Page 17 of Flashpoint
"You got it."
I head to my SUV to grab my gear—boots, turnout jacket, gloves, evidence kit, camera. The familiar routine of gearing up centers me, transforms me from Riley-who-almost-kissed-Aiden into Riley-the-investigator. By the time I'm suited up, the professional armor is back in place.
The stairs creak under my boots as I climb, my flashlight cutting through lingering haze. The second floor is gutted—ceiling tiles hanging like broken teeth, walls scorched black, the remains of desks and computer equipment reduced to twisted metal skeletons. Water from the firefighting efforts has pooled in low spots, creating muddy ash soup that squelches under my boots.
But the burn patterns are wrong.
I crouch near what used to be a reception area, examining the char on the floor. The V-pattern points toward a specific origin point near the back corner—not near any electrical outlets or equipment that might explain an accidental start. The depth of the char here is significantly greater than the surrounding area, suggesting sustained heat from a concentrated fuel source.
Classic pour pattern. Someone splashed accelerant and lit a match.
My camera comes out. Click. Click. Click.
I move methodically through the space, documenting everything. Char depth measurements. Smoke staining patterns on the remaining wall sections. The way the fire traveled—fast and hungry, fed by something it shouldn't have had access to.
"You're smiling."
I nearly jump out of my skin. Aiden stands in the doorway, keeping his distance as promised, but watching me with an expression I can't quite parse. He's borrowed turnout gear from somewhere—boots, jacket, helmet tucked under one arm. At least he's taking the safety protocols seriously.
"I'm not smiling."
"You are. It's terrifying and also kind of hot."
"This is a crime scene, Gentry."
"I know. That's what makes the smile terrifying." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "What do you see?"
I should tell him to leave. This is my investigation, my process, and I don't need distractions—especially distractions who make my coffee taste like regret by comparison.
Instead, I hear myselfexplaining.
"The burn patterns are inconsistent with accidental ignition." I gesture toward the V-pattern. "See how the char is deeper here? That's the point of origin. But there's no electrical source, no equipment that would generate enough heat to start a fire this intense."
"So, someone set it deliberately."
"That's my working theory." I move deeper into the space, picking my way through debris. "And there's an accelerant signature. I could smell it from the entrance."
Aiden's expression shifts from curious to serious. "Like the warehouse."
"Maybe." The connection has been nagging at me since I walked in. "Could be coincidence. Commercial fires aren't uncommon, and accelerants are the easiest way to ensure a fire spreads quickly."
"But you don't think it's coincidence."
I pause, considering. "I think I need more evidence before I draw conclusions. That's how this works."
"Evidence over instinct."
"Evidence supports or refutes instinct. Instinct alone gets thrown out of court."
He's quiet for a moment, and when I glance back, he's watching me with that expression again—the one from his couch, right before his hand almost reached for mine. The one that makes my carefully compartmentalized feelings threaten to spill everywhere.
"What?" I snap, more defensive than intended.
"Nothing. Just..." He shakes his head. "Watching you work is impressive. That's all."
The compliment catches me off guard. I turn back to my evidence before he can see the effect.
"I need to collect samples. This is going to take a while."
