Page 142 of Controlled Burn
"Brooks," she said flatly.
McKenna's expression darkened. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Talia held the folder in her hands like a matchbook.
Her smile curved—slow, sharp, lethal.
"Then let's strike."
If the district burned? She'd make damn sure the ashes spelled her name.
Chapter 50
Blowback
Maddox
The morning after the fire, the station felt quieter than usual. Too quiet.
Dean stood alone in the apparatus bay, hands shoved into the pockets of his uniform jacket, eyes locked on the scorched, soot-stained turnout gear hanging on the hooks. Talia’s jacket was still there—reeking of smoke and sweat, the fabric stiff from dried grime.
He could still hear her retching in the alley. Still see the way her shoulders shook before she let her body collapse into his—just for a breath, just long enough to remember she was still alive.
It wrecked him not just because he hadn’t saved her. But because he still wanted to.
He was supposed to be done with this. With her. With everything.
Yet here he was. Still watching and still waiting. Still burning.
The last forty-eight hours had been a storm: Jake was suspended. HR crawling up his back. A lecture from Stark that bordered on a threat.
And Rachel? She’d returned. Technically. They lived in the same house again, but spoke less than strangers. No fights. No tears. Just a quiet, mutual loathing that hung in the air like smoke after a burn.
Dean hadn’t slept. Not more than an hour. Not since the fire. His chest still ached from the rush of panic he’d felt when he saw Talia collapsed behind the rig, her face gray under soot, stomach emptying in the alley like her body had given up.
For one split second, he thought she was gone.
The image hadn’t left him.
His hands shook sometimes, but only when he was alone.
The addiction whispers came back quietly—one pill. Just to take the edge off.
He hadn’t taken one. Not yet. But the idea buzzed like a fly inside his skull.
He was pacing past the lockers when he heard it—metal clanging, someone rustling gear.
He froze. No one was supposed to be here. Not today.
He turned the corner—and saw him.
Jake Hastings. Standing at his locker, pulling out his boots, stuffing them into a gym bag like it was any normal Tuesday.
Dean’s blood turned to acid.
Jake didn’t look up at first. Just kept packing. Calm. Whistling.
Dean felt the heat start in his spine. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, voice low.
