Page 38 of Burn Patterns

There was nothing there.

There had to be nothing there.

The water resisted more nowas if it were pushing back.Each stroke was likeclawing through tar, its weight pressing in from all sides.

One hundred two.

A loon called in the distance. A sound that should have been normal, but it wasn't right. Stretched. Distorted.It was like something mimicking the call or an imitation, just close enough to be unsettling.

My breath caught.And suddenly, I was seven years old again. Hands pressing me under. The cold of a pond in the early spring. Laughter above the surface—Tom Rogers and his friends, watching me struggle.

Kicking. Thrashing. Desperate for air.

Theweightof their hands and the certainty that this was how I would die—I surfaced, gasping.Choking.The lake'sdark fingersclung to my shoulders, trying todrag me back down.

I lifted my head mid-pull, treading water as I scanned the shoreline. It was empty, just shadows and early morning mist playing tricks with depth perception.

Your mind playing tricks on you, Marcus.

I forced myself to keep going, to maintain form even as my shoulders protested. The counting had stopped, replaced by a litany of everything I thought was wrong: the water temperature,the current, and how sound carried across the lake's surface, distorted and threatening.

My arms moved through familiar patterns—catch, pull, recovery—but there was no peace in it now. Only the growing certainty that I wasn't alone. That somewhere in the pre-dawn shadows, someone was taking notes. Analyzing. Waiting.

The water's resistance was stronger than the current, trying to hold me back. Each stroke required more effort than it should have, even accounting for fatigue. My body screamed at me to run, to get out, to acknowledge the unease pressing in from all sides.

When I finally dragged myself out of the water, my legs trembled, muscles pushed past exhaustion into something darker. I reached for my towel, dragging it roughly across my face, and then froze.

I saw it. My wetsuit bag wasopen.The zippergapedlike an open wound, spilling the contents onto the damp sand.

Myspare wetsuit had been slashed to ribbons. The cuts wereclean, almost surgical, and the edges curled as if the material hadbeen exposed to heat.

No.

And then I spotted the centerpiece. I didn't realize I was moving until I wasstanding over the mannequin.

He'd placed it at the edge of the trees, flames licking up its sides incontrolled, elegant arcs.Not a wildfire. Not chaos.A deliberate burn.A carefullycuratedact.

Mybadge number gleamed in the firelight, etched into the helmet.

Then, the mannequin moved. No. Not moved.Collapsed.

The legsgave out in perfect synchronicity, folding at the knees as if they had been positioned tofall like a firefighter trapped in a flashover.

The flames swallowed the last of it, reducing it tocharred plastic and molten cloth.

It was a statement. Aperformance. A preview.

I took a slow step back, my breath shallow and my pulse pounding at the base of my throat.

Footsteps. Behind me.

I spun, adrenaline surging—"James!"

His eyeslocked onto the burning mannequin while his usual clinical detachmentcrackedat the edges.

He exhaled sharply.

"Fuck."

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