Chapter 3

The next morning, I didn't go to the station for my shift. I called in sick, my voice hoarse, which wasn't a lie. My throat was raw from the smoke and the unshed tears.

I spent the day in my tiny room, the guest room, surrounded by things Chloe hadn't wanted – old towels, a chipped mug, a stack of my firefighting manuals. I thought about the wildfire, the roar of the flames, the heat, the terror.

And then I thought about my father's cold eyes, Eric's dismissive scoff, my mother's plea for me to understand Chloe's trauma.

How many times had I tried? How many times had I made myself smaller, quieter, less demanding, hoping for a crumb of affection, a moment of acknowledgment?

I remembered being found, a scared kid, and their initial relief quickly fading into a kind of weary obligation. Chloe was already there, the perfect, pliable replacement.

The desire for belonging, the one I'd carried for so long, felt like a dead weight inside me.

I went to my father's office at the Fire Department headquarters later that afternoon. He was surprised to see me, and not pleasantly.

"Peterson? What are you doing here? You called in sick."

"We need to talk about the fire," I said, keeping my voice steady. "About the warning my crew didn't receive."

He leaned back in his chair, his expression hardening. "I told you, all necessary precautions were taken. It was a chaotic situation. You're letting your emotions cloud your judgment."

"My emotions?" I asked. "Or the fact that Chloe's distress was prioritized over the safety of an entire fire crew?"

"Don't you dare bring Chloe into this," he snapped, his voice rising. "She's an innocent girl who was terrified. Your brother and I did what we had to do to ensure her well-being. You and your crew got out, didn't you? No harm done, just a little excitement."

A little excitement. My skin crawled. The years of indifference, of being treated as a burden, coalesced into a single, sharp point of pain. But beneath the pain, something else was stirring – a cold, hard anger.

"No harm done?" I repeated, my voice dangerously quiet. "Is that what you tell yourself?"

He stood up, towering over his desk. "I'm not going to discuss this further. You're being insubordinate and unprofessional. Go home, Peterson. And think about your attitude."

I looked at him, really looked at him, perhaps for the first time without the filter of a daughter's hope. I saw a man who cared more for his image and his favored child than for the truth, or for me.

There was nothing left to say to him. No hope for understanding, no chance of connection.

I walked out of his office and went straight to the Internal Affairs office down the hall.

Then I drove to the state OSHA office. I filled out the forms, my hand surprisingly steady, detailing everything – the withheld warning, the compromised escape route, the conversations, the years of being treated as less.

It was done. I had severed the tie.