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Desiree made a note to herself—don’t underestimate the locals—before turning her attention back to the scene.
She was deep in her grid, flagging every anomaly, when Holloway approached a second time, this time with a notepad in one hand and two coffees balanced in the other. He offered her the drink with a small, noncommittal tilt of the cup, and she took it mostly to keep him from spilling on the evidence.
“You want my read on the progression?” He asked, flipping his notepad open as he set down his own cup on a nearby shelf.
“I’ll listen,” she stated, doing her best to ignore how badly she wanted to remove his cup from the crime scene, “but I’d like to finish my own documentation first.”
He paused, a flash of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just thought I could save you some steps.”
She glanced up, neutral. “I appreciate the offer, but my methodology requires an independent assessment before considering any secondary narratives—including yours.”
The grin vanished as he crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “Understood. Didn’t mean to overstep.”
“You’re not. Just—I’m particular about my procedure.”
Desiree turned back to her grid, but the image of him lingered—those broad shoulders filling out the windbreaker, the way the fabric pulled across his chest when he crossed his arms. She shook her head and bent lower over the char pattern.
Focus, Garcia, she told herself—no time to get distracted by an attractive man.
He leaned against a surviving bit of wall, watching her. “Where are you coming from, Investigator? Travis County’s got a widespread.”
She set the camera on the tripod, aligning the angle with a small bubble level. “I’m assigned out of Austin, but they send us wherever the need is. Sweet Bloom’s not that far. Ninety minutes, if you don’t count the stop for coffee at the Pump and Go.”
He laughed—a warm, rolling sound—and she almost flinched at how loud it was against the silence of the ruined space.
She picked up the next marker and moved along the wall, eyes scanning for additional ignition clues. “How long have you been with Sweet Bloom FD?”
“My whole adult life, minus a few detours for training and college,” he explained. “Dad was the chief before the one I replaced. Not a lot changes in towns like this. They just swap out the names on the door.”
She scribbled a note. “You were first on scene?”
He nodded. “My team got the call just after ten. Came in from a neighbor who saw the smoke. By the time we rolled up, the east wall was already sagging. It was a done deal.”
“Was there anything in the building worth torching?” She asked, circling to a new vantage point. “Insurance angle, unpaid taxes, someone settling a score?”
He hesitated. “Not that I know of, but the old co-op offices are a revolving door. There’s been talk about the owner selling the land to an out-of-state developer. Could be someone wanted to lower the value.”
She made a noncommittal sound, then switched lenses on the camera. “How many structure fires have you seen that move this fast?”
He considered. “Few. None this clean. It was like the whole thing went up on a timer.”
Desiree’s pen stilled for a second. “That’s what I’m thinking.”
He watched her set up a perimeter shot, then asked, “How long you been doing arson?”
She kept her eye to the viewfinder. “This is my first full case with the unit.”
“Huh.” Not judgment, just surprise. “You seem pretty good at it, considering.”
“I did four years of fire investigation support before I got my spot in the main arson unit.” She didn’t add the rest—that she’d done all the grunt work, written the reports, even testified in court, but always from the back bench, never under her own name with the title investigator attached. “This is my first solo case.”
He whistled, soft. “Trial by fire.”
She glanced at him over the rim of the camera, expression flat. “Funny.”
He grinned, then let it fade. “You want my crew to clear out, give you some privacy?”
“I’ll let you know when I’m ready for the scene walk.”
