Elias Ward had spent most of his adult life thinking in exits.
Where the smoke would go.
Where the fire would spread.
Which door would jam first.
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Which hallway would trap people who trusted it too long.
That was what the job did to you.
You stopped seeing houses the way owners wanted them seen.
You saw weak points.
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Blind spots.
Things hidden behind fresh paint and old stories.
He was forty-six, divorced, broad-shouldered, and permanently carrying the faint smell of smoke and dust that never quite left a fire inspector no matter how many uniforms he washed.
People in the county knew him as the quiet one.
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