Page 1 of Christmas with Three Firemen

Chapter one

Chapter One: Noelle

When I arrive on the scene, the first thing that draws my attention is the holiday wreath.

It’s hanging crookedly above the remains of the apparatus bay doors, one half burned entirely black and the other half still intact enough to show off a red velvet ribbon and tiny gold bells. Fresh snow has collected on the scorched greenery, contributing a cruel softness to the damage.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” I mutter under my breath.

That is exactly the problem with the holiday. It exists to pretend that everything is beautiful and fine, intentionally concealing all the ugly truths.

I know I could give Scrooge a run for his money with an opinion like that, but I haven’t been proven wrong yet.

Standing behind the yellow caution tape, I stare at what remains of Station 4.

The historic firehouse, one of the oldest in Chinatown, occupies nearly half a block. At least, it used to. Now, the eastern side has collapsed inward, leaving nothing but twisted steel beams and piles of blackened debris exposed to gray winter sky. Staff from the city’s fire investigation unit move through the wreckage, photographing the scene and marking evidence.

Several firefighters from neighboring stations are still onsite helping with salvage operations, carrying boxes of recovered equipment to a van where it will be sorted, logged, and redistributed back out to other stations according to necessity.

The thought of it, of how little remains of a vital city resource, puts me in an even worse mood. So much lost, so much that can never be recovered. It makes me sick to my stomach. My therapist used to call that displacement, but I stopped seeing her about three years ago.

I adjust my scarf against the wind and duck beneath the caution tape. Nobody stops me. The bright orange CITY ARSON INVESTIGATIONS lettering across the back of my jacket answers most questions before anyone can think to ask them.

The snow does little to muffle the sound of my boots on the pavement, cluttered with gravel and debris, as I make my way toward the building.

The smell gets stronger the closer I get. Lingering smoke, of course, mixed with the scent of damp wood, singed plastic, and burned electrical wiring.

Plus, underneath all of that, a subtle hint of pine. Someone had clearly gone all out decorating the station before it burned down. Once-fresh garlands still cling to portions of the brick exterior. Partially melted Christmas lights dangle from shattered windows. A large plastic Santa lies in pieces near the sidewalk, his smiling face grotesquely separated from the rest of his body.

A toy donation box sits near what used to be the entrance to the station. The cardboard and its contents were first burned and then soaked through, leaving very few salvageable items inside.

I force myself to keep walking.

Objects tell stories, but only in the sense that they are evidence. Nothing more. There’s no need to attach emotion to things. The moment you start doing that, you stop being objective, and objectivity is the main thing that makes me good at my job.

With a frown, I step over a section of collapsed timber as a frigid wind whips down a nearby alley and stirs up a fresh swell of ashy air. Crouching down near what used to be an interior wall of the electrical closet, I see where all the crossed wires and tangled cables kept this station connected to the rest of the city’s emergency resources.

The preliminary report for the fire arrived in my inbox shortly after midnight thanks to the diligent night staff. I read through it twice on my way to the scene. Something about it bothered me instantly and, now that I’m standing here in the aftermath of it all, I know exactly what it is.

The fire moved too efficiently, too deliberately.

My gaze traces the subtle patterns that form the fire’s pathway throughout the structure.

Most fires are messy and chaotic. They wander, change direction, and follow opportunities based on what they consume most efficiently.

This one, however, took a more focused and intentional route.

Honestly, the fact that it happened in the first place was bizarre. Who ever heard of a fire station burning down? It was a twisted sort of tragedy, like a hospital becoming the scene for mass violence. Or a police station getting raided by the FBI. It wasn’t supposed to make sense.

And it wasn’t even the first time this had happened in recent months.

A shadow falls across the snow-speckled wreckage, blocking out the already weak light filtering through the dense clouds.

“You’ve been staring at the ground for ten minutes.”

I glance up at Deputy Chief Morrison. He moves like a cat, but not so quietly that I didn’t already sense him approaching through the rubble. The middle-aged man looks exactly like how most city administrators look this time of year: tired, overworked, and one small inconvenience away from developing a drinking problem.

“Seven minutes,” I correct, rising to my feet.