Page 17 of Ashfall

Flagstaff is cooler than the canyon base but no less charged. The city lights are too sharp, too clean, like they’re trying to erase the grit this place still clings to. It’s a different kind of heat here—urban, humming beneath the neon.

We end up at a locals-only dive just outside the edge of town, a place that smells like spilled whiskey and worn in secrets. String lights dangle from the ceiling like lazy fireflies, casting shadows across pool tables scarred by years of poor bets. The jukebox is stuck in a loop of old country heartbreak, bleeding emotion into the walls like it’s part of the foundation.

Exactly the kind of place where truths get drunk out of people—where memories slip loose and secrets crawl into the open on the back of cheap whiskey. A place where the ghosts don’t just haunt—they linger in ash and bar smoke. Dennis Price might’ve left more than a trail here. He might’ve left a shadow still burning at the edges.

Perfect.

Dax leans close as we step through the door. His voice is low and warm against my ear. "If Price’s ex-girlfriend is skittish—and word is she is—don’t spook her. Let me handle the approach."

I raise an eyebrow. “Because you’re so warm and fuzzy?”

He grins, sharp and a little wicked. “Because I can be convincing when I need to be.”

I don't doubt that, not even for a minute. Dax’s breath brushes my neck—warm, slow, and far too intimate for a man I’m supposed to be keeping at a professional distance. I shiver, not from cold, but from the way his presence lingers like smoke—something dangerous that clings even after the fire’s out. It’s infuriating. It’s intoxicating. And I hate how much I feel it.

We find the ex-girlfriend—Danielle—already a drink and a half in, nursing a half-empty glass of something amber and suspiciously strong at a high-top table in the corner. Her hair’s piled up like she did it with a pencil, and her eyeliner’s smudging from the heat. She eyes Dax, then me, then our proximity with a knowing smirk, like she’s seen a hundred stories start this way and none of them ended with a handshake.

“You two together?” she asks, slurring slightly, her gaze ping-ponging between us with an arched brow and a grin that knows too much. Her voice carries the weight of idle gossip and something sharper underneath, like she already knows the answer but wants to watch us squirm, anyway.

Dax’s hand settles on the small of my back. Possessive. Subtle. Not the casual touch of a man playing a part—but the kind that makes your spine straighten and your breath catch. It says 'mine' without saying a word. And worse, my body doesn’t recoil. It leans.

“Yeah,” he says easily, his voice dipping into something low and dangerous. “She’s mine.” It rolls off his tongue with a possessiveness that sounds too natural—too convincing. Like he’s not just playing the part. Like he believes it. Like he dares anyone to question it.

My body flushes, even though I know it’s an act. My brain reminds me this is a cover, a tactic, a temporary lie to get what we need. We’re so good at faking it, we should probably get an Oscar and a safe word.

But my body? It doesn’t care. It reacts to him like it’s been waiting. The heat pooling in my core has nothing to do with logic. His touch brands. It lingers. My skin burns where his hand rests, and I hate that I don’t want him to move it. Hate that I want more.

I force my mouth into a tight smile, sliding onto the stool beside her like this is just another day at the office. “He’s overprotective,” I say, injecting as much dry sarcasm as I can to mask the sharp edge of awareness thrumming under my skin.

“Hot, though,” she mutters, then leans forward. “You buying?”

We’re two rounds in when Danielle starts to talk. At first, it’s a string of half-laughed stories and offhand bitterness, the kind of drunken venting you can hear in a hundred bars acrossthe state. But then something changes in her eyes—goes a little darker. She leans closer, lowering her voice even though no one is listening.

"Dennis was paranoid," she says, tapping the rim of her glass. "Started acting like he was being followed. Said people were watching him. That his data wasn’t just risky—it was dangerous. Said he saw a fire move. Not spread. Move. Like it had eyes. Like it was hunting something. After that... he spiraled. Wouldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t talk. Then one day—gone. No goodbye. No note. Just... vanished. Like he burned himself out on purpose."

It clicks with a sharp, almost painful clarity. This isn’t wildfire by accident—it’s wildfire by design. Someone’s been testing fire behavior, not just with equipment, but with intent. Each blaze a field test. Each destruction site, a data point. They’re experimenting. Refining. And when it gets too visible, too precise, they bury the evidence beneath a firestorm. Neat. Clean.

Ashes don’t talk… at least not in words. That thought lands with a finality that makes my stomach twist. Because fire doesn’t just erase evidence—it erases people. Intent. Truth. And whoever is behind this? They know it.

I draw a shaky breath, pushing back from the table, the weight of the realization still pressing against my chest.

“You okay?” he asks as we step away together.

“They’re using fire as a message,” I say.

As the words leave my mouth, something sharp flickers at the edge of memory—a scorched and distorted circular pattern carved into the side of a tree at a fire site two years ago. I’d dismissed it at the time. Called it vandalism. But now… it matches the sketch Danielle described.

“And Dennis was trying to decode it,” I murmur.

Dax steps closer. “Decode what?”

“A symbol—a spiral—I found at a different fire. I didn’t file it because I didn’t think it meant anything…”

“But you think differently now.”

I nod. “I do,” I say as I glance up at him. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”

“No.” He hesitates. “But I won’t let you do it alone.”

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