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“Morning, ma’am,” one called out behind her, voice uncertain.
She continued on her way, ducking under the tape.
The site still steamed in the cold. Roof beams poked from the ruin at odd angles, their blackened ends trailing vapor. Wet ash slicked what remained of the floor. The fire must’ve hit with a vengeance—windows gone, siding peeled away in long, curled sheets, every surface twisted and warped by heat. It was beautiful in the way a controlled demolition was beautiful: perfect obliteration, nothing left to chance.
Desiree pulled out a pair of gloves and slipped them on. She moved in a grid, starting near the door, every step measured and deliberate. She felt the eyes of the firefighters on her back and ignored them.
The smell caught her first—sweet, plastic, sharp enough to make her blink—accelerant, probably gasoline or a similar hydrocarbon. A normal warehouse fire reeked of wood, insulation, old rodent droppings. This had the unmistakable aftertaste of someone who wanted their work to last.
She started low, flashlight in one hand, the other snapping photos with her department-issued camera. Near the northeast corner, the floor held a perfect char ring, not more than six inches wide but deep—concrete burned glassy smooth around the edge. She flagged it with a marker, then bent closer.
A second ring, farther in, near the center. Same diameter. Same melted edge. She traced the space between them with her light and found, almost invisible, a streak of something darker on the concrete, like the brushstroke of a mop dipped in a liquid.
By the time she found the third, she was already thinking about how to word her preliminary report. Not accidental, not even close. Three points, all linked by a visible trail, and the burn pattern radiated outward in a way no spontaneous fire ever did.
She crouched over the third ring, snapped a sequence of close-up shots, and circled the perimeter with her marker. She was reaching for more evidence flags when she heard boots crunching on gravel behind her.
“Don’t mind the peanut gallery,” came a voice—easy, unhurried, with just enough self-deprecation to sound like a joke. “They’re not supposed to get close, but they’re worried the crime scene tape might blow away.”
Desiree didn’t look up. “As long as they stay behind the line, I don’t care if they break out popcorn.”
The man came to stand a few feet from her, boots leaving dark prints in the ash. “You must be the arson investigator the county sent.”
She stood, dusted off the knees of her pants, and faced him. The new fire chief was taller than she expected—broad, hands jammed into the pockets of a Sweet Bloom Fire Department windbreaker, hair just long enough to look a little wild under the matching ballcap. He gave her a once-over that was direct but not predatory; he was sizing her up like a mechanic looking for a ticking noise.
“Sweet Bloom Fire Chief Brandon Holloway.” He offered his hand, which she shook once, firmly, then let go.
“Investigator Desiree Garcia,” she introduced in return. “Mission County Fire, Arson Unit.”
He nodded at the flag on the floor. “Found the third one already. Good eye.”
“There are three distinct origin points,” she told him, “all connected by a pour pattern. Whoever did this wanted a thorough burn and didn’t leave anything to chance.”
He followed her gaze to the accelerant trail, then crossed his arms and leaned against a fragment of standing wall. “That was my first thought, too. When we got here last night, the fire was moving way too fast for a building this size. Roof was nearly consumed before the interior was even fully involved.”
She pulled her notepad from her jacket and made a quick sketch. “Did you see the rings before suppression?”
He nodded. “I clocked the oddity when we were searching the place for inhabitants. Not electrical, and all the equipment in this place was disconnected years ago.”
“Was anything touched before you secured the scene?”
“Not by any of my men.” She could hear the hint of defensiveness in his voice but ignored it and let him continue. “We did our sweep, saw there was nothing salvageable, and pulled out. I posted two guys all night, so no one could get in to tamper.”
She considered him for a moment, then gave the briefest of nods—a flicker of acknowledgment that she was grateful he hadn’t been stupid enough to mess up her crime scene.
He grinned, small and wry, then let the expression drop. “You want the run of the place or a walk-through with my notes?”
“I’ll finish my grid, then we can compare impressions.” She knelt, set her camera on the concrete, and resumed shooting.
He stepped back, hands up in a mock-surrender. “It’s all yours, Investigator. I’ll keep the team busy at the truck.”
She didn’t watch him go, but she heard the boots fade and the low murmur as he spoke to his guys. She gave it another sweep, every step documented, every scent and scorch mark noted and logged. The more she saw, the clearer it became—not just arson but practiced arson. The pour pattern was deliberate; the ignition points cleanly spaced, nothing wasted.
She squatted near the main origin point, flipped through her evidence kit, and tested a spot on the floor, making sure she had a big enough sample of the residue for the crime lab. Her phone buzzed—supervisor again, wanting an update. She ignored it, focusing on making sure she didn’t miss anything.
She felt steadier now, the rhythm of work taking the edge off her earlier annoyance. Whoever started this fire thought they were clever at hiding their tracks, but she was going to find every piece of evidence they didn’t realize they left behind.
When she finally looked up, she saw Chief Holloway standing by the tape, watching her with an expression she couldn’t read. Not amusement, not challenge—just observation.
