Page 36 of When the Smoke Clears

I pick the phone up from the console and turn it over in my hand. “Since when did you get another phone?”

“It’s a business phone I use for contacts who don’t need my personal number.”

“Makes sense, I guess. I can drop it off later this morning.”

“I’m not in the office this morning. I’ll come by the station in about an hour. I have something I want to talk to you about anyway.”

Terrific.

I’ve just pushed open the frosted glass door of my office when my administrative assistant, Helen, appears with a precarious stack of forms teetering in her arms.

“Morning, Luke,” she says, offering a bright smile that reaches the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

Helen has been a fixture in my life as long as I can remember. She used to babysit my siblings and me. Chase says she needs to retire so I can hire “someone young and hot,” but his priorities rarely match my own.

Helen is irreplaceable. Sure, she spends half her day looking for her misplaced glasses, battles every software update, and her red lipstick spends more time on her teeth than her lips—but she’s loyal, kind, and has a better memory than our entire filing system.

“Good morning, Helen,” I reply, eyeing the tower of papers. “What’s all that?”

She sets the stack on my desk with a soft thud. “Just some documents needing the boss’s signature.”

I can’t help but notice the donut crumbs clinging to her navy sweater, but I suppress my grin. “There’s a supply acquisition form on top and a few things Mayor Reynolds wants you to review.”

“Thanks. I’ll look at it after our morning briefing.”

Turns out it was a quiet night in Wildhaven.

For everyone except me.

It’s usually pretty tame around here. Every now and then, we get someone who’s had too much to drink at The Rusty Nail and gets a little too rowdy, or some kid who gets caught up in something stupid—but even that’s rare.

The last “exciting” thing that happened was when a bear got into the cab of Old Man Cormack’s truck and ate his lunch. And most of his upholstery.

I’m about to tackle the mountain of paperwork when loud laughter echoes down the hallway. A second later, Greg appears in my doorway.

“Guess what happened yesterday?” he says, grinning like he’s about to tell the best story I’ve ever heard.

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms, the leather creaking softly. He’s not leaving until I play along. “What happened?”

“I changed a flat tire out on Highway 46,” he announces, puffing out his chest a little, like he just single-handedly saved the town.

“Cool story, Greg, but I have work to do.” I gesture toward my desk, cluttered with forms and a blinking cursor on my computer screen.

“Don’t you wanna know whose car it was?” he presses.

I exhale. “Whose car was it, Greg?”

“Isla Tanner, dude.”

My body goes ramrod straight, her name hitting me like a live wire. “Was everything okay with her car?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, it’s fine. Just a flat from some metal debris.”

My jaw tightens, and my muscles coil.

“She looks good,” he adds casually.

The comment lands like a punch. “I’ve got things to do, Greg. If you’re done, I need to get back to them.”