I don’t make eye contact. I pretend I don’t hear him, which only seems to amuse him more. With another chuckle, he moves toward the entry and flicks his cigarette butt carelessly as he walks out. Still staring down into the bag of cash and not noticing where it lands.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the frantic pulse hammering through my body. Nothing but my own thoughts, desperately constructing a plan to get me the fuck out of here.
Then I smell smoke, and my head jerks up. An orange glow flickers near the far corner where old newspapers and trash havebeen piled against the concrete wall. There’s a thin curl of smoke rising, and the cigarette smolders there, embers bright against the grey ash.
“No,” I whisper, watching the flame catch fast.
And then it spreads.
Chapter twenty-five
Relief and rage all at once
Evan
We’ve been back at the station for less than five minutes after a two-hour callout, barely long enough to strip out of gear before we're searching down snacks.
“If the PD win next year,” Fletch says, rummaging through the fridge, “I’m blaming you, Lawson.”
“Why me?” Colt asks.
“Because you brought electrolyte powder to every Maplewood Cup game.”
“It’s called hydration.”
I smirk. “Brother had his supplements portioned into little baggies like he was trafficking pre-workout.”
“I didn’t want the tub exploding in my bag!”
Ghost stares at him from across the table. “You used to eat gas station hot dogs for dinner.”
“That was before my knees started sounding like glow sticks and I had two kids under three.”
Beck doesn’t look up from the paperwork in front of him. “Fletch, Colt—both of you are on equipment checks in ten.”
The room hums the way it always does mid-afternoon after a busy run of calls. Dishwasher’s running, someone’s out in the bay dragging a chair across concrete. There’s a low static from the radio in the corner that never fully goes quiet.
I pull my phone from my pocket now that we’ve got a chance to sit. A missed call from Penny sits near the top of my screen from over two hours ago, and my brows pull together immediately. Underneath it is a text from Remi, sent fifteen minutes ago.
Remi:Elle insists firefighters are braver than police officers. I did not start this narrative.
There’s a picture of Elle mid-spin in the kitchen, one sock on, hair half out of its braid. She looks like she’s vibrating with her own happiness.
Me:She’s correct.
Remi:Tell that to Kane.
Me:Everything good there?
Remi:She’s fine. We’re making pink pancakes for afternoon tea.
I exhale quietly through my nose before opening Penny’s thread. The last message sitting there is from late this morning.
Lucky Pen:Wearing your FD t-shirt today because it smells good. Sorry in advance.
Something warm and helpless twists through me, and I read it again just because I can. Because the thought of her wrapped up in my shirt all day, smelling like mine, is so fucking satisfying—and I don’t care if that makes me a possessive asshole.
I can still feel the weight of her hand at the back of my neck from this morning. The soft curve of her smile against my mouth before I left, telling me in that musical voice of hers to come home safe.
