Not because she's invasive---she keeps to herself, mostly. The problem is Ivy.
"Is Gemma home?" This is the first thing out of my daughter's mouth every morning now. Not "good morning" or "what's for breakfast," but a breathless inquiry about our tenant like she's checking on the status of a religious pilgrimage.
"I don't know," I say.
"Can we check?" she asks.
"No," I tell her.
"Why not?" she presses.
"Because we don't bother people before they're awake," I say.
Ivy processes this, spooning Cheerios into her mouth. "But what if she needs help? What if she's sad?"
I don't know where she gets this stuff. "She's fine."
"You don't know that. You're not psycho."
"Psychic."
"That either."
I'm saved from this circular logic by my phone buzzing---shift starts soon.
I point Ivy toward her room to get dressed, pushing away the thought that she's right.
I have no idea if Gemma's fine. She could be in her suite right now, crying into her fern or whatever people do when they're running from their problems.
Not my circus. Not my monkeys.
Definitely not my problem.
Shift ends. I pick up Ivy from Mrs. Delgado's, and by the time we're home and dinner is on the stove, I've heard a complete breakdown of which dinosaurs would survive a volcanic winter and why the answer is not, despite popular opinion, the T-Rex.
We eat spaghetti. Ivy asks if Gemma likes spaghetti, and when I tell her I don't know, she suggests we find out, and when I tell her no, she accepts this the way she accepts most things I say---publicly, and with obvious reservations.
I'm in the kitchen afterward, scrubbing a pan that's already clean because I need something to do with my hands, when I hear Ivy's door open. Then the back door. Then her voice, high and excited, drifting through the screen.
"Gemma! Gemma! Come see my dinosaurs!"
I freeze, pan dripping soap onto the counter.
There's a pause---long enough that I almost relax---then I hear it. Gemma's voice, warm and amused. "Hey, Ivy. What've you got there?"
"T-Rex versus Triceratops! They're having a BATTLE!"
"Intense. Who's winning?"
"Nobody yet. They're still arguing about territory."
I should go out there. Establish boundaries. Remind my daughter that our tenant is not her personal playmate. Instead, I stay frozen at the sink, listening to Ivy explain the territorial disputes of the Cretaceous period with the kind of detail usually reserved for military strategists.
Gemma asks questions. Good ones. Not the patronizing "oh really?" that adults usually give kids, but actual follow-up questions about hunting patterns and migration habits. Ivy is in heaven.
I'm in hell.
This is exactly what I didn't want. Ivy getting attached.
Ivy building fantasies about some sunshine neighbor who'll probably be gone in a few weeks when she realizes small-town Montana isn't the fresh start she was hoping for.
I've seen it before---people running from their problems, thinking a change of scenery will fix everything. It never does.
A flash of orange crosses my peripheral vision.
Clarence.
The cat appears on the porch like he's been summoned, winding between Gemma's legs before settling himself directly between her and Ivy. He sits there, tail wrapped around his paws, staring at my daughter with the intensity of a Secret Service agent.
"Clarence is making sure you're being NICE to Gemma, Daddy!" Ivy calls through the screen.
I'm not even on the porch. "I'm in the kitchen!"
"He KNOWS!"
Gemma laughs---bright and unguarded, the kind that comes before someone can think better of it. My hands stop moving in the water. There's something warm behind my sternum that has no business being there.
Heartburn. Definitely heartburn.
I go back to washing dishes that don't need washing.
By the end of the week, it's a routine.
Ivy finishes dinner in record time, then hovers by the back door like a sprinter waiting for the starting gun. The second she hears Gemma's door open, she's gone---dinosaurs in hand, ready to explain the latest volcanic activity theories.
I let it happen.
I tell myself it's because policing every interaction would be exhausting, and Gemma seems to genuinely enjoy it---or at least perform enjoyment convincingly enough to fool a six-year-old.
I tell myself Ivy needs interaction with people who aren't her father or her teacher.
I tell myself six weeks will pass before Ivy gets too attached.
I tell myself a lot of things while standing at the kitchen sink.
My first real test at Station 7 comes on shift.
The call comes in mid-afternoon---residential fire on Oak Street. Possibly electrical. I grab my gear, watching the crew move around me. They're efficient, professional, but I can feel them watching too. Waiting to see what the new captain from Seattle is actually made of.
Oak Street turns out to be a small craftsman with smoke pouring from the second floor. Elderly couple on the lawn, the woman crying, the man trying to explain something about a space heater.
I assess the scene in thirty seconds. Fire's contained to one room, structural integrity looks good, no signs of spread to the attic. We can do this fast and clean.
"Rivera, you're on primary search with me. Nakamura, backup line. Deluca, ventilation. Harrison, check exposures." I keep my voice level, calm. Not barking orders, just stating facts. "Let's make it quick and safe."
We move. The crew falls into formation like they've been doing this together for years---because they have, just not with me. I'm the variable. The unknown.
Inside, it's hot but manageable. The fire's in the bedroom, eating through the wall behind the space heater. Rivera and I clear the room, confirm no one's inside, then get the line on it. The whole thing takes maybe twelve minutes.
Outside, I do the walkthrough with the homeowners.
Explain what happened, where the damage is, what needs to happen next.
The woman's still crying, so I keep my voice gentle.
Professional. By the time I'm done, the adrenaline has burned off and left something quieter in its place --- the particular stillness that comes after a call goes right.
When I turn back to the engine, Rivera gives me a nod. Just a small one, but it counts. So does the way Deluca doesn't make eye contact---respect, not hostility.
My shoulders drop half an inch. I didn't notice they'd been up.
These people are good at their jobs. So am I. Both things are true at the same time, and for the first time since Seattle, it doesn't feel like something I have to argue for.
I'll take it.
That evening, Rivera catches me before I leave the station. C-shift is already rolling in for the night, the handoff happening with the easy efficiency of people who've done this a thousand times.
"Few of us are heading to The Watershed for a beer," he says. "You should come. Meet some people."
It's an olive branch. The kind you don't refuse when you're trying to build trust with a new crew.
"Yeah. Sure."
"Good." He claps me on the shoulder. "Fair warning---Big Jim will probably adopt you. He does that with new people."
The Watershed turns out to be exactly what I expected---wood paneling, mounted fish that have seen better days, the smell of spilled beer and decades of the same conversations.
The kind of bar that's been here longer than most of the town.
Rivera and Deluca claim a table in the back. I head to the bar for a round.
The man behind it is massive---six-four easily, shoulders like a linebacker, gray beard that suggests he's seen some things. His name tag reads "Big Jim" in letters that look hand-carved.
"You're the new captain," he says. Not a question.
"Beck."
"Jim Kowalski. Retired from Station 7 about five years back." His handshake could crush rocks. "My son's on your crew. Heard you handled the Oak Street fire clean. Crew's talking."
"They did the work. I just pointed them in the right direction."