Chapter 16 – Friendly Fire
1546 Words
“I’m here to help.”
The lie is so smooth it almost sounds true.
Daniel Hart steps into the cramped office with the careful gait of a man who’s been trained not to loom. Early forties, light brown hair, neatly trimmed beard. No obvious weapons, unless you count the tablet tucked under his arm and the badge on his lapel.
The building inspector hovers behind him, eyes already on the window and the charred skeleton beyond.
“Mr. Hart,” Mara says, handshake firm enough to bruise. “We appreciate you coming.”
“Please, Daniel,” he says with a practiced little laugh. “We’re all on the same side here.”
Theo, perched on the file cabinet, mutters something very quiet that sounds suspiciously like, “Depends which side that is.”
Daniel’s gaze flicks to him, assessing. “And you are…?”
“Theo Marsh,” I say quickly. “Volunteer coordinator. Sometimes PR wrangler.” And the most annoyingly fearless human I know.
Daniel’s eyes land on me last. They linger. Not on my face. On my throat.
“Ms. Ashridge,” he says. “We’ve crossed paths on paper many times. It’s good to finally meet in person.”
My skin prickles. “Likewise,” I lie.
He smiles, like we’re sharing a joke. “Shall we sit?”
We don’t, not really. There aren’t enough chairs. Mara takes hers behind the desk, her kingdom of scorched paperwork and temporary files. Theo and I stand side by side. Daniel perches on the edge of a second chair, tablet balanced on one knee, looking very much like a man conducting a routine site visit and not at all like someone deciding how much of our world gets to survive.
The inspector clears his throat. “Structurally… it’s bad,” he says, glancing at Mara. “The shell might be salvageable with significant work, but given the age and the extent of damage, the city might recommend a full tear‑down and rebuild.”
Mara nods tightly. “We expected as much.”
“Of course,” Daniel says smoothly, “that’s precisely why I’m here. To make sure whatever happens next keeps your kids safe.”
He taps his tablet. A diagram pops up—Keane House’s block, little colored zones overlaid.
“As you know,” he continues, “this neighborhood’s already been identified as a site of multiple shifter‑related incidents. Given the recent… tragedy, the Department wants to support you by relocating your highest‑risk youth to more secure facilities while we… re‑evaluate this location.”
There it is. The real agenda. Barely four sentences in.
“We appreciate the concern,” I say, keeping my voice in that middle range I use for difficult parents and skittish kids. Calm. Non‑threatening. “But our kids are stable here. Pulling them out now, after a fire, would be a second trauma.”
“Temporarily,” he says, as if I haven’t spoken. “Just until we can ensure this building—or its replacement—meets all updated safety protocols. Gas, wiring, fire suppression, proximity to known shifter territories…”
“Known shifter territories?” Theo cuts in. “This is a community shelter, not a border fort.”
Daniel’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mr. Marsh, part of our mandate is tracking patterns. Keane House has been adjacent to multiple incidents over the last few years.”
“Because we take in kids nobody else knows what to do with,” Mara snaps. “Kids other places would turn away.”
“Exactly,” he says, as if she’s agreeing. “Which is why we want to offer you additional support. Specialized programs. Clinical staff. Security. It’s a win–win.”
“Where?” I ask. “Where would you move them?”
He taps again. Another diagram fills the screen: a campus of low buildings and green lawns, generic and clean.
“Regional Youth Adjustment Facility,” he says. “Just outside city limits. State‑of‑the‑art. We already have capacity.”
The word adjustment crawls under my skin.
“You mean the same facility you’re using to ‘evaluate’ shifter teens picked up in raids,” Theo says. “I’ve seen the name in court filings.”
Daniel’s smile thins. “Those cases are unrelated.”
“Funny,” Theo says. “They sure look related on paper.”
“Mr. Marsh,” Daniel says pleasantly, “if you’d like to schedule a separate meeting to discuss Department policy, I’d be happy to arrange it. Today, we’re here about the children.”
