Page 20 of Flashpoint
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The honest answer is complicated. I'm exhausted. I've got evidence samples that might connect two arson cases and a fake boyfriend who's starting to feel very real.
I finally type:
Me: I'm okay. Thank you for last night.
Aiden: Anytime, Pritchard. Rain check still stands whenever you're ready.
I set the phone down and reach for the water glass, taking a long drink. Through the window, Copper Ridge is waking up—cars starting, people walking dogs, the ordinary rhythm of a Tuesday morning.
My life hasn't felt ordinary in weeks.
The arson investigation waits in my bag, evidence samples ready for the lab. The school visit looms in three days. The fake relationship continues.
And somewhere in all of this, I need to figure out what's real and what's performance before I lose track of the difference entirely.
Chapter 6
Aiden
Twenty-three second graders stare at me like I'm a zoo exhibit.
"And that," I conclude, holding up the plastic fire helmet we brought for demonstration purposes, "is why we always have a meeting spot outside when there's a fire. So everyone can find each other, and nobody gets left behind."
A tiny hand shoots up in the front row. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
The teacher—Ms. Huang, according to the lanyard around her neck—winces apologetically. I catch Riley suppressing a laugh behind her hand.
"That's not really about fire safety, buddy."
"My mom says firefighters are very handsome," the kid continues, undeterred. "She says she'd leave my dad for one."
"Okay!" Ms. Huang claps her hands together. "Let's focus on the presentation, everyone. I'm sure Lieutenant Gentry has more important things to tell us."
I do, technically. But now I'm distracted by the flush creeping up Riley's neck and the way she's suddenly very interested in the fire extinguisher diagram we brought.
"Actually," I say, because apparently I have no self-preservation instincts, "I do have a girlfriend. She's right here."
Riley's head snaps up. Her eyes go wide behind her glasses—a look that promises creative revenge later.
"She's a fire investigator," I continue, warming to the chaos I've created. "That means when a fire happens, she figures out how it started. She's like a detective, but for fires."
"That's so cool!" A girl with braids bounces in her seat. "Do you catch bad guys?"
Riley steps forward, her initial panic smoothing into composure. "Sometimes. When people start fires on purpose, it's my job to find the evidence and help the police catch them."
"Have you ever caught a really bad guy?"
"I've helped put several arsonists in jail, yes." Riley's warming to her subject now, the same way she did in her lab. "Last year, I worked on a case where someone was setting fires in abandoned buildings. We caught him because he left behind a very specific kind of evidence."
"What kind?"
"His shoes." She grins, and I watch twenty-three second graders lean forward in unison. "Different shoes leave different patterns in ash and debris. He wore very distinctive boots, and we matched the prints to him."
"Like Cinderella!" a kid in the back shouts. "But evil!"
"Exactly like evil Cinderella." Riley's grin widens. "That's actually a great way to think about it. We look for what people leave behind—footprints, fingerprints, chemical traces. Every fire tells a story if you know how to read it."
A boy with a gap-toothed smile raises his hand. "Can you tell if a dragon started a fire?"
