Page 62 of When the Smoke Clears

People filled the house—clients, donors, old money, new money, all circling my father like planets around a sun that thinks it invented light. They shook his hand, clapped his shoulder, laughed too loudly at jokes he’s told a hundred times. He soaked it up, every second.

I slipped away to his office, pretending I was looking for a file. Really, I was looking for air and a reprieve from all the ass-kissing.

The office felt like a showroom, too polished to be real, but the view was the one honest thing in the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the oak desk, giving a commanding view of Wildhaven.

Fields hugged the town on one side; forest and mountains guarded the other. At night, the lights spread out like a constellation that decided to settle here and call it home.

That view reminded me of why I stay in Wildhaven.

The door clicked shut behind me, soft but distinct. I turned to find Dalton and Sav slipping in.

“Thought we’d find you hiding,” Savannah said, heels dangling from one hand. “Too much sucking-up out there for you?”

“Way too much,” I replied.

She joined me at the window while Dalton wandered toward the glass gun case on the far wall. My father’s collection gleamed under recessed lighting. It’s beautiful, expensive, and primarily for show.

“Hey,” I said, half watching them, half watching the town below. “Either of you remember anyone from high school who had a grudge against Isla Rae?” I caught myself. “Isla Tanner.”

Sav scrunched her nose, eyes going distant as she sifted through a decade of gossip. Dalton shoved his hands in his pockets, boots scuffing against the rug.

“Nah,” he said after a beat. “She was always an adorable girl.”

Sav nodded. “Same. I mean, she took off and broke your heart, so I’m not campaigning for her sainthood now, but back then? I don’t remember anyone who had it out for her.”

“Why?” Dalton asked, leaning against the wall, one boot pressed to the charcoal paint like a casual pose in a magazine.

“Just something I’m working through,” I said, trying to keep my tone easy.

That’s when I saw it—the light at the bottom of the door dimming. A shadow cut across the gap beneath it. It didn’t move on. It stayed.

I filed away the shoe size. Male. Dress. Too generic to narrow down. Still, every instinct I had went on high alert.

Someone was listening.

For the first time, it hit me that this wasn’t just some shadow stalking Isla’s memories. Whoever this was—whoever had been pulling strings—wasn’t out there, far away.

They were in our walls. In our house. Breathing our air.

“Tell us what’s going on,” Sav pressed, oblivious to the shift.

I held up a finger, bringing it to my lips. Sav’s eyes widened with interest. She and Dalton went quiet as I crossed the room.

I yanked the door open.

Empty hallway.

Every door in the corridor was open. I did a quick sweep anyway, eyes skimming corners, beds, bathrooms. No movement. No footsteps retreating. Nothing.

Whoever was standing there either moved fast or knows this house as well as I do.

I scanned the crowd below from the landing—my father holding court with Nik, Chase, and a few others. No one looked out of place. No one moved like they’d just sprinted up or down the stairs.

“Okay, what is with him?” Sav muttered behind me.

Before I could come up with an answer that didn’t involve the word paranoid, my phone rang. I checked the screen.

Doc Stevenson.