Page 20

Sloane

It's already picked the venue is what he tells me when he comes back inside, and I want it noted somewhere permanent that I receive the news that an actual serial arsonist probably has my launch circled on a calendar, and it is only the second most destabilizing thing to happen in my barn before lunch.

Because the first thing. The hair thing. The hand at my jaw and the lean and the two inches of October air that were about to stop existing between us before his pocket screamed.

I pour wax all afternoon with the steadiness of a nervous surgeon and think about two inches of air. Two batches survive. One does not. I name the failed batch Exhibit B and move on with my day, which is a lie, because my day is entirely Exhibit B.

He goes full assessor after the call, which I'm learning is what he does when something's on fire inside him — the flatter the voice, the bigger the burn. He walks me through it at the candle bar like a briefing: the lab results, the case group, quiet, no press, tomorrow at eight. My launch security plan is now getting reviewed by the county fire marshal, which means my flannel-clad gate guy is going to have colleagues.

"So it's real," I say. "Him. The pattern. It's not you seeing arsonists in water stains."

"It's real."

"Okay." I breathe out. Three years, every dollar, one hundred and ninety tickets, one firebug, and a man who almost kissed me at 11:40. My plate is a buffet. "Then we plan for it. Right? That's still the plan? It happens, it happens safely?"

And Brady looks at me — long, unreadable, with the eyes doing that warming thing above the mouth that never moves — and says, "That's still the plan," like a vow, and God help me, between that and the two inches of air I am in so much trouble.

"You should also know," he adds, in the tone of a man disclosing a preexisting condition, "that your gate list now includes vendor staff photographs. And that Danielle's cousin's boyfriend, who was penciled in for parking, has a misdemeanor I'd like to ask you about at a calmer time."

"You background-checked Tyler?"

"I background-checked everyone. Tyler was just the most interesting."

By four I've mostly convinced myself the afternoon can be salvaged with labor.

The trouble compounds at 4:15, when a truck I know better than my own pulls up my driveway unannounced, and my brother gets out of it.

"SURPRISE," Wes bellows across the gravel, arms wide, sunglasses on his head like it's July. "EPG had me couriering equipment to the new Kingston field office, I'm forty minutes away, and I said to myself, self, go see the barn. Go see the famous fire tables. Sloanie, this place looks incredible, did you get taller—" he's hugging me, he smells like drive-thru and home, and over his shoulder I watch Brady, who was crouched at the propane manifold, rise to his feet the way a drawbridge goes up.

"BRADY." Wes releases me and advances on his best friend with the full-body delight of a Labrador spotting another Labrador. "There he is! The man, the myth, the fire marshal's pet — Alden says you've extended twice, buddy, twice, what is she making you do out here⁠—"

"Verification," Brady says.

One word. To Wes's nineteen. And it's not his normal economy either — I've spent two weeks learning the difference between Brady quiet and Brady shut, and this is shut, this is the tent-pole posture from the wedding, shoulders squared, eyes middle-distance, hands finding things to hold. He was crouched in MY field drawing MY light poles an hour ago, and my brother walks in and the drawbridge goes up, and I watch it happen with something twisting under my sternum.

Wes, naturally, notices nothing. Wes tours the barn at full commentary — "you built a BAR for CANDLES, you absolute lunatic, Mom's gonna lose it" — ruffles my hair at the fragrance organ, salutes Wick, who ignores him, and lands, inevitably, on the shelf.

"MOUNTAIN MAN MUSK." He holds the jar up to the light like a jeweler. "This is him, right?" He jabs a thumb at Brady. "Tell me this is him. Cedar, leather, woodsmoke, hint of — Brady, get over here, smell yourself."

"I've smelled it."

"He's smelled it!" Wes crows, delighted, oblivious, holding my nine-dollar candle with my whole stupid secret printed on the label, and I want the reinforced pad to open up and take me. "That's amazing. That's — okay, I'm buying six. Do you gift wrap? For context, the guys at the office are gonna⁠—"

"How long are you in town?" I ask, in a voice that comes out approximately normal.

"Just tonight — dinner? Please say dinner. Both of you. Tap & Barrel, on me, I want the full fire-table briefing and also to embarrass you with the story about the county inspector, Brady, has she done the voices for you⁠—"

"Can't," Brady says. "Case briefing at eight tomorrow, I've got prep."

It's true. It's even sensible. But it comes out with the warmth of a filing cabinet, and it's aimed six inches over my head, and that's when I get it — really get it, in my body — what the next hour is going to be: my brother, incandescent with trust, telling stories at his best friend, while his best friend sits there being shut, barely looking at me, every almost from this morning packed away somewhere fireproof.

"Come on, man, you gotta eat, prep's just reading files—" Wes wheedles, and then pivots to the flank. "Sloanie, tell him."

"He probably has actual work⁠—"

"It's one dinner. Georgie's got the porter on. You—" he points at Brady, "—love the porter. See, I know things. I know him better than anyone, ask him who held his hair at Coop's wedding — okay, he doesn't have hair you can hold, but the SPIRIT of it⁠—"

"Fine," Brady says, to the middle distance. "One dinner."