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“Are you okay?” Finn asked softly, gently touching her shoulder.
"Let's go," Amelia said abruptly, her tone leaving no room for argument. She brushed past Rob, determination etched into every line of her body. Finn followed suit, his own thoughts churning with the realization that this fire was more than an act of destruction; it was a message, and they were meant to read it loud and clear.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Finn could smell it from half a mile away. The scent of charred memories hung thick in the air as he parked at an awkward angle on the curb. Greenbridge's narrow streets were clogged with emergency vehicles, their lights painting the dusk with urgent hues of blue and red. His gaze climbed three stories of the apartment building, where smoke still whispered secrets from Amelia's windows, though the fire brigade's hoses lay slack, spent from battle.
"Damn," Finn muttered, squinting through the windshield at the soot-streaked facade.
Amelia sat motionless beside him, her normally composed features drawn taut with silent anguish. Her eyes—sharp tools that had dissected countless crime scenes—now reflected a personal horror. Finn could see it. This was her sanctuary violated, her private world made public spectacle.
"Amelia," Finn said gently, his voice crackling like the dying embers they both could smell, "maybe we should hang back until they're done."
"No." The word slashed the air between them, quick and decisive. She flung open the car door, and the noise of the scene rushed in—the murmur of bystanders, the authoritative shouts of firefighters coordinating their efforts, the distant wail of an ambulance retreating from the chaos.
Stepping onto the pavement, she smoothed back a stray lock of hair that had escaped her otherwise neat bun and straightened her jacket with a tug—the armor of Inspector Winters snapping into place.
"Can't wait," she said with urgency lacing her words. "It's my home."
Finn watched as she approached the nearest firefighter, a man still wearing his helmet, ash smeared across his yellow coat like war paint. Amelia fished out her ID, presenting it with a hand that betrayed no tremor.
"Inspector Winters," she announced, her voice carrying authority even in its strain. "I need to see it."
The firefighter hesitated, his gaze shifting from the ID to the smoldering building, but Amelia's stare held him as effectively as handcuffs. With a curt nod, he stepped aside, granting passage.
Without looking back at Finn, Amelia crossed the threshold, stepping over a hose as limp as a discarded snake. The entrance gaped wide, a portal to a gutted realm where once there had been life, laughter, and the mundane comfort of the everyday.
"Wait!" Finn called after her, his own instincts lurching him forward. He knew protocol, the sanctity of a crime scene—even one still cooling—but this was different. This was Amelia, and if the flames hadn't already consumed her possessions, then surely this violation would sear her soul.
He jogged to catch up, his shoes crunching on debris that spilled from the building's wounded belly. A sooty taste settled on his tongue, the bitter tang of destruction mingling with the coppery hint of adrenaline that now surged through him.
"Everything will be okay," he murmured more to himself than to the receding figure of Amelia ascending the staircase before him. It was a promise hanging in the smoky air, fragile as ash, yet delivered with the conviction of a man who'd spent his life chasing certainty in a world mired by shadows and doubt.
And as the sirens wailed their mournful song into the encroaching night, Finn Wright followed where Amelia Winters led, into the heart of the smoldering unknown.
The charred remnants of the doorway loomed as a grim sentinel against the twilight sky outside. Finn's resolve hardened like the cooling embers around him, his gaze arrowing to the staircase that Amelia had taken. It was then that a solid hand landed on his chest, halting him—a firefighter, his face obscured by soot and the shield of his helmet.
"Sorry, mate, you can't go in there," the firefighter said, voice muffled but firm.
Finn glanced at the embroidered badge over the man's heart, noting the emblem of Greenbridge Fire Department. "I'm with her—Inspector Winters." He gestured vaguely upward, towards Amelia's vanished form. "I need to make sure she's safe."
"Without ID? No way," the second firefighter chimed in, stepping beside his colleague. His stance mirrored an unspoken solidarity, a wall Finn had to breach.
"Ever heard of that American detective?" Finn asked, a tinge of urgency lacing his words. "The one they've been talking about all over the news?"
"American detective?" The first firefighter tilted his head slightly, curiosity piqued.
"Yeah, the American FBI agent lending a hand with the homicides here in the UK? Supposed to be quite the looker, too," Finn added with a wry half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"Ah, I think I know who you mean," the second firefighter said, scratching the back of his neck beneath the rim of his helmet. "Got a name?"
"Finn Wright," he announced, assuming the pose from the newspaper article—the one where he appeared in deep contemplation, fingers brushing his chin, eyes narrowed in thought. It was part theatrics, part earnest appeal.
"Let me get a good look at you," the first firefighter squinted, scrutinizing Finn's features. A beat passed, laden with the tension of recognition.
"Alright, Finn Wright. Go ahead," he relented, stepping aside with a nod that carried the weight of reluctant respect.
"Thanks," Finn breathed out, relief threading through the gratitude. As he moved past the firefighters, their radios crackled with updates, a sonic backdrop to the tragedy unfolding.
