Page 21 of When the Smoke Clears

There’s a beat. A fissure. I almost say everything. Instead, I swallow it down. “Your phone number.”

Her nostrils flare. “I’m staying at the inn.”

“That’s not good enough. I need a way to reach you if anything comes up, Isla.”

I shove my notepad in her direction. She glares at me, but scribbles it down.

“Anything else, Sheriff?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“I’m sure you will.” She spins away, grabs her box from the pavement, and limps toward the inn, back straight even though she’s covered in dirt. She doesn’t look back. Not until she thinks I’m not watching.

Tim joins me, eyebrows high. “What was that about?”

I watch Isla disappear between buildings, her fury trailing behind her like smoke.

Love doesn’t always come back soft. Sometimes it returns like a bruise you forgot you had—tender when touched, furious when ignored. And Isla Tanner has always been the one I never stopped poking at, even when I knew better.

“That,” I mutter, “is my past coming back to haunt me.”

Tim doesn’t say anything immediately, but a knowing smirk plays on his lips. “What exactly happened?”

“A car ran the stop sign and nearly hit her.” The air still resonates with the smell of burned rubber. “Driver took off.”

“Probably some kid not paying attention. Realized they’d be in trouble and panicked.”

“You might be right.” I stare at the spot on the ground where Isla lay on top of me only minutes ago. “But I need you to canvas the area. See if anyone caught sight of the car.”

“Yes, sir,” he replies, as he starts off toward his squad car.

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket, and I retrieve it as my mom’s number flashes on the screen. News travels faster than light in this town.

I don’t bother with pleasantries. I know why she’s calling. “I’m fine, Mom.”

Her voice is higher than usual. “Someone said there was an accident, and you were involved.”

“There was almost an accident. Someone blew through a stop sign, but both Isla and I are okay.”

“Isla was there?”

“She was.”

“Well, I hope you find the driver and lock him up!”

I can’t help but chuckle, imagining her indignation. “I’ll do my best, Mom.”

Her tone softens. “I will check in with you later.”

As I hang up, I stare at the phone, wondering how long it will take for my father to hear about this and use it as more fuel in his ongoing critique of my life choices.

I squint at the street where the car had approached. The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement, making it difficult to distinguish real shapes from illusory ones.

As I reach the curb, nothing appears out of the ordinary. A few rogue pine needles lie scattered across the asphalt, mingling with small rocks and bits of litter caught in the crevices of the road. But then, something catches my eye.

In the spot where a car might briefly pause to make a turn, a solitary ruby red rock lies abandoned, shimmering brilliantly under the midday sun’s rays.

I pull a disposable glove from my back pocket, the latex snapping crisply against my wrist as I pick up the object. Its surface is smooth between my fingers.