Chapter 7
The fluorescent lights in Station Four hummed with an irritating, high-pitched whine as Vance pushed open the door to the back office. The room was warm, smelling faintly of cheap chamomile tea and antiseptic wipes. Maya was sitting on the edge of the narrow cot, her legs swinging slightly above the floor. The foil blanket had been discarded in favor of a clean department-issue sweatshirt that swallowed her small frame entirely.
She wasn’t crying anymore. Her face had been scrubbed clean of the worst of the soot, revealing pale skin and dark, exhausted circles under her eyes. On the wooden desk beside her sat the grimy firefighter helmet, its peeled-back yellow tape looking like an open wound under the harsh office lights.
Vance closed the door softly behind him, pulling up a straight-backed metal chair and sitting down so his eyes were level with hers.
“Your face is clean,” Vance said gently, trying for a faint, reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Maya looked down at her hands, twisting the oversized cuffs of the sweatshirt around her fingers. “Mr. Diaz gave me a wet paper towel. He was nice.”
“Diaz is one of the best men I’ve got,” Vance replied, resting his forearms on his knees. He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted, and touched the brim of the helmet. “Maya… your uncle, or your aunt… do they know you came down here?”
Maya shook her head, her dark hair brushing against her shoulders. “Aunt Sarah was asleep on the couch. She works the night shift at the laundry. She leaves the door unlocked because the key is broken.”
“And your dad?” Vance asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “When did he give you this?”
“Last night,” Maya whispered, her voice dropping so low Vance had to lean in to catch the words. “He came into my room. He didn't turn on the light. He smelled like smoke and old metal, like he always does when he comes home late from a big fire. He put the helmet right here, on my pillow.”
Vance exchanged a quick, grim glance with Harrelson, who was standing quietly in the doorway. “Did he say anything to you, Maya? Did he tell you where he was going?”
“He told me to take care of it,” she said, her lower lip trembling again, though she fought hard to keep the tears back. “He said if anyone asked, I had to bring it directly to Commander Vance at Station Four. He said you were the only one who wouldn't look the other way.”
Vance felt a cold knot form in his stomach. The only one who wouldn’t look the other way. Those weren’t the words of a man heading out to fight a routine structural fire. Those were the words of a man running out of time, trying to pass a piece of evidence across a barricade before someone shut him up permanently.
May you like
“Maya,” Vance said, leaning closer, his tone urgent but soft. “Did your dad mention anything about work? Did he talk about the warehouse on Industrial Avenue before it caught fire?”
Maya hesitated, her eyes darting toward the window where the gray rain continued to tap against the glass. “He had a blue folder. He hid it under the floorboards in our kitchen before he kissed my forehead and walked out the back door. He told me… he told me that if the alarm went off twice, I had to run.”
