Page 45 of Christmas with Three Firemen

Outside, the cold air hits her, and she coughs, bent forward with her hands on her knees, long and hard and productive. I keep my hand on her back and let her get through it. Cap sees us from across the street. I shake my head once. He holds his position.

There’s a conversation coming. Not now.

“I’m fine,” she says, still bent over.

“I know,” I say.

“I just need a second.”

“Take your time.”

She straightens up eventually. Her eyes are red and streaming, and she looks furious about that. I steer her toward the SUV.

“I can walk,” she says.

“I know that too.”

She walks to the truck and gets in. I go around to the driver’s side.

She argues the entire way back to the station.

Not loudly. Noelle doesn’t argue loudly. She argues in the precise, measured tones of someone building a case, which is probably a professional habit she can no longer turn off. She’s fine.

The exposure was minimal. She had visual confirmation of the origin point, and the accelerant pattern and the value of that evidence outweigh the minor discomfort of some incidental smoke inhalation.

I drive.

“You’re not going to say anything?” she asks.

“No.”

“You’re not going to lecture me about protocol.”

“No.”

“Grant is going to lecture me about protocol.”

“Probably.”

She looks out the window at the snow coming down over the city. A full block passes.

“It’s the same person,” she says, quieter now. “The pattern is identical. Whoever set that fire has set one before. Possibly more than one.”

“I believe you,” I say.

She glances over. Like she wasn’t expecting that.

“I do,” I tell her. “I’m not arguing with your evidence. I’m arguing with your method.”

She turns back to the window. “Noted.”

We drive the rest of the way in silence that isn’t uncomfortable.

***

The equipment room is the nearest space with a door when we get back. She glances at the bench, at the rows of gear, and something flickers across her face before she shuts it down. Color climbs her neck. She doesn’t say anything about it. Neither do I.

I sit her down on the bench and find the first aid kit, and she submits to this with the barely concealed impatience of someone who has decided cooperation is faster than resistance. Her eyes are still red. Her breathing is even, which is the important thing, but she’s going to feel this in her chest tomorrow morning.