Page 63 of Mason

I don’t flinch when one of the firemen moves too close. I blend into the background like I always do—silent, unremarkable, just another face in the crowd of onlookers. None of them realize the arsonist is standing right here, watching his handiwork unfold.

The entire operation is precise. Controlled. I left just enough breadcrumbs to suggest someone else was responsible. And not just anyone—David Eddy.

He’s been missing for a few hours now, but as far as the world knows?David’s still alive.

And that’s exactly what I want them to believe.

The trick to keeping a dead man alive isplanting doubt.

Nothing obvious. No flashy gestures. Just small, subtle inconsistencies that force people toquestionwhat they think they know.

A credit card charge in an unexpected place. A security camera picking up a blurry figure that might—just might—match his build. A single phone call traced back to an unregistered number. A whisper that he was spotted somewhere, an unverified sighting that will worm its way into the right ears.

But the nail in the coffin—the real pivot point of the case—isn't out in the wild. It's buried in concrete.

A locker. Tucked away in a quiet evidence room, signed out by none other than David Eddy himself. A folder full of names. Notes. Footage. Things he should’ve never had access to. Things that were never meant to see the light of day.

Now they never will.

Because David Eddy’s dead, and so is that evidence. It’s just enough to shift the direction of the investigation. Just enough to plant a seed of doubt in the right minds. Just enough tobuy me time.

And sometimes, that’s all you need.

Not truth.

Not innocence.

Justtime.

Shelby won’t be a suspect. Not when it looks likeDavid Eddyis still out there, cleaning up his own mess.

The law loves a good ghost story.

And I’m more than happy to give them one.

“Twice in one day,Agent North. I’m flattered,” Shelby says as she opens the door.

Arms crossed. Jaw tight. That look in her eyes—like she’s already got a thousand things she wants to say, and none of them involve forgiveness.

I step under the archway, the sun behind me, casting a long shadow across Mason Ironside’s front porch. It feels like stepping into enemy territory. Probably because it is.

She doesn’t invite me in.

I don’t expect her to.

“I came to follow up on the fire,” I say. “Make sure you weren’t hurt.”

Her laugh is dry. Cruel. “What was it, Saxon? Faulty wiring? Gas leak? Or did the file just spontaneously combust the moment I stopped being convenient to the Bureau?”

Behind her, Mason Ironside stands just inside the foyer. Silent. Motionless. Arms folded across his chest, all cold steel and unblinking eyes. A wolf at rest, but never unarmed.

I ignore him—for now.

“Is this your current residential address?” I ask her, keeping my voice level.

She ignores my question and delivers one of her own. “You knew David was dangerous.” Her words come fast, sharp. “You knew. I told you. I begged you to intervene. And what did you say, Saxon?‘He’s your husband, Shelby. Make it work.’Remember that?”

Her voice cracks—barely—but she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away.

---