“It’ll be fine,” Sully offered.
I wished I were as confident as he was.
Chapter 17
Chip
I countedeight recessed ceiling panels in the chamber from the doorway before I crossed the threshold. Three faces at a long table, two of whom I recognized from what Dane had shown me on the FD website. Fire Chief Biggens, broad, silver-haired, watchful. Deputy Chief Kirk, with kind eyes and a tie bar shaped like a flame. And the HR woman, whose nameplate read MEGHAN WYZINSKI, already had her pen uncapped.
Sable came through the door with me, steady and silent, and Wyzinski stared, but not in a bad way.
“Mr. Cornish.” Deputy Chief Kirk gestured to the chair at the near end of the table. “Please have a seat. We appreciate you coming in today.”
I sat. Four steps from the door. Eight ceiling panels. Three faces.
Sable settled at my feet without instruction. I set one hand on the table and the other on my knee and waited.
“Before we begin,” Wyzinski said. “I’d like to ask if you need any accommodations. We want to ensure this process is fully accessible for you.”
I looked at her. She articulated each word carefully. Slowly. But she didn’t talk loudly or try to use baby words.
“No,” I said.
She smiled. “Of course. Well then.” She set her pen to her notepad. “Let’s begin.”
“Mr. Cornish,” Kirk said. “Could you please describe to us the circumstances of your first meeting with Firefighter Rourke?”
I could. In considerable detail. With dates and times that I added at the start.
“A fire at Cornish Iron, the gym my brother and I co-own at 432 Claiborne Street. Firefighter Rourke was part of the crew that responded to the call. He found me trapped when the smoke was already at a level that made safe breathing unlikely. He located my headphones, which I had dropped. Sully carried Sable out. They got us both clear of the building.”
“And were you injured?” Kirk asked.
“Smoke inhalation. Mild. And a knee injury. I was treated in the hospital, and you should have my discharge information on both in your notes.”
Biggens had not moved since I sat down. His hands were clasped on the table, and his eyes were steady. I decided I liked that he was still. Still people were easier. “And when did further contact with Firefighter Rourke occur?” he asked.
“I went to the fire station with cupcakes as a thank you. We spoke. Over the following weeks, the contact increased. It became a relationship.”
Biggens nodded and wrote something. Kirk made a note.
I waited. Outside in the hall, a door opened and closed. The sound was muffled through the heavy paneling, but the pressure shift was perceptible, a small change in the air.
“Mr. Cornish.” Wyzinski leaned forward a fraction. “I’d like to ask you a few questions specifically about the nature of your relationship and its early stages.”
“All right.”
“Were you aware at the time that Firefighter Rourke had a professional obligation not to develop personal relationships with civilians he’d encountered in the line of duty?”
“I was not. He told me later.”
“And when he told you, how did that affect your feelings about the relationship?”
I considered the question precisely. “It didn’t.”
She wrote something. “Could you expand on that?”
“By the time he told me, I had already decided I wanted to know him better. Learning that there was a policy consideration in play didn’t change that because it wasn’t the policy violation that interested me. It was whether he was a person worth knowing.”
