Page 113 of When the Smoke Clears

With that plan tugging me from bed, I head to the bathroom. After a brisk splash of cold water and brushing my teeth, I study my reflection. Pale skin, wary eyes, but determination lingering underneath. A woman ready to face another day in the middle of chaos.

Satisfied enough, I step out ready to wish Luke good morning. Instead of finding him in the kitchen, I freeze at the sight of Gabe pacing on the back deck, his shoulders stiff, his expression thunderous.

He’s on the phone, voice low but urgent, his free hand slicing the air as he gestures in agitation. My stomach tugs. If Gabe’s here this early, something’s wrong.

Assuming Luke must’ve run into work and asked Gabe to keep me company, I head into the kitchen. The familiar aroma of coffee steadies me, rich and grounding.

I pour two mugs: Gabe’s plain and black, mine softened with a swirl of cream that clouds and curls before settling into warm caramel. The simple ritual gives me courage.

I cradle the mugs carefully, padding toward the sliding glass door. But just before I step outside, snippets of Gabe’s conversation float through the cracked door.

“I could really use your help,” his voice grinds, taut with frustration. “The guy we’re looking for is a pro. No one in this small town is going to be able to stop him, especially now that Luke has confronted Nathaniel. I don’t know how deep this goes.”

The words freeze me in place. The mug slips from my hands before I can stop it, shattering on the hardwood. Ceramic fragments scatter like sharp little stars, hot coffee bleeding outward into dark, spreading stains.

Gabe’s voice cuts off. A beat later, the door slides open, and he bursts inside, eyes sharp and assessing. “Isla—are you alright?”

I grip the dining table edge, knuckles bone-white, trying to steady legs that tremble so hard they might give out. My pulse pounds against my ribs like a drum.

“No. Why did Luke go to his father’s house? Who are these people he’s chasing? You said ‘a pro.’ Tell me what’s happening!”

Gabe drags a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots as if the pain will clear his thoughts. His chest rises and falls in sharp heaves before he exhales, shoulders sagging.

“Isla, we’re still piecing it together. This is bigger than we thought.”

“Don’t do that,” I snap, jabbing a finger at him. “Don’t feed me half-truths. You said someone was a pro. What does that mean?”

His jaw flexes, lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s best if you don’t know.”

Anger detonates inside me. I surge forward and pound a fist against his chest, solid and unmoving like stone. “You need to tell me. I’m part of this, too! You let Luke walk into this alone!”

Gabe doesn’t flinch or try to stop me. He stands like a statue while I empty all my anger and fear into the space between us. When I finally run out of breath, I step back and look up at him, desperate for answers. The air saws in and out of my lungs.

Finally, his expression cracks. His voice comes low and gravelly, heavy with the weight of truths he doesn’t want to share.

“Isla…last night we got a fingerprint match from your crime scene. It belongs to someone known only as Ares.”

He swallows. “He’s a contract killer. Ruthless. He’s committed every kind of evil act you can think of. Murder, torture, disappearances. There’s no line he won’t cross.”

A shiver crawls up my spine. The air feels colder suddenly, pressing against my skin. “So, Luke went after him?”

Gabe shakes his head firmly. “No. Luke went to talk to his father. We suspect Nathaniel may be linked to Ares, but we aren’t sure how yet.”

The floor tilts beneath me.

“There’s something else,” Gabe says soberly.

“I broke into Nathaniel’s phone early this morning,” he admits, voice flat with exhaustion.

“There were two numbers in there. One we still can’t trace. The other…” His eyes meet mine, pained. “…was yours.”

My knees buckle, and I stumble toward the couch. Gabe lunges forward, catching me by the elbow, lowering me gently onto the cushions as the room spins.

“Nathaniel Wild sent me that text?” The whisper creaks from my throat like old wood splitting.

“He did.”

I clutch at my temples, rocking forward. “What about when I was a kid? The fire…did he set that too? Why? Why would he do that?”