Scarlett tipped back the rest of her soda, scowling at her phone as it beeped in her hand. She’d been ignoring texts from anyone—workmates, her captain, even Connor’s boss Alex Stone. After she’d opened her mouth with the confession to Connor, it had taken her exactly two seconds to turn around and run. Connor, for his part, had stood there stunned. It wasn’t until she’d gotten in her car and left the scene so quickly her wheels had spun in the dust that she remembered she’d left the unusual piece of metal still sitting on the back of the fire truck.

Damn it. There was no way she was turning around to get it, and so she’d shot Connor a quick text to please pass it on to a colleague to bag and tag it. Her face and burned even as she’d typed out the message, imagining his reply.

So why did it bother her so much when no reply came?

Her “weird-ass evidence”—as the clerk who had logged it in had called it—made it back to the station perfectly fine, but minus one too-sexy-for-his-own-good firefighter. She’d resisted the urge to ask the cop who’d brought it in for more details. Her colleagues were already awkward enough around her as it was, and she definitely wasn’t in the mood to spend any more time at the station, or going out to the local cop bar for drinks with the regulars. But after that end to her day, Scarlett hadn’t felt much like going home, either. Her house suddenly felt way too large and empty, and the thought of spending yet another night in sweats parked in front of the TV nearly gave her hives. The exhaustion pulling at her after three scenes in as many days meant the gym was out of the question, too, and so somehow she’d ended up back at the diner she’d met Connor in that morning, sipping on a soda by herself. Part of her wished for something much stronger, but she resisted. She was off duty, but there was something nagging at her about this case. It was all just a little strange. Like the weird piece of metal she’d found at the last scene—it could be nothing, or it could end up being everything. She had no idea anymore.

She sat back, watching a droplet of condensation run over the lip of the glass and trail its way to the worn tabletop. The varnish was cracked along the edge, probably the result of one too many spilled drinks or a lack of coasters over the years. She stared as another drop followed the first, pooling into a tiny puddle at the base of the glass. Scarlett leaned in and took a sip, closing her eyes as the cool liquid ran down her throat. It was a shame the liquid couldn’t moisten her eyes. They felt dry and gritty; whether as a side effect of being awake for nearly two days straight or poking around in the rubble of multiple fires, she couldn’t tell.

She frowned with the next sip. Nope, without some bourbon to go with, this wasn’t worth it. Maybe a sugar hit would help? She caught the waitress’ attention and gestured at the pie they had sitting in the cabinet. Her stomach rumbled at the thought, and she realized the pie would be the first thing to hit her stomach since breakfast. Maybe she’d have two slices.

The pie arrived topped with the most obscene pile of cream Scarlett had ever seen. She took a massive bite, but before she’d finished chewing, her mind was wandering again. She tapped the fork against the edge of the plate absentmindedly as her brain ran through the facts again. Scant as they were, everything was screaming at her to look deeper. What had been up with the tanks they’d found? In avoiding practically everyone she knew, Scarlett had also managed to avoid any chance of getting the results from the lab. She needed to know if there was anything beyond oxygen in those tanks, or even a residue on the rest of the equipment. They hadn’t found any chemicals beyond normal household stuff at any of the scenes, but something had definitely made the last house go boom, and with more force than she’d seen before. Were her mystery assholes planning some sort of secret weapon or terrorist attack? Was there a sleeper cell hiding away in Monroe?

At the thought, fingers of ice gripped the base of her spine, stealing away any sense of well-being and safety she’d had left. It wasn’t something some small-town cops would consider, too arrogant to think they wouldn’t notice someone out of place in their own town. She knew better. Evil hid in broad daylight every day. The thought slammed into her, almost jerking her physically forward. Could whatever was going on somehow be linked to the case her husband had been working on? She’d helped him research at the time, poring over reports. Most people thought of chemical-warfare attacks as something that happened far away, in other countries. They’d all heard about them in Syria and Iraq—“those” parts of the world. Some had heard of the Sarin attacks in Asia, but not many of them knew about the cyanide bomb attack that was stopped in Texas, and Scarlett was pretty sure nobody knew about the thwarted VX gas terrorist attack in New Orleans that past Christmas. Official channels had been beyond quiet—what little she’d heard had been nibbles through unsanctioned channels when Derek had pushed someone’s buttons for more information. The whole thing had been stopped by some paramilitary group operating out of D.C. after the Feds had failed to even notice the plan to kill millions brewing right under their noses.

God. VX could kill thousands with a single drop, the median lethal dose at just 10mg. If they were dealing with something like that, then they were already screwed. The lack of any chemicals detected meant nothing when enough of the poison to kill half the population of the USA could fit in a paint can.

She’d raised the possibility of more going on than just the fires with her brief but required check-in with her captain earlier, before she’d managed to escape the station. His response had been a slowly rising eyebrow and a request to “keep him posted.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement. But, he also hadn’t dismissed her outright, a fact which bothered her more than it usually did. She sat back in the booth, sucking a crumb off the fork. Maybe he was just afraid to call her on what he likely thought was complete shit. They’d let her keep investigating, trying on her theory, all the while doing the “real” investigation without her. She sat up, the fork dropping back on the table. Was that why she’d been given the special assignment at the firehouse—to get her out of the way? God, she was so sick of being treated with kid gloves. It had been two years, for heaven’s sake! And yet she still rarely even went out with a partner.

She let her arms fall to the table, clinking the fork against the plate again, likely to the extreme annoyance of the guy glaring at her from the next booth over. She didn’t care. A smirk played on her lips. It was precisely that attitude that was likely why she didn’t have a partner. At first, after Derek’s death, no one had known what to say to her. Now, she was perfectly capable of pissing them off all on her own. That didn’t mean she didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Scarlett had been on the job for too long for her instincts to be crap.

She stood, pulling a few bills from her wallet and leaving them on the table to cover the tab. For two years, she hadn’t trusted a soul except herself, and her gut was screaming at her. She needed to see what was in that lab report.