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Brandon leaned against the wall, close enough to feel the heat off Desiree’s shoulder, and watched the party with her. “About what you said earlier,” he said, lowering his voice. “About my mom and the case. I know you’re right. It’s just—she’s spent the last ten years trying to make a new normal. Part of me doesn’t want to disrupt that, but another part knows she deserves to know the truth.”

“I get that, but if something goes wrong, she’ll be stuck mourning him all over again. We should hold off reopening the wound unless we can stitch it up, too.”

Brandon nodded and felt the resistance go out of his shoulders. She was right. She usually was.

It wasn’t long before the white elephant exchange was in the final, ugly round. The two probies were mock-dueling with a pair of re-gifted plungers, while the rest of the crew heckled them with a relentless chorus of “Jingle Bell Rock,” performed off-key and at double volume.

As they watched the entertainment, Brandon felt Desiree lean in, the warmth of her sleeve brushing his. The party swirled around them, a whirl of garish color and noise, but at the edge, it was just the two of them and the low rumble of country Christmas.

He turned, voice barely above a whisper. “You know, it’s one of the things I admire about you. The way you never flinch from the truth, even when it’s ugly.”

Desiree’s eyes softened, just a fraction. “If we’re not honest, none of this means anything.”

He let that hang, knowing she wasn’t just referring to professional ethics—it was the bedrock of who she was. The same uncompromising honesty that made her a brilliant investigator was what she demanded from herself, from him, from anyone who dared get close. And at that moment, he knew with a clarity that burned that he wanted to be worthy of it.

With a nod, he raised his cup in a mock toast. “To the whole truth, then.”

She smiled, lifted her cup, and clinked it against his. “To the whole truth. And to stopping the next fire before it starts.”

He smiled, and for a second, it felt like everything had been reduced to that simple moment—two people pressed side by side, knowing that even though the future would be full of chaos, there was new hope, too.

CHAPTER 10

Desiree’s room at the inn wasn’t what she would describe as spacious. It was twelve feet by ten if she counted the shower and the closet. There was a full-sized bed, two lamps, a TV she hadn’t turned on in days, and mountains of paperwork crammed into every inch available. She glanced around the room at the case folders, charred sample bags, a tangle of USB cords, and the whiteboard she’d propped against the wall—every inch filled with notations. Even the window was under siege from her incessant note-taking—she’d stuck Post-its along the sill in a grid, reminders for calls to be made and evidence to chase. Outside, the Circle’s Christmas lights strobed in the half-dark like a malfunctioning signal, blinking some hidden message across the center of town.

She’d been up since four, mind racing even when her body wanted to quit. She ran through the timeline in her head again, then on the board, then again in her notebook. Red marker—always red, never blue—connected the fires in deliberate, knotted lines: first the warehouse, then the hardware, then the cotton gin. After that, she looped it back to the farmhouse fire and Brandon’s father’s death a decade ago.

Her cell phone buzzed, rattling her room key off the nightstand. She glanced at the screen: Supervisor Sonder. He wanted an update—she knew it before she answered.

She put him on speaker and set the phone on the bed. “Garcia here.”

“Investigator.” Sonder’s voice was thin and stretched. “Good, you’re up.”

She bit back her reply that she always was up and working before anyone else in the arson division, but she knew it would only irritate him. Instead, she waited for him to continue.

“Any movement on the Sweet Bloom cluster?”

Desiree eyed the red lines on her board. “I’m closing in, but I still have a few things I need to finish up before I can close my part of the investigation.”

She could picture him already, pinched and gray in his office, poking at a spreadsheet with a pencil. “Desiree, we need this wrapped before the holidays. You have three confirmed arsons, no civilian injuries, and a motive that’s clean enough for the DA to pursue wants he’s arrested. What’s missing?”

She capped her marker and turned to the board, finger tracing the arrows. “Not sure, sir, but I can’t leave until I know for certain that we’ve pinpointed the right guy.”

Silence, then a noise that was half-sigh, half-sniff. “You have until the twenty-sixth. No more. My boss is on me—he wants it done.”

Desiree waited, but Sonder didn’t hang up. She heard the shuffle of papers, the low murmur of office life in the background. She held her breath, staring at the whiteboard, waiting to see what he said next. “I mean it, Garcia. You’ll have another case queued by New Year’s. If there’s an escalation, brief me. Otherwise, wrap the file and move on.”

“Understood.” She clicked END before he could add anything else, then set the phone back on the nightstand.

She paced to the board and looked at the names again. Property addresses, dates, and insurance contact numbers. The name “Waddell” circled so many times she could no longer count the rings.

With a heavy sigh, she moved to the window. On the other side of the glass, the town circle was waking up. She saw the fire station with Brandon’s truck in the parking lot.

Before she could even turn back to the board, her county radio crackled to life. “Structure fire, Sweet Bloom Community Center, 401 Main Street. Reported 9:42 a.m. Multiple children inside. All units respond.”

Desiree was already moving—zipping her jacket, slinging the field kit over one shoulder, grabbing her keys and radio in a single smooth motion. She didn’t even stop to turn off the lamp.

By the time she hit the icy sidewalk, she could see the smoke billowing from down the block. She could hear the sirens and saw the flashing lights as the fire trucks rushed to the scene.