Page 65 of When the Smoke Clears

“Agreed,” Gabe says. “She’ll come with me. We’ll wait at the diner. Once I have the vial from you, you take her back here.”

I nod, already reaching for my phone. “Give me half an hour.”

As I head to the door, I feel Isla’s gaze on me. I glance back.

She’s watching me like she wants to say something—be careful, don’t go, come back—but all that comes out is a hoarse, “Okay.”

“I’ll be right back,” I promise, holding her eyes for a beat longer than necessary.

Something flickers there. Trust, maybe. Or the ghost of it.

The hospital is quiet in that way that feels loud, monitors beeping, distant footsteps, and the occasional cough echoing down the hall.

The morgue and lab sit in the basement, down a narrow stairwell that always smells faintly of bleach and old coffee.

A nurse at the station glances up as I pass. “Evening, Sheriff. Is everything alright?”

“Just need to check on something in the lab,” I say, keeping my tone casual.

My pulse is pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth. Lying has never been my strong suit. I just hope she’s too bored to notice.

Downstairs, I unlock the lab with the brass key Doc gave me a few years ago, “just in case,” and flick on the lights. The room snaps from shadow to sterile white—machines, microscopes, neat rows of supplies.

The oversized refrigerator against the far wall is exactly where I expect it to be. The sleek silver padlock on the handle is not.

“Of course,” I mutter under my breath. “Can’t make this easy.”

Doc’s office is across the hall. Also locked.

“Fuck,” I snap, the word bouncing off the cinderblock.

“Need some help?” a voice says behind me.

My hand goes instinctively to my hip.

Gabe leans in the doorway, like he’s been there all along. “Jesus, man,” I say. “Where’s Isla?”

“At the diner,” he replies. “Corner booth. Half a hot chocolate left and an empty plate where a slice of apple pie used to be. She’s safe.”

Relief hits first, then a flash of jealousy aimed squarely at a piece of dessert. “What are you doing here?”

“Figured the guy who still flinches when he forgets to use his turn signal might need backup,” he says. “Step aside.”

He kneels in front of Doc’s office door and pulls a small leather kit from his pocket. A moment later, the delicate click of tools on metal fills the hall.

Within seconds: click.

He stands, slides the kit away, and gives me a look that says, “Don’t ask.”

“You’re terrifying,” I mutter.

“You’re welcome.”

We repeat the process with the fridge lock. This time, I watch more closely and file away the sound of the second click as the point of no return.

The cold air kisses my face when I pull the fridge open. Rows of vials line up, labels facing outward in neat black print. I spot Gretchen’s name easily.

I grab one vial and slide it into my inside jacket pocket. It’s colder than the air around it, pressing against my ribs like a reminder of what I’m doing, and who I’m doing it for.