Page 159 of Controlled Burn
She imagined walking into the bay, meeting Jake’s eyes, and not looking away.
Repeat Talia’s name, and I’ll make sure it’s your last shift.
She got up, legs shaky but spine stiff. She would not let him be her undoing. Not here. Not now.
The station’s halls were quiet—except for the hum of vending machines and the distant rattle of a thunderstorm. Talia moved through the shadows, bunker boots thumping softly against tile. She could feel the eyes on her even when the rooms were empty.
She found her locker, fingers tracing the battered nameplate—CROSS scratched beneath layers of chipped paint and rust. She let herself breathe, let the tension sink deeper into her skin.
This place had tried to cauterize her—flatten her out, bury her in the weight of a hundred years ofnot good enough.
But she’d learned something:
You can’t kill a fire by smothering it.
You have to let it burn.
She closed her eyes, letting the storm’s rumble vibrate through her bones.
The crew didn’t know what was coming.
But she did.
And when the breaking point came, it wouldn’t just be her spark.
It would be the whole station’s.
Chapter 55
Flashpoint
Maddox
The envelope was thick.
Too thick—like it held not just paper but every mistake he’d ever made.
Dean stared at it from across the room, motel lamp flickering, shadows running up the nicotine-stained wallpaper. The manilla flap curled at the edges, revealing the crisp edge of a notarized page:DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.His name in block letters. Rachel’s, too. Legal. Clinical. Final.
He didn’t even open it all the way. He couldn’t.
Rachel hadn’t called and hadn’t texted. She’d sent a courier—white gloves, a forged signature, a break so surgical it barely left a mark on the outside.
He’d read the first line. He didn’t read the rest.
The bourbon was already gone. The mini bottles—three, four, maybe five, he’d lost count—lined up like soldiers on the bedside table. He let the alcohol sear his throat, waiting for it to deaden the edges of loss, but it just made the ache sharper, brighter, like an exposed nerve.
He sat on the edge of the bed, every muscle aching. His old sweatshirt—department issue, worn thin at the elbows—felt heavy on his shoulders. Outside, trucks rattled past on the highway, the air thick with exhaust and the sweet rot of summer rain.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Unknown number.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even listen to the voicemail.
He was suspended. Divorced. Fucked.
He didn’t know what he could’ve done differently.