“We are,” I say. “Our children. Whose guardians will not consent to them being shipped off to a locked campus run by strangers.”
“It’s not locked,” he says.
“Is it fenced?” I ask. “Staffed by your people? With medical personnel authorized to administer whatever experimental ‘stabilizers’ you’re currently workshopping?”
His eyes flicker, just for a heartbeat. I’ve hit too close.
“Ms. Ashridge,” he says, tone dipping a degree colder, “surely, with your history, you understand the importance of early intervention. Unstable bonds, uncontrolled shifts—”
My scar burns hot under his gaze. “What I understand,” I cut in, “is that taking kids away from the only adults they trust after someone just tried to burn them alive is not ‘stabilizing.’ It’s cruelty dressed up as concern.”
Mara leans forward, palms flat on the desk. “Our families won’t agree,” she says. “You’ll need individual court orders. Hearings. Lawyers. Media.”
Theo nods. “And I can pretty much guarantee at least three outlets would be interested in the optics of ‘city uses tragedy to funnel poor kids into shifter camps.’”
“Adjustment facilities,” Daniel corrects, too fast.
“Camps,” Theo repeats, sweet as arsenic.
The inspector shifts uncomfortably. This is not the kind of assessment he signed up for.
“I think we’re getting off track,” Daniel says. “No one is talking about ‘funneling’ anyone anywhere. We simply want to identify those youths who might benefit from more intensive support—”
“The ones you’ve flagged in your system,” I say. “Kids whose files mention anger issues. Nightmares. Strange strength. Maybe the word ‘shifter’ in a whispered note from a scared teacher.”
His expression doesn’t change, but the air in the room tightens.
“You’ve been reading our internal forms?” he asks softly.
Good. Let him wonder how.
“I read everything that touches my kids,” I say. “Especially when it comes from an office that sees them as risks first and children second.”
For the first time, the pleasant mask slips. Just a fraction.
“Be careful, Ms. Ashridge,” Daniel says. “We’re on the same team.”
“No,” I answer, just as soft. “We’re not.”
Silence falls, thick and humming.
The inspector clears his throat. “From a structural standpoint,” he says quickly, “if funding comes through, there’s no reason a rebuild couldn’t include additional safety features. Better exits. Sprinklers.”
“Funding,” Mara repeats. “Is that on the table?”
“That depends,” Daniel says, mask sliding neatly back into place, “on whether the Department is confident this site can be made safe. For everyone.”
Translation: play ball, get money. Resist, get rubble.
“We’re not authorizing any relocations,” Mara says. “Not now. Not ‘temporarily.’ If families decide individually, that’s their choice. But this shelter will not sign off on wholesale transfers.”
“Of course,” Daniel says. “No one is forcing anything.”
Liar.
He stands, smoothing his coat. “We’ll note your… reservations in our report. In the meantime, I’d strongly advise you to reconsider. Sometimes, Ms. Ashridge, protection means making hard choices.”
My lungs ache, phantom smoke curling at the edges of my vision.
“I’ve made hard choices,” I say. “I’m still paying for some of them. I won’t make this one for you.”
He holds my gaze for a long, measuring moment. Something calculating ticks behind his eyes.
“Very well,” he says. “But don’t say, when the next incident happens, that we didn’t offer help.”
He nods to Mara. To Theo. To me last.
Then he and the inspector are gone, footsteps receding down the hall.
The door clicks shut. The room exhales.
“Friendly,” Theo says. “In a ‘sign here and we’ll put your kids somewhere you can’t find them’ sort of way.”
My knees feel suddenly, violently weak.
Mara pushes the coffee toward me again. “Drink,” she says. “You did good.”
I take a sip. It still tastes like burned mud.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. One new message.
From Elian:
We need to talk.
Hart is Severin’s golden boy. If he’s sniffing around your kids, it means the Department just moved them from ‘collateral’ to ‘leverage.’
- Writer
