Page 20 of When the Smoke Clears
Her arms fold tightly around her waist. “It was a black sedan.”
“It was a small SUV,” I counter automatically.
She shakes her head—each word is punctuated with conviction. “No. Definitely. A. Sedan.”
My fingers press the bridge of my nose, pushing back the frustration threatening to spill out. “I’ll speak to witnesses.” Before she can argue, I ask, “Anything else?”
“No.” Her voice is shrill with nerves. “One minute I was walking, then you were tackling me.”
“I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“Getting hit by a car would’ve hurt more.”
The faintest smirk tries to tug at my mouth. Damn her.
“I can’t believe someone just blew through that stop sign,” I mutter.
Her posture shifts, barely, but enough. Her face pales. Goosebumps rise along her arms.
“What?”
“Nothing. I got a chill.”
“If you know something—”
“I don’t!” Her response is too quick and too defensive. “I’d like to leave now.”
I study her closely, noting the slight rocking of her body, a subtle rhythm of anxiety. She’s scared.
“You’ve had a terrifying experience,” I say carefully. “Let me walk you back.”
“I can walk by myself.”
“Isla, I’m the sheriff. I’m telling you—”
“And I’m a private citizen who doesn’t need your help.” Her chin lifts stubbornly.
I take a step back, hands raised. “I can’t believe you’re doing this again.”
Her eyes blaze. “Doing what?”
“Running.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Just like you did back then.”
The words taste like ash the second they’re out, but I don’t take them back.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“At least you’re consistent,” I snap. “Sticking with what you know.”
We talk like people trying to cauterize a wound—quick, sharp, burning each other because stopping hurts worse.
She exhales a furious huff, spins on her heel, and storms off.
I follow her around the corner to the intersection just as Tim’s cruiser pulls up.
“You can’t avoid me this time, Isla,” I tell her. “I’m the sheriff. I have a job to do.”
She throws her arms wide. “What do you want from me, Luke?”
