Page 21 of At First Spark
She glances back at the inn again, and something changes in her expression then. Not fear exactly. Something older. Heavier.
“My house was next,” she says quietly.
Mac approaches then, stepping through the wet grass with his helmet off and his face set in that unreadable way he gets after a call he’s still assessing.
“Main structure’s clear for now,” he says. “No visible spread. We’ll need the marshal in daylight. Too much compromise at the point of origin to make any calls tonight.”
Lark straightens. “You think it was set?”
Mac looks past her toward the carriage house before answering.
“I think I’m not guessing in the dark.”
Not a yes. Not a no. Enough. I see the words land in her. See the way her fingers tighten once on the porch post.
Mac looks at me. “Get her information. Make sure she’s not staying here tonight.”
He doesn’t say good luck, but I hear it anyway. He turns and heads back toward the truck to talk with Ray.
Lark’s eyes snap back to mine immediately. “I’m staying here.”
Her tone says the subject is closed.
Mine says otherwise. “No, you’re not.”
Her shoulders square. “Excuse me.”
“This property isn’t secure.”
“I just got here.”
There’s so much packed into those five words that I feel it before I understand it. Pride. Frustration. Attachment that got there far too fast.
I look at the inn again. The dark windows. The broken glass on the first floor. The way the side yard still smells like wetash and old wood. Whoever or whatever started the fire hit the weakest point on the property and got lucky with the wind.
I look back at her. She’s not the kind of woman who scares easily . She is very clearly the kind who doubles down instead.
“You can’t stay here tonight,” I say again, quieter now. Less like a command. More like the truth. “And we’re putting cameras up,” I add.
She blinks at me. “Cameras.”
“At the house. The drive. Whatever we can cover fast,” I say. “I should’ve done it after the first call out here.”
“This isn’t exactly a small property,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “Which means we won’t catch everything. But we’ll catch enough to know if someone comes back.”
Her gaze flicks toward the dark stretch beyond the yard.
“Assuming they don’t already know where not to be,” she says.
“That’s the part I don’t like,” I answer.
For the first time, her gaze slips.
The dog noses her hand. She looks down at him and breathes once through her nose like she’s pulling herself back together from the center out.
When she looks up again, she’s calmer. No less stubborn. Just clearer.
