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Brandon had the tailgate down, the toolkit splayed open next to a packet of wet wipes and a battered thermos. His helmet sat on the bumper, chin strap dangling. He looked up at her and nodded, then watched as she spread her notes across the hood. He didn’t ask questions. He just waited for her to break it down.
“Same as the others,” she informed him, flipping to the photo of the storage room. “Accelerant, point of origin, method. Whoever did this wants us to know it’s a progression. They’re not hiding anymore, and now they’re going after occupied buildings.”
He picked up one of the evidence bags, held it up to the light. The label read “Sample 4: CC-ignition.” His fingers flexed around it, knuckles going pale. “You think it’s the same person as before?”
“Has to be.” She put the camera down, wiped her brow, then pointed to the notes about the pour pattern. “Same signature, but now they’re accelerating.”
He closed his eyes, like he was bracing for a blow. “Then he won’t stop here.”
Desiree leaned against the side of the truck, feeling the steel warm through her coat. She wanted to say something reassuring, but the best she could do was honest. “We’re going to stop him before it gets worse.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he ducked into the cab, rummaged through the glove box, and came out with a white envelope. It was blank—no return, no stamp, no mark but a slight smudge at the edge where someone with dirty fingers had grabbed it.
He handed it to her. “Found this on my windshield after the response. Wasn’t there before.”
She took it and pulled out a single sheet of paper. The handwriting was ragged, but precise, like someone had practiced each letter before writing it.
YOUR DADDY COULDN’T STOP IT.
NEITHER CAN YOU, CHIEF.
No signature. No direct threat, but none was needed.
She read it twice, lips tight, then folded the page and slid it into a new evidence bag. She sealed it and labeled it “A-4: Threat Note.”
When she looked up, Brandon was staring at the note through the plastic. “I took a photo already and will send it over to Sheriff Hart, so he knows what’s going on.”
“You shouldn’t be alone,” she told him firmly. “You should ask for police protection until we track down Waddell and whoever he’s hired to start these fires.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Brandon protested.
“This isn’t about you,” she told him. “It’s about whoever left this. We’re not giving them a chance to harm you.”
He looked like he wanted to argue again, but she cut him off, voice sharp: “Not a debate, Brandon. If you won’t accept police protection, then I’m going to stay with you instead.”
Reluctantly, he nodded once, anger slipping away, leaving only the exhaustion.
Once they were finished at the station, Desiree coasted her car to the curb in front of Brandon’s house. She could see the glow of a Christmas tree through one of the windows, but the rest of the house was shuttered and still.
She killed the engine and gathered her overnight bag, evidence kit, and box of case files. She took a breath, checking the mirror for the circles under her eyes, then stepped out into the cold. The grass was stiff with frost. Her boots crunched as she climbed the steps.
Brandon opened the door before she could knock. He wore a faded Sweet Bloom FD hoodie and loose jeans, hair still damp from a shower. “You didn’t have to come.”
“I wanted to,” she told him, and it was true. She didn’t want him to be alone—and if she were honest with herself, she didn’t want to be alone either.
Brandon helped her with her belongings, giving her the guest room, before leading her into the kitchen. He poured her a mug of coffee before she asked. Black and hot, just the way she liked it. He sat across the table, elbows on the oak, eyes level with hers. For a second, they just drank and listened to the heater cycling off and on.
She set her phone on the table and pulled up pictures of the new fire as well as the threat.
“Why do you think he left the note?” He asked with a hint of frustration in his voice. “Why not just torch the building and keep going?”
Desiree shrugged. “The escalation isn’t about you. It’s about the legacy. He hates that you picked up where your dad left off, and he wants to scare you by reminding you that he got to him, so he can get to you.”
Brandon’s fingers tapped the top of his coffee mug. “I won’t let him scare me off.”
“Good,” she told him with an appreciative smile. “If you don’t do what he does, he’ll get angry. And if he’s angry, he’ll make a mistake.”
They worked side by side for another two hours, talking about the newest fire and what it meant for the case.
