Page 15 of Avery's Hero

You could knock me over right now, I’m so surprised. When the fire alarm rang and he asked me to come, I realized we’d be alone, but I thought he’d make a point to get right back to the station where everyone would be around.

I’m beginning to realize that I really have no clue what to expect from Brock. Reading him is like reading a newspaper with half the print missing. And I’m not talking about crossword puzzles, at least those come with clues.

Right now, though, his words are a welcome surprise. The fourteen-year-old inside of me wants to bounce up and down. But I mash my feet against the floorboard and try to retain my composure.

Unfortunately, my voice comes out sounding far too eager. “That would be awesome.”

Hearing my own voice makes me grimace inside. I don’t want to seem like I’m a total kid.

Brock’s so mature, so composed… well, except when he kisses me. I’m guessing that might be the only time the man ever loses his grip on his carefully tended reins.

Truth be told, I’m not sure whether I’m more excited about getting to spend more time with the man that’s going to torture me or that he really is going to include me in the case.

I guess I’ll just take it at face value. I’m dangerously thrilled about both.

CHAPTER FIVE

After recovering from her shock at my suggestion, Avery turns serious. She’s on high alert by the time we arrive at the first of three arson scenes. The burned out hull of the local bookstore sits behind a flapping line of plastic Crime Scene tape.

She slides from the truck and walks toward the charred remains with determination in her step.

I follow in silence, letting her inspect the scene from one angle, then the next. Her cogs are turning fast and the line of her mouth is pressed tight as she walks the perimeter of the building’s remains.

“It started here,” I say, standing near the north corner.

She nods. “I read the file.”

“Any questions?”

“No. I’m good.”

Then she begins to recite word for word the contents of the file. Damn. When she’s done, I’m stunned. “So, you’ve got a photographic memory?”

Shrugging a shoulder, she replies, “Yes. But I’d never claim it to be perfect.”

She kneels down by a large structural beam that was once part of the roof. After slipping on the disposable gloves I gave her, she begins to inspect some markings on the wood. “This fire was hotter than the report said it was.”

I drop to my haunches next to her. “You see something that Reeves didn’t?”

She nods. “These markings. I’ll need to do some more research on accelerants.”

When she glances at me, she catches me staring at her profile. My admiration shows in my voice. “You’re a natural at this.”

“I like this. It uses my mind.”

“Is this why you became a firefighter?”

She pushes at some debris next to her boots with her gloved fingers. “Yes. The science is what grabbed me. My brother was a firefighter and he’d leave his books from the academy laying around when I was a teenager. There wasn’t a lot to read at our apartment, so me being me, I read them all.”

“You never mentioned that your brother’s a firefighter. Is he stationed in San Diego?”

The calmness in her eyes vanishes, replaced, for a few seconds, by a look of tortured sadness. Then it’s gone. Covered over. Replaced by a blank façade. Like a steelcurtain dropping down over her emotions. In a detached voice, she replies, “He was. He’s not any longer.”

It doesn’t take a Mensa genius to know that this conversation has veered into territory that is off-limits.

She moves around some debris, silently inspecting it, until I say, “Ready? We can hit another scene before we get some lunch. But I have to warn you, I’m running on a short timer, I’m hungry as a bear.”

Snapping off her blue nitrile gloves, she folds them inside out and walks toward the truck. Her mood is distant.

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