Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Even though he doesn’t say anything, his question hangs in the air as he strums his thumb over my hip.
“I thought loving Tyler meant some part of me was closed for good, but I’m learning my heart didn’t die with him. It just got buried under everything I was trying to hold up.”
He watches me for several long seconds, then leans in and presses a tender kiss to my lips. “You do an incredible job with all that you’re holding up, but I know it’s been hard. You shouldn’t have to do it alone anymore.”
His choice of words seems careful, even if it’s not on purpose. He’s not making any promises or asking for a commitment. I don’t want to overwhelm him, but I want him to know how I feel.
“I don’t think what’s between us is any less meaningful just because it’s unconventional,” I say. “Honestly, maybe it matters more because it isn’t easy. Maybe it’s exactly what all of us need.”
He takes that in without responding, then after a few seconds, kisses me again and tucks me closer to him.
CHAPTER 32
BUCK
The fire didn’t take the whole building. The suppression system kicked in early enough to keep it contained to one room, and the wall between this room and the next did what it was supposed to do. But contained doesn’t mean minor.
Not when it’s T.J.’s classroom.
Small desks sit at odd angles in a shallow pool of gray water and ash. Melted plastic has hardened into warped shapes along the far side of the room. Bright paper borders near the ceiling are curled and blackened against the cinderblock. The remains of third-grade science fair projects have collapsed into soggy, blackened heaps.
At first glance, the fire looks like it originated from one desk. Elena was here earlier, and I was sickened but not surprised to learn it’s T.J.’s desk. It’s where the most obvious damage is.
Further inspection leads me to a supply cabinet at the back of the room, closest to his desk, where the fire climbed from low and back, then rolled forward. Not accidental, not electrical.
Whoever set this knew where T.J. sat and made sure the worst of the visible destruction landed there.
This fucker doesn’t come after me, Weston, or Calder, the men responsible for Arseny Kozlov’s death. Instead of settling it straight, the spineless bastard burns up a kid’s desk and weeks of children’s work.
Fury rages through me, but I clamp down on it and keep working.
The cabinet door is open, swollen from water and heat, but Elena told me it contained chemicals and was always kept locked. Fresh scrape marks score the screws on the hinges, and bright metal shows where a tool bit in and slipped. Someone forced it open before the fire.
Inside, a shelf has shifted away from the wall. Behind it, half-hidden in soot and damp debris, there’s a single crumpled disposable glove and a folded sheet of paper.
I bag the glove first, then carefully unfold the paper, which is only singed. It’s a printed duty schedule showing teacher drop-off assignments, late pick-up coverage, and hall supervision.
He’s been studying the building and its routines long enough to find the soft spots. He learned where the adults were looking and where they weren’t.
When I step back from the cabinet, I catch sight of Elena in the hall with the superintendent and a sheriff’s deputy. She’s standing straight, arms crossed, her face pale but controlled. Principal first, mother second. I hate that she has to do both at a time like this.
I make myself keep looking at the room, even though every instinct in me wants to drop everything and get her and T.J. as far from this place as possible.
After the earlier incidents, we focused on adding camera angles at the school, installing more lights, and running patrols. The camera that monitors the front entrance is old and was mounted wide for general exterior coverage, rather than detail, but I spend hours in my office, combing through its grainy images, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
Schools are hard to lock down without turning them into something they shouldn’t be. During the day, people are always on the move. Teachers, parents, custodians and other support staff, late drop-offs, early pick-ups, and deliveries. The doors open for legitimate reasons all day long. A man who knows how to use normal movement as cover can still get through if he times it right and nobody has a reason to stop him—and that’s exactly what happened.
Yesterday afternoon, after janitorial staff had arrived and while late pick-up was still underway, a man in a dark jacket and cap moved along the side of the building. Confident and unhurried, he walked inside like he belonged there.
I freeze the frame and zoom. The image tears apart, but it doesn’t matter.
Weston and Calder walk in then and stop.