Page 54 of No Take Backs

I’ve already read them all front to back, trying to get as much information as possible on all of the fires.

“Ten fires, and they all have surveillance reports. Guess you’re having movie night at your place tonight, right?”

“Yeah, this is my first lead, so I’ll be ass deep in this information until I find something I can use to figure out who’s responsible.”

Ryder picks up the file from Piper’s fire, as I’ve started to refer to it in my mind, and opens it, revealing the sparse information I’ve been able to collect so far.

He grunts and then puts it back on the table in the right pile. “If they didn’t mean to hurt the little girl, it’s going to be even harder to find them than you think,” Ryder points out.

“I’m not going to start with the newer fires,” I tell him. “That’s the first thing I learned when I was a cop. When you’re investigating a string of crimes, you start at the beginning. That’s when they made the most mistakes, and one of those mistakes is going to lead me right to them.”

Ryder stares at me for a long second before he gets up and taps my desk with his coffee cup. “You know you’re scary, right?”

“Go to work, Ryder. I’ll talk to you later.”

He mock-salutes me and then shuts the door on his way out, leaving me with a pile of information and the beginning of a migraine.

“I’m gonna find you.” Muttering, I open the first file and get to work.

21

NIA

I am about to get arrested. It’s the only logical conclusion I can come to as I sit here, watching Richard munch on a roll, his little face scrunched up in a scowl.

Panic is clawing at my insides, but I’m trying to keep it together, trying to maintain some semblance of calm for his sake.

There’s no way out of this.

Any second now, someone is going to accuse me of kidnapping, child endangerment, or worse—all because I didn’t know he was allergic to strawberries. The thought of it makes my heart race even faster, my mind conjuring up images of handcuffs and jail cells. I can see the headlines now: “Local Paramedic Arrested for Endangering Child’s Life.” It’s not rational, but in the moment, it feels all too real.

“Are you okay?” I ask Richard for the tenth time in less than a minute. Yes, I still refer to him as Richard because he said that he doesn’t like the name Rich. Especially when he found out that’s what Lyla’s dad’s name was.

“Yes.” He glares at me over Lyla’s head. “I said I was fine the first nine times you asked. Trish said it was fine, too, and she’s going to her car to get my EpiPen just in case.”

“You’re pretty smart, did you know that?” Lyla stuffs a roll in her mouth. “I didn’t know that some jellies had strawberries in them.” She eyes the jelly suspiciously and then pushes it to the end of the table so that it isn’t anywhere near either one of them.

“I just don’t want to die.” Richard takes the last roll and starts tearing into it. “When there’s stuff like that, my mom always said it was really important to pay attention.”

“She was right,” I tell them both. “I’m glad you know that you’re allergic to them. As long as you promise that you’re okay.”

“Yes.” He rolls his eyes, and Lyla laughs.

Both Ella and Trish come back at the same time, and neither of them look the slightest bit worried.

“This has been the best day,” Lyla tells her mom when she sits back down. “I can’t believe that we already went shopping.”

“That was not fun.” Richard rolls his eyes again, staring pointedly at Trish. “Are we doing anything else?”

I know he is waiting for Trish to answer, but I’m just so excited that I open my mouth first. “I thought we might get our hands and feet done.”

“What does that mean?” He stares between us, looking confused more than anything. “What does it mean to do our hands? Are they going to get cut off or anything like that?”

“No.” Lyla laughs and holds out her perfectly pink nails. “It means they massage our hands and feet and paint them for us.”

Richard tries his best not to look interested, the way every little boy does when confronted with something that’s typically deemed “girly.” There’s a subtle shift in his expression, a flicker of curiosity that he tries to hide behind a mask of indifference.

But I see the way his eyes linger on Lyla’s hand, taking in the bright color and the careful precision with which it’s been applied. “Do they have clear nail polish?” he asks, his voice betraying the interest he’s trying so hard to conceal. It’s a simple question, but it carries so much weight—his way of testing the waters, of seeing if this is something he can do without feeling out of place. There’s a vulnerability there that tugs at my heart, and I make a mental note to reassure him that it’s okay, that it’s more than okay.

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