Page 30 of When the Smoke Clears

Once I step through my front door, the day crashes over me like a wave.

Ravenous, I head for the fridge and pull out mayonnaise and mustard, grabbing what I need for a sandwich. I can’t help but wish I were a better cook like Dalton. Hell, even Chase has more kitchen skills than I do, but that’s mostly from flirting with the exotic Swedish chef our father hired one summer.

Sandwich assembled, I drop onto the couch and grab the remote. I surf until I land on the baseball game that’d been on at the bar.

I’m halfway through my sandwich when my phone rings, cutting through the quiet. Mike’s name flashes on the screen, and my pulse jumps.

The sandwich is forgotten as I sit up straight. “What’s going on, Mike?”

“Hey, Sheriff,” his voice crackles over the line. “I was just patrolling around the inn when I saw Isla practically sprinting out and jumping into her car.”

My mind races ahead, already building scenarios of Isla in danger, then mocking itself for caring this much, then racing again.

“She went into The Rusty Nail for a while,” he continues.

My heart pounds louder than the TV. “And?”

“And she just left,” he says. “With Gabe Mercer.”

CHAPTER 8

ISLA

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” My voice ricochets off the walls as I scream at my phone as if the device might suddenly understand me and hear my plea.

My heart pounds in my chest. This nightmare is repeating itself. Who is doing this to me? I didn’t choose to come back here.

Tears stream down my cheeks in relentless tracks as I pack with trembling hands. I snatch my travel-sized shampoo and conditioner, face wash, and toothbrush and toss them haphazardly into my suitcase.

Without a backward glance, I slam my room door shut and bolt down the hallway, my legs pumping as fast as they can manage. The front desk is mercifully empty as I stumble down the stairs, my suitcase banging off each step behind me.

By the time I reach my car, I’m sprinting, dragging the suitcase like a traveler racing the clock to catch a departing flight.

I pause, scanning my car with suspicion. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. A bomb? Someone hiding underneath? In the back seat?

For years, I thought the worst had already happened. But as my heavy breaths fog up the windows, I realize the truth.

The worst is patient.

Everything looks normal, so I fling the suitcase into the back seat and slide into the driver’s side, turning the key in the ignition.

The purr of the engine smooths my frenzied heartbeat, and I press down on the accelerator, desperate to escape Wildhaven.

But as the car starts to veer, I remember—the spare tire.

I pull over, frustration boiling over as I slam my fist against the steering wheel. This can’t be happening now.

I need to get away.

Then an idea sparks. Maybe there’s someone at Figueroa’s Auto. Maybe someone is working late, tinkering with engines or sorting tools. Even if he’s just in there sipping a beer, I’ll take it. I’m prepared to bribe whoever I need to if it means getting a new tire on this car tonight.

I drive through the quiet streets to the shop at the far corner of Main. It has been there as long as I can remember. Mr. Figueroa must be retired by now, but I’m pretty sure his son runs the place. I can only hope he’s a night owl.

With the way my luck’s been running these past few days, I need a win. But as I turn the corner, my heart sinks. The shop is cloaked in darkness, not a single light in the windows. My bottom lip trembles as dread pitches in my stomach.

Desperation tugs my thoughts toward reckless ideas. I could break in and steal a tire.

Jesus, Isla. Who steals a tire? That’s ridiculous. And exactly the kind of thing that lands you in jail, which I definitely don’t need right now.