THE IRON BARS BETWEEN OUR HEARTS

Miller shoved Liam into the shadowed recess beside an electrical utility box just as Deputy Chief Vance strolled into the corridor, accompanied by two armed state transport deputies. Vance paused, his eyes narrowing as he scanned Miller’s tense posture and the empty hallway.

""Shift change was twenty minutes ago, Miller,"" Vance said, tapping a silver pen against his clipboard. ""Why are you still hovering around holding?""

""Just verifying prisoner status before the state convoy rolls out at dawn,"" Miller replied smoothly, keeping his body positioned between the deputy chief and the utility alcove. He did not blink. ""Prisoner Vance has been quiet. No incidents.""

The chief grunted, glancing through the bars at Marcus, who remained still on the floor, hands clasped behind his back in strict compliance. ""Don't waste sympathy on him, Miller. An arson investigator who sets fire to a municipal evidence locker deserves whatever maximum sentence the county judge throws down. Let's make sure his shackles are double-locked.""

The three men walked away toward the processing desk, their voices fading behind the heavy magnetic fire door. Only when the electronic chime confirmed the seal did Miller exhale. He reached down, grasping Liam’s small arm, and pulled the boy toward the fire exit.

""You need to leave right now, kid,"" Miller hissed under his breath. ""If Vance finds you in this facility, social services will take custody of you before sunset, and your father won't even be allowed a phone call.""

Liam clutched the faded photograph against his chest, refusing to move his feet. ""Daddy didn't burn anything! He told me the night the fire happened. He told me the fire chief was hiding boxes in the basement.""

Miller froze, one hand on the crash bar of the emergency exit. He stared at Liam, his throat tightening. For three months, the official department line had been simple: Marcus Vance had embezzled seized narcotics, torched the annex to cover his tracks, and left his own department to burn. But Miller had known Marcus for ten years; Marcus had run into burning apartment complexes to drag out strangers. Arson for greed never matched the man.

""What did you just say?"" Miller asked quietly.

Liam unfolded the battered photograph. It wasn't a family portrait. It was a polaroid taken outside the annex loading dock two nights before the disaster. In the corner of the frame, half-obscured by shadow, a man in a department windbreaker was loading silver lockboxes into an unmarked sedan.