Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Produced on fancy letterhead with official-looking billing codes. A retainer structure that could mean anything from executive protection to a threat assessment.
The line-item description is bland enough to pass in any expense report: Strategic Risk Mitigation Services.
I should be able to shrug it off. Plenty of companies retain security and plenty of CEOs like to feel important.
But it prickles at me anyway, and when I look at the dates—really focus on them—my pulse picks up.
I pull my wildfire timeline spreadsheet alongside it, the one Josie helped assemble, and I cross-reference the invoice date with the ignition date of the corresponding fire.
Red flag advisory: June 5
Ignition: June 6
Invoice issued: June 7
I blink, then do it again because my brain doesn’t believe in patterns that sharp. I scroll further down to another SAPG invoice.
High wind advisory: August 16
Ignition: August 17
Invoice: August 17
I feel my throat go dry as I keep going.
September. Another June the previous year. No, two in June the previous year.
It’s absolutely more than coincidence. I sit back slowly, coffee cooling in my hand, and stare at the screen as the implications start to settle. RainVest is a development company. They don’t fight fires. They don’t investigate fires. They buy land, build, then sell profit back to investors. So why are they paying a private security firm—repeatedly—right before fires ignite in the very corridors they later acquire?
It doesn’t prove they set the fires, but it suggests planning and coordination. It suggests that someone is paying someone else to manage risk in a way that isn’t about protection.
In my gut, I know that RainVest is paying SAPG to start the fires.
A flush of excitement warms me up from the inside out and my first instinct is to tell Cole immediately. Not because I need his approval, but because he understands systems and threats and the kinds of people who pay for actions they don’t want traced back to them. He’ll see the shape of this faster than I will.
I close the laptop because I’m not going to sit here alone with my thoughts spinning themselves into a frenzy. I stand, stretching my shoulders the way I did yesterday after hours at the table, only this time it’s less about stiffness and more about shaking off my nerves coiling tight.
Cole said he was at the gym and I can bring him up to speed there. I change quickly into workout clothes—leggings, a tank—more for the excuse than the exercise, twisting my hair up and grabbing my phone. When I step out of the apartment, I hesitate at the door, fingers hovering over the lock, and the fact that I consider leaving it open tells me how much the building has already gotten under my skin. Good security and trust will do that to you.
To get to the gym, I have to cross the community area. Cole told me that the Jameson focus on camaraderie is a core value. It’s built to foster relationships and encourage friendships, cementing bonds far beyond what is cultivated in the normal course of work. The kitchen is upscale and expansive, with professional appliances and a long communal table that looks like it’s hosted everything from team dinners to tense late-night strategy sessions. Beyond it is a living space with deep couches, a massive TV, video game consoles, a pool table and dart board, and a bar that’s stocked like someone planned for both celebration and exhaustion.
It’s a strange contrast—men trained to hurt other men for a living in a space that looks like it belongs in a high-end condo brochure.
And then I see a woman in the kitchen, unloading groceries.
She’s not in tactical gear. She’s not carrying herself like an agent. She’s dressed casually, hair pulled back, moving with ease like she belongs here, not because she works here but because she’s loved by someone who does.
When she hears me, I get a smile that says she already knows who I am.
“You must be Tessa,” she says, like we’re meeting at a dinner party instead of inside a fortified building
I stop mid-step. “That obvious?”
She laughs softly. “Not obvious. Just informed. I’m Anna… Malik’s wife.”
That makes sense. If Malik is the director of this office, then his wife is probably the only person who can wander this floor without a badge and not be questioned. There are several grocery bags on the counter and she’s currently stocking the fridge with milk and juice.
“Can I help?” I ask.
“No, no,” she says, shooing me toward a stool at the island. “I was just restocking for the guys. They act like grocery shopping is an optional skill, and while they have their own kitchens in their apartments, I find if I give them options out here they tend to be more community oriented, and I think that’s important.”
I smile despite myself. “Cole had takeout containers all over his table last night.”