Hard to Burn (Paperback)

Chapter One · Logan

The firehouse mess hall reeks of day-old coffee and wet turnout gear. Rain hammers the metal roof like someone’s dropping handfuls of pebbles from the sky, drowning out Darren’s story about some fishing trip that definitely didn’t happen the way he’s telling it. I slouch deeper into the vinyl chair, boots propped on the table, nursing the same cup of coffee I poured three hours ago.

“Bullshit,” Jax calls from across the table, flicking a balled-up napkin at Darren’s head. “No way you caught a thirty-pound salmon with that dollar store rod.”

“My uncle verified it,” Darren insists, dodging the projectile. “Ask him yourself.”

“Your uncle also claims he once arm-wrestled Sasquatch,” I point out, taking a sip of coffee gone cold and bitter. “Not exactly a reliable witness.”

The crew erupts in laughter. Even Captain Wes cracks a smile from his corner, where he’s been pretending to read yesterday’s newspaper for the last hour.

“Speaking of wild tales,” Maya says, sliding into the seat across from me with a fresh mug of coffee. Steam curls off the surface like morning fog over the lake. “How’d your date go Saturday night, Halvorsen? She run screaming when you told her you live with five other men?”

I feel the collective attention shift toward me. This is familiar territory—I’m not sure when it happened, but my dating life has been the station’s favorite sport. I flash my practiced grin, the one that says I’m in on the joke.

“Who says I told her anything? The trick is to keep them too distracted to ask questions.”

Hector snorts from the sink where he’s washing his protein shake blender for the third time today. “Ten bucks says Halvorsen’s got another date lined up for tomorrow night. Different woman, same bullshit charm.”

“Make it twenty,” Jessica counters, not looking up from the first responder journal she’s flipping through. “I give him three dates max before he ghosts her.”

“You wound me, Reyes,” I press a hand to my chest, feigning injury. “I’m a gentleman. I always text before I disappear forever.”

The truth sits heavier than the joke. There was no date Saturday night. Haven’t been many lately. But the persona’s easier to maintain than explaining why I keep circling back to empty beds and cold sheets. Why sometimes the space between emergency calls feels more suffocating than smoke-filled rooms.

“That’s not what Cindy at the Rusty Anchor said,” Darren counters. “She told Martinez you stood her up last month.”

I shrug, maintaining the smirk that’s become my default expression. “Scheduling conflict. Hazard of the job.”

Captain Wes finally sets down his paper. “Alright, children. Don’t we have actual work to do instead of dissecting Halvorsen’s train wreck of a love life?”

“Not until someone sets something on fire,” Maya says, glancing at the clock that’s been stuck at 7:58 for the past year. “Another quiet night in paradise.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Jax warns, knocking twice on the wooden table.

I stretch my arms overhead, feeling vertebrae pop. “What’s wrong with a quiet night? I’ve got plans to beat Ritter’s ass at ping pong and get a solid four hours of sleep without someone’s snoring concert.”

“Halvorsen scared of a little action?” Jessica needles, finally looking up. “Thought you lived for the adrenaline rush.”

There’s something in her tone that suggests she’s not just talking about the job. I meet her eyes briefly, then look away. Jessica’s too perceptive sometimes, sees through the carefully constructed walls I’ve built around the parts of me I don’t want examined.

“Just saying, a boring shift is a good shift,” I counter, deflecting.

“Tell that to your brother,” Hector says. “Dean always said you couldn’t sit still for more than ten minutes without twitching.”

“Dean exaggerates,” I say, though it’s true. Even now, my fingers drum against the side of my mug, seeking movement, seeking distraction.

The mess hall falls into comfortable silence, broken only by the shuffle of paper as Jessica turns a page, the soft scrape of Darren’s spoon against the bottom of his yogurt cup. Rain continues its assault on the roof, a constant companion in this corner of Washington where the sky seems perpetually bruised.

“So who’s actually on the rotation tonight?” I ask, glancing at the duty board. My name is paired with Martinez for EMT calls.

“You and me, brother,” Hector confirms, finally abandoning his blender cleaning project. “Just pray it’s not another drunk tourist who can’t handle their vacation whiskey.”

I’m about to respond when the station alarm cuts through the air, its shrill demand instantly transforming the room. Coffee mugs hit the table, chairs scrape back, bodies shift from relaxed to alert in the space between heartbeats.

“Station 11, respond Code 3 to 1478 Hemlock Drive, Salt Point. EMT response requested for domestic disturbance. Police on scene. Female, 35, and juvenile, 10, with injuries.”

