Page 42 of When the Smoke Clears

“Is that what you really want?”

She stares straight ahead at the lake, the tension palpable. “No.”

“Then you’ll stay. But you’ll stay with me.”

She whirls around to face me, disbelief etched across her features. “Why in the frick would I stay with you?”

My feet freeze to the beach. “Frick?”

“I work with kids. I can’t curse, so I’ve trained myself to use different words. Earlier was an exception.”

The thought of her working with kids tugs at a frayed thread in my hardened heart. “You’ll stay with me because I’m the sheriff. I’m the only one who can keep you safe.”

“Staying with you is the last thing that will keep me safe.”

My eyes narrow.

She shakes her head, reluctance clouding her eyes. “I just don’t think it’s the best idea.”

“That’s how it’s going to be, Isla.”

“It could put you in danger.”

“I’m already involved, Isla,” I insist, stepping closer, my determination unwavering.

She startles me by reaching out, her fingers curling around mine with a gentle grip, sending a shock of warmth through my entire being. Her touch is a haunting reminder of something almost forgotten, a paradox of heaven and hell.

Her eyes scan my face, desperate for answers hidden within my expression. “I’m trying to figure things out. I need time.”

“I want to help you.”

I need to.

She hesitates, then releases my hand, her fingers slipping away like sand through my grasp. Turning, she faces the horizon with determination.

“I’ll stay with you,” she concedes. “But only if you can promise not to ask me about the past.”

My pulse pounds in my ears, yet there’s a sharp, vindictive satisfaction in knowing she’s finally coming around.

Her surrender isn’t peace; it’s a truce built on exhaustion. But I’ll take it. I’ll always take scraps of her if that’s all she has left.

“Fine. Let’s go get your stuff from Gabe’s place.” My back teeth grind together as I spit out the words.

The ride back to Gabe’s is filled with a loud silence. Neither of us is eager to shatter the fragile peace we shared with words.

As soon as the truck rolls to a stop at the curb, I hop out and round the vehicle to open the door for Isla. She steps down onto the pavement, and we head inside the apartment.

In the living room, Gabe is seated at his makeshift office in the corner, where a large desk is cluttered with three computer monitors, each displaying streams of information that resemble a foreign language.

He rises to greet us. “And how are the lovebirds doing?”

“Shut up,” I snap, watching Isla breeze through to the master bedroom to collect her things with a determined air.

“What’s happening?”

“Isla’s staying with me.”

His brow knits together in confusion. “Alright. Then why do you look so…constipated?”