Page 9 of Burn Patterns
"Like an artist learning to capture motion." I couldn't stop the professional analysis, even as part of me wanted to reach out and ease the tension building on his shoulders. "The fire patterns, the electrical modifications, and the photos are all studies in controlled power. Like they're trying to understand..."
"Trying to understand what?"
"You." The word came out softer than I'd intended. "The way you move through the world. The discipline it takes to maintain that level of control."
Something flickered in his eyes—recognition or remembrance, I couldn't tell which. "The way Dad used to say discipline was its own kind of art."
The parallel made my breath catch. I looked away, focusing on my tablet to avoid the raw honesty in his expression. "We should document the modifications. The electrical signature could help identify—"
"James." His hand settled on my wrist. "You have a way of seeing that I can't match. We're fortunate to have that."
The gentle gratitude in his voice hit like a gut punch—unexpected, impossible to brush off. I swallowed, nodding stiffly, afraid that if I spoke, my voice might betray me. I wasn't used to being seen like this.
Marcus's radio crackled again—Captain Walsh requesting an update. He squeezed my wrist once before stepping back.
I focused on photographing the circuit box modifications and on gathering evidence with scientific precision. It was easier than acknowledging how Marcus's presence filled the warehouse even after he moved away.
Numbers made sense. Evidence followed patterns. People—especially tall, gentle firefighters with perceptive eyes and careful hands—were infinitely more complicated.
And infinitely more terrifying.
Chapter three
Marcus
The rubber mats beneath my boots had melted and re-hardened into twisted shapes, releasing a uniquely nauseating stench of vulcanized rubber gone wrong. These mats had absorbed years of sweat, blood from split calluses, and chalk dust that never quite came out.
Now they'd transformed into something grotesque—black waves frozen mid-surge, edges sharp enough to slice through boot leather. The iron plates I'd lifted thousands of times had partially liquefied, cooling into abstract sculptures resembling vertebrae picked clean by industrial-strength acid. Just yesterday morning, I'd been here doing shoulder presses, my hands knowing every nick and groove in the familiar equipment, while mentally reviewing my race training schedule.
Even the air was wrong, thick with particles that coated the back of my throat with every breath. It wasn't destruction; it was desecration.
My hands curled into fists before I consciously stopped them. They'd not only burned the gym—they'd erased it. My space, my sanctuary, was reduced to twisted metal and blackened ashby someone who thought they had the right to claim it. Heat still radiated from the warped metal equipment, making the air shimmer in places.
"Marcus." Michael held onto the forced, steady voice he used during SWAT operations, the tone that always made my big brother instincts prickle despite him being fully capable of handling himself. He emerged from the cardio room, his boots leaving clean prints in ash. "Primary origin point was deliberate. They used the ventilation system to control the spread."
I watched him move through the wreckage with tactical precision, noting how his shoulders stayed square even as his eyes betrayed his concern. The professional part of my brain noted his observations while something deeper processed the violation of such a sacred space. It was the place where I'd rebuilt myself after losing Dad, one rep at a time until physical exhaustion could finally quiet the guilt and grief.
"They knew the layout." I traced the path to the remains of my favorite treadmill, where I'd logged countless miles during winter storms. Its display panel had transformed into flowing silver tears, frozen mid-descent. "See how they targeted specific equipment?"
"The machines you use most." Michael's jaw tightened, and I watched him fight the urge to shift into full protective mode. We'd had this dance our whole lives—him trying to shield his older brother despite the age difference and me pretending not to notice. "This isn't random anymore, Marcus. They're targeting you."
"No. They're making it all intimate."
The locker room hit harder than I'd braced for. The acrid smell had faded, replaced by the ghost of familiar scents—metal, sweat, the particular mix of cleaning products Tony used. The tile floor was slick with firefighting runoff, each puddle reflecting the emergency lights in fractured patterns.
Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, creating small rivers that carried streaks of ash toward the drains. Most of the contents had burned, but my locker door hung open like an accusation, the metal warped from heat but still recognizable.
Dead center on the top shelf of my locker sat a pristine white envelope, placed with the delicate precision of a love letter. The handwriting flowed across the expensive paper in controlled curves that were invasively familiar, as if written by someone who had watched me long enough to develop affection.
"Your form has improved significantly over the past four months, though you still battle that left elbow drop during butterfly recovery. The way you cut through the pre-dawn mist is poetry in motion—the camera barely does it justice. I've watched you push through fatigue and adjust your technique degree by degree. You're becoming everything I knew you could be."
My hands didn't shake as I removed the accompanying photograph, but my breath came a fraction too slow, like my lungs had forgotten the rhythm for half a second. The image showed me mid-stroke, steam rising from Lake Washington's surface around my shoulders.
Whoever took it understood photography and swimming mechanics intimately—the composition caught the exact moment of power in the pull, the clean line of entry. It was the kind of shot that required professional equipment and patience. Practice. Perfect timing.
"Jesus." Michael's tactical training showed in how he immediately scanned sight lines and calculated angles. Hisconcern about his big brother warred with his professional assessment. "This is more than surveillance. They're..." He trailed off, probably editing his word choice given our youngest brother's arrival.
"Dr. Reynolds is here." Miles appeared in the doorway, his crisis counselor's insight apparent in how he positioned himself—close enough to support, far enough to give space. He'd mastered that balance years ago, at the tender age of twelve in the months after we lost Dad. "He's already examining the burn patterns in the cardio room. And Marcus?" His voice softened. "He's seeing things in the patterns. Things that might help."
