Page 39 of Burn Patterns

My fingers curled into fists.I couldn't stop shaking.

James turned to me, his voicelow, controlled—but barely. "He was here."

"Yeah," I said, voice raw. "I know."

The mannequincollapsed fully, sparks flying into the damp air.

The hunt was over.

He was transforming me.

Chapter twelve

James

The stench hit me first—melted plastic and synthetic fabric burrowing into my sinuses. My brain automatically dissected the components with scientific precision: polyester warped by controlled heat, nylon reduced to its chemical base components, and vulcanized rubber transformed into something hideous. The arsonist manipulated each element to create specific effects and tell a story.

Flames peeled back layers of the mannequin at the shore of Lake Washington like a surgeon conducting an autopsy, revealing the structure beneath with methodical care. Marcus's badge number glowed against the darkness, etched into the helmet. The numbers shouldn't have been possible to read through the destruction, but they were. Someone wanted it that way.

The arsonist had protected the helmet, turning it into a crown for their ghastly sculpture. My stomach churned as I recognized the technical mastery required.

I forced my breathing into steady rhythms, not from fear but from the need to keep my mind functioning at peak efficiency.The analytical part of my brain documented every detail while something deeper, more primal, screamed at me to run. It wasn't merely another message or even a threat. It was a rehearsal.

I spoke softly, almost whispering, "He was here."

Marcus stood beside me, his body radiating rigid tension that spoke of rage pushed to its absolute limit. He vibrated with barely contained fury. "Yeah, I know."

"This is controlled," I said, my academic tone hiding the horror pooling in my gut. "It's staged. And it's escalating." The words were horribly insufficient compared with the weight of what we witnessed.

Marcus didn't look at me. His gaze remained fixed on the burning figure like he was memorizing every detail for future retribution.His jaw worked, grinding against the dread he couldn't swallow.

Without thinking, he bent down, snatched a fist-sized rock from the shoreline, and hurled it into the water. The splash echoed in the quiet like a gunshot.

The mannequin didn't fall—it knelt. Perfect. Precise. A firefighter in their last moment of collapse.

Marcus flinched, breathing hard.He scrubbed a hand over his face, leaving streaks of grit and dampness across his cheek, then pressed both palms to the back of his neck like he was trying to hold himself together.

The last of the flames licked at the helmet, untouched, its smooth surface reflecting the inferno in Marcus's eyes.His foot snapped forward, kicking at the sand, scattering pebbles as if the ground itself had offended him.

I watched the moment he saw himself in the fire.

Frustration and fear twisted together in my chest, choking me worse than the toxic smoke.I rubbed the back of my neck, fingers digging in like pressure could keep the fear from leakingout. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, too fast, too loud." You need to step back."

He turned then, and the look in his eyes stole my breath.His chest heaved like he'd just run a sprint, and his fingers twitched at his sides, restless, itching for something to do—something to break.

"Yeah? And let him keep playing this game?"His voice was low, but his hands betrayed him, one curling into a fist so tight I saw the tendons straining against his skin.

"If you keep reacting how he wants, you're giving him precisely what he's looking for. If you back away and refuse to be part of the act…" I held my ground despite the electricity crackling between us, despite how every instinct screamed at me to put distance between myself and the intensity rolling off him in waves.

His jaw tightened until I heard his teeth grinding. "You think I don't know that?" Exhaustion bled through his sharp tone, but something darker lurked beneath it—a kind of fatalistic acceptance that made my blood run cold.

"Then act like you know it." I pushed harder, desperate to make him understand. "Step back before this gets worse."

His laugh mocked my comments. "James, it's already worse."

We stood too close, neither willing to yield. The mannequin's flames reflected in his eyes, transforming the usual calm green into something molten and dangerous. Smoke and chlorine clung to his skin—the familiar scent of him now tainted by this new horror.

I wanted to shake him to make him see what was happening. Make him understand that he was being sculpted into something else entirely.

---