My stomach tightens at “juvenile.” I’m already on my feet, mind cataloging protocols, hands reaching for gear that’s become an extension of my body. The banter evaporates, replaced by focused movements and clipped communication.

“Halvorsen, Martinez, you’re up,” Captain Wes calls unnecessarily.

We’re already moving. I grab my turnout coat more out of habit than need, shrugging it on as we head for the bay where the ambulance waits. My boots hit the concrete in heavy strides, the rhythm of emergency response drumming in my blood.

“Details?” Hector asks as we climb into the rig, me taking the passenger side while he slides behind the wheel.

“Dispatcher said police secured the scene. Domestic. Mom and kid hurt.” My voice is steady.

The engine roars to life. Hector flips on the lights and siren as we pull out into the rain-slicked night. Through the windshield, the world transforms into a blur of wet pavement and refracted lights. My mind narrows to the essentials—assessment procedures, potential injuries, treatment protocols.

The ambulance cuts through the dark, and I lean forward slightly, already reaching toward whatever waits for us at the end of this rain-soaked road.

The ambulance lurches to a stop in front of a house that looks half-abandoned even with people living in it. Rain slashes sideways now, cold droplets finding the gap between my collar and neck as I hop out, medical bag already in hand.

The scene assembles itself in quick snapshots. Squad car with pulsing lights, officer with a notepad getting soaked, man pacing on the porch with bloodied knuckles and wild eyes. A woman huddled under the meager protection of a sagging awning, arms wrapped around herself, makeup creating dark rivers down her cheeks. I catch Hector’s eye over the hood of the rig. Just another Thursday in Salt Point.

“You take her, I’ll check the inside,” I tell him, already moving toward the house.

The officer at the door—Wilson, I think his name is—gives me a grim nod. “Female juvenile inside. Minor lacerations. Adults are separated and contained.”

The words “female juvenile” hit differently than “kid.” Makes it clinical when there’s nothing clinical about a child caught in crossfire.

I step over the threshold into a living room that’s a wreck of cheap furniture and cheaper decisions. Couch overturned. Coffee table on its side. A shattered wine glass glitters across worn linoleum like a warning. Blood spatters trace a story I don’t need a translator to read.

“She’s in the kitchen,” Wilson says behind me.

I spot her the moment I round the corner—a small figure perched on the edge of a kitchen chair, feet dangling above the floor. Her shoulders cave inward like they’re protecting something vital. Dark hair hangs in her face, and a doll that’s seen better decades dangles from one white-knuckled grip. Her other hand presses a dish towel to her right foot, already soaked through with blood.

“Hey there,” I say, keeping my voice level as I approach. Not too soft, not too loud. “I’m Logan. I’m a firefighter and EMT. Mind if I take a look at that foot?”

She doesn’t answer, but her eyes track me—deep brown against too-pale skin. The look she gives me is both ancient and terrified.

I lower myself to one knee, placing my kit on the floor and unzipping it. “What’s your name?”

“Beth,” she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.

“That’s a nice name. Strong name.” I lay out gauze, antiseptic, bandages on a clean towel I pull from my bag. “I’m gonna need to see that cut, Beth. Can you let me take a look?”

She hesitates, then slowly lifts the bloodied dish towel. The gash runs along the arch of her foot, maybe two inches long. Not dangerously deep, but messy. There’s a shard of glass still embedded near the edge.

“Looks like you found some glass with your foot,” I say, keeping my tone conversational. “That’s no fun. I did the same thing last summer. Stepped right on a broken bottle at the beach.”

Beth doesn’t smile, but some of the tension around her eyes eases slightly.

“This might sting a bit,” I warn, opening an antiseptic wipe. “But I bet you’re tough. What grade are you in, Beth?”

“Fourth,” she murmurs, flinching slightly as I clean around the wound.

“Fourth grade? That’s when they start the good stuff. You doing fractions yet?”

She nods, gaze fixed on her doll.

“I hated fractions,” I admit, working efficiently to remove the glass with sterile tweezers. “Still do. My job’s easier—just gotta make sure people are in one piece, not sliced into halves and quarters.”

That earns me the faintest ghost of a smile. It vanishes immediately when raised voices filter in from the front yard—her foster father arguing with the officer.

“Does your doll have a name?” I ask, deliberately redirecting her attention as I prepare a butterfly bandage.

Beth’s fingers tighten around the worn fabric. “Sarah.”

“She looks like she takes good care of you.” I apply antiseptic to the now-clean wound. “You been friends a long time?”

Beth nods, watching my hands as I work. “She goes everywhere with me.”

