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Chapter One

BEN

The bumper was spotless, but that wasn’t the same as finished. I moved the microfiber cloth in small, tight circles along the front chrome of the rescue squad. I’d washed the ambulance three hours ago to strip away the road grit, but that was just basic maintenance. Clean was an obligation. Finished was a statement of intent.

Most people looked at a fire station bay at 9:15 on a Tuesday night and saw a garage. They smelled the sharp tang of diesel exhaust, the lingering scent of floor wax, and the damp, metallic scent of the rain hammering against the corrugated metal roof. They saw a place where trauma paused to catch its breath.

I didn’t see any of that. I saw order. Purpose.

The fluorescent lights overhead hummed in a low, electric buzz that usually drove my paramedic partner, Gator, up the wall. I liked the sound. It was consistent. It didn’t ask questions. It didn’t demand I explain why I was a thirty-seven-year-old man spending his Tuesday night caressing a bumper instead of sleeping, drinking, or finding someone to warm his bed.

I leaned back and inspected my work. My reflection stared back from the curved metal. Distorted. Stretched thin. The face in the chrome was like a funhouse mirror version of a Coleridge. I had similar brown hair to my brother Austin, though mine was cut strictly short to keep it out of my eyes on a scene. I had the same green eyes as my sister Brenna and our mother, Helen, though mine usually spent their time scanning for hazards rather than weeping over romantic poetry. But in the reflection, my jaw looked harder than it should. My eyes looked tired, so I scanned the rescue squad again.

“Now it’s finished," I said to the empty bay. I capped the tin of polish and set it on the workbench, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the shelf.

My family—my five brothers and sisters, their spouses, the ever-growing army of nieces and nephews—they were the art. They were a vibrant, messy oil painting full of bright colors and bold strokes. They loved loud, they fought hard, and they felt everything with a terrifying intensity.

Me? I wasn’t the art. I was the frame.

I didn’t belong inside the borders—my job was to surround them. To take the impact when we fell off the metaphorical wall so the canvas didn’t rip. I held the structure together, unnoticed and uncelebrated, and that was exactly how I liked it.

I wiped my hands on a shop rag. The station was silent, save for the rain picking up intensity outside. A big storm south of Cuba was pushing squalls of heavy weather up the Keys. But the radio on the wall remained blissfully quiet. No tones. No dispatch voice crackling with bad news. Just me, the rig, and the order I’d manufactured.

Headlights swept across the glass panels of the bay doors, cutting through the glare of the fluorescents. A familiar black truck pulled onto the concrete apron and parked with tires aligned perfectly parallel to the concrete seams, leaving exact clearance on both sides despite the driving rain.

Chase Ashworth.

I walked to the wall and hit the button. The bay doors rumbled, a mechanical groan that vibrated through the floor. Humid, storm-charged air invaded my sanctuary as the heavy metal rose. My brother-in-law hopped out before the door was fully open, grinning and soaked. He jogged toward the passenger side while my sister Harper descended like a general inspecting the troops. She wore a rain jacket over her resort uniform, her chestnut hair pulled back in a messy bun that was already surrendering to the weather. She clutched a stack of Tupperware against her chest, and her rain jacket was already slick.

"Ben!" Harper called as they trotted into the garage. "We come bearing gifts. Tell me you haven’t eaten that protein bar garbage for dinner again."

"I ate." I walked over to meet them.

"Liar," she said, bypassing my attempt at a greeting to shove the containers into my arms. "It’s risotto. Leftover from the Driftwood Grill special tonight. Mushroom and truffle oil. I put two pieces of garlic bread in there, but you need to eat them fast before they get soggy."

"Hello to you too, Harper," I said, balancing the warm plastic against my chest as I nodded at the man with neat dark hair. "Chase."

He leaned against the grill of Rescue 1, wiping rainwater from his face and looking ridiculously happy. Marriage to my sister had given the guy a permanent glow, or maybe that was just the reflection of his contentment. "Hey, Ben. Don’t look now, but I think you missed a spot on the ambulance. I can almost see a molecule of dust on the fender."

"Funny." I walked the food over to the workbench and set it down away from the polish. "You guys didn’t have to drive out here in this. The roads are getting slick."

"It’s no trouble," Harper said, shaking off her jacket. She immediately scanned the bay, her eyes darting from the coiled hoses to the mop bucket in the corner. "Mom’s watching the kids. Besides, I knew you were working, and therefore, polishing things. Honestly, Ben, if you scrub that truck any harder, you’re going to rub the paint off and find the original metal from the factory."

"It’s maintenance," I said. "Your taxpayer dollars at work."

"I guess maintenance is one word for it. Obsession might be another one." Walking over to me, she reached up and brushed a piece of lint off my uniform shoulder. Her hand lingered for a second. "You look tired."

"I’m fine."

"You’re always fine. That’s the problem." She stepped back and crossed her arms. "You weren’t at Sunday dinner last week. Mom made that lemon cake you like."

"I caught a shift for Miller. His kid had a recital."

"Bruce Miller has four kids. They always have a recital." Harper narrowed her eyes. It was The Look. The one that said she was dissecting my excuses and finding them lacking. "We missed you. Finn asked where Uncle Ben was three times. He wanted to show you his new LEGO transformer."

The mention of my eight-year-old nephew cracked the armor. It always did. "I’ll swing by and see him later this week."

"Or," Chase said, pushing off the rig and joining us. He dropped a hand on Harper’s shoulder, his touch casual and grounding. "You could come over this Sunday. We’re doing a grill night at the house. Burgers, beers. Low stakes. Even Austin is coming, and you know how much he hates socializing."