Page 13 of Flint’s Strike

AJ stares at him like he grew a second head. “Cookout. Where you eat food and drink beer and carry on civilized conversation? I texted you last night. Grace thinks she remembers her cinnamon roll recipe. She’s been testin’ and making small changes all week.” AJ’s voice softens whenever he talks about his wife. Like even now, he can’t believe she came back to him. “I got no idea how close she is to the original, but if those rolls aren’t the best damn things you’ve ever tasted, yes they are.”

“I had plans…involving having no plans”—Nate swallows at AJ’s glare—“but a cookout sounds better. I’ll bring a veggie tray.”

Back at my desk, I pull up the State Fire Marshal’s Office directory and search for Eliot Flint. I like knowing who I’m working with.

His credentials are impressive. Certified Fire Investigator for the past five years. Before that, he put in more than fifteen years with Engine Company Twelve of the Austin Fire Department. Enough commendations and certifications that he’s clearly committed to the job.

But that doesn’t tell me anything about him.

I’m not sure why I care, but I type his name into the browser and find half a dozen news articles about fires he fought with AFD. Nothing that wouldn’t come up for any firefighter with fifteen years on the job. But at the bottom of the page, there’s a result I don’t expect from ten years ago.

Engine Company Twelve wins the AFD Chili Cookoff.

Third place went to Engine Company Seven. Second went to someone named Kowalski from Engine Company Four. He disputed the results, which tells me all I need to know about Kowalski. But Eliot took first, and they published his recipe.

Not one, but four kinds of dried chili pepper. Thirty-five minutes of prep and three hours of cooking time after a six-hour braise for the brisket. The recipe is a photocopy of the original, with notes in the margins in careful, precise handwriting that belongs to someone who doesn’t half-ass things.

I scroll down to the photo.

Eliot’s holding a trophy that’s aggressively ugly. A plastic flame mounted on a wooden bowl, filled to the brim with something that was probably supposed to be chili, but looks more like gravel. The kind of thing that lives in the back of someone’s garage until they die and their relatives throw it away.

And yet, Eliot lifts the thing high above his head like it’s the Stanley Cup, and he’s laughing.

I look at it longer than I mean to. This isn’t the man I met at the crime scene today. Something changed him, and dammit, if I don’t want to know what.

Chapter Four

Eliot

The bell over the door jingles as I step into Purl on Pine. Friday night means the front half of the shop is mostly empty, but the big table in the back is already occupied. Marlene is seaming the sleeves of her latest sweater. Betty sits beside her, working on what looks like the world’s longest scarf. Ruth’s untangling a skein of yarn with the concentration of a bomb tech.

Jean should arrive in twenty minutes complaining about traffic and carrying enough snacks to feed a church picnic.

“You’re late,” Marlene says without glancing up.

“Some jerk double-parked on Pine and had the whole street backed up for half a mile.” Setting my project bag next to my usual spot, I brace my hand on the back of the chair and ease myself down. My knee cracks, then stops arguing with me for the first time today.

Marlene and Ruth start debating whether bamboo or resin needles are superior, while Betty starts her cast off. Nobody asks whether I’m coming anymore. After six years, it’d be like asking whether the front door plans to show up.

I pull out the blanket I’ve been working on for the past three weeks and get to it.

The motion’s automatic now. Muscle memory. But the first time I picked up a pair of needles, I could barely sit up in my hospital bed.

A nurse named Carol had shown up one afternoon with a canvas tote full of yarn and enough determination to qualify as a controlled substance. She taught me how to cast on while my body argued with me over every breath. At the time, I thought she was trying to torture me. But after a few weeks, I understood. On my worst pain days, I could still work the needles. Not well, but enough to produce…something. Couldn’t walk. Couldn’t work. Didn’t think I’d ever feel useful again. But knitting changed that.

Now, I can knit through a conversation without looking down.

Betty eyes me over the rim of her glasses. Somebody’s abandoned coffee gives off the smell of hazelnut creamer, and around the table, needles click against each other. The rhythm is familiar enough that my shoulders start to loosen before I've even worked the first stitch.

“You look tired.”

“Good evenin’ to you too, Betty.”

“That ain’t a denial.”

She sniffs and returns her attention to the scarf in her lap, but I catch the look anyway. I’ve been coming here long enough to recognize it. Somewhere over the years, these women decided I belonged to them. Not in any official capacity. Just enough that if I show up looking worn down, somebody’s gonna comment on it.

“Don't encourage him,” Marlene says without looking up from her knitting. “Last week he claimed barbecue counted as a vegetable because there was coleslaw next to it.”