“Smart. Always good to have backup.” I smooth the bandage over her cut with gentle pressure. “You’re doing great, Beth. Almost done.”

From the doorway, a woman’s voice cuts in, “Is she going to need stitches? We don’t have insurance for that.”

I glance up at the foster mother—thin-lipped, arms crossed, stress lines carved deep around eyes that don’t quite meet mine.

“No stitches needed,” I answer. “But she should stay off it for a day or two.”

The woman sighs, a sound like patience stretched to breaking. “She’ll need to go to school tomorrow. I can’t miss work.”

“She shouldn’t put weight on it,” I repeat, firmer this time.

The woman’s jaw tightens. “She’s not ours. She’s a placement. The agency needs to handle special accommodations.”

The words hit me like a sucker punch. Not ours. A placement. Like Beth is a piece of furniture temporarily stored in their house. The girl’s shoulders curl inward another inch, making herself smaller. I wonder how many times she’s heard herself described that way.

“I understand,” I say, though I don’t. Not really. “I’ll call her caseworker.”

I finish wrapping Beth’s foot with steady hands that betray none of the anger simmering beneath my skin. My thoughts drift to Leo and Mazy—how my brothers, Dean and Caleb, would tear apart anyone who reduced them to “placements.” How even in our broken family, the kids are anchors, not burdens.

“All done,” I tell Beth, making my voice warm again. “You were really brave.”

She studies my face like she’s searching for the lie in my praise.

“Sarah was brave too,” I add, nodding at the doll. “She didn’t cry once.”

Beth clutches the doll closer. “She never cries. Not where people can see.”

The simple statement knocks something loose in my chest. I recognize the strategy—save the breakdowns for private, wear the mask in public. Been doing it myself since I was not much older than her.

“Smart girl,” I say quietly. “Both of you.”

I pack up my supplies, movements controlled to mask the urge to scoop this kid up and carry her somewhere safe. “I need to make a call, but I’ll be right back, okay?”

Beth nods, eyes already drifting back to the floor, as if she can make her small body invisible.

I step into the hallway, phone already in hand, scrolling through contacts for the county social services emergency line. The kitchen light casts Beth’s shadow across the dingy linoleum—a small, hunched silhouette still clutching her doll.

The caseworker picks up on the third ring. “Foster care emergency line.”

“This is Lieutenant Halvorsen with Westwatch Fire. I’m at a domestic call on Hemlock Drive.” My voice comes out clipped, professional, betraying none of the tightness in my throat. “Ten-year-old placement named Beth. Minor injury, but unsafe environment. Police on scene.”

“Is the child in immediate danger?” The voice sounds tired, overworked. I clench the fist not holding my phone.

I watch Beth through the doorway, her small legs dangling, eyes fixed on nothing. “Not immediate, no. But—“

“I’ll document the incident and follow up tomorrow,” the caseworker interrupts. “If police aren’t removing her, she stays placed for now.”

My knuckles whiten around the phone. “The foster parents referred to her as ‘not ours’ and were concerned about insurance costs. That doesn’t raise flags for you?”

A sigh crackles through the line. “Lieutenant, we have forty-three children in emergency placements and three caseworkers. Unless there’s visible abuse or imminent danger, I can’t relocate her tonight.”

The system, working exactly as it always has.

“Fine. I’ll include all details in my report.” I end the call before I say something that crosses professional lines.

When I return to the kitchen, Beth hasn’t moved. I crouch beside her chair again, meeting her at eye level.

“Your foot should feel better soon,” I tell her. “Try to keep it clean and dry, okay? And if it starts hurting worse, tell someone right away.”

She nods, not looking at me.

“Beth.” I wait until her eyes meet mine. “You did good tonight. Really good.”

Something flickers in her gaze—not quite hope, but maybe the ghost of it. A tiny crack in the armor she’s built around herself.

“Sarah did good too,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I agree, standing reluctantly. “She sure did.”

I leave my card on the table as I gather my kit. “If you need anything, have someone call this number. Ask for Lieutenant Halvorsen.”

She won’t call. I know she won’t. But I leave the card anyway, a futile lifeline tossed into a system designed to swallow kids whole.

As I head for the door, I hear the soft scuff of her uninjured foot against the chair leg. A small sound, barely there. Like everything about Beth—present but easy to miss if you’re not paying attention.

I step back into the rain, report ready on my lips for Hector and the officer, but my mind still in that kitchen with a girl and her doll, both learning how not to cry where people can see.

Keep reading — the paperback’s at the top of this page.