Page 78 of When the Smoke Clears

I shrug and slide into the passenger seat. “This one’s my least favorite, for obvious reasons. But I don’t mind hospitals in general. Good things happen in hospitals, too. Babies are born. Sick children are healed.”

Gabe starts the engine. “So much has hit you in forty-eight hours. Are you holding it together?”

“I’m sad.” My reflection in the window blurs as we pull onto the street. “But mostly I’m furious.”

Sadness feels too soft for this. Fury, at least, has teeth.

“Use that.” He gives the wheel a firm tap. “Anger moves things. Sadness waits.”

A small, grim smile. “Then I’m ready to move.”

“Good. First stop: my place. We need gear.”

By late afternoon, Luke’s dining table looks like a tech store that exploded—monitors, towers, coils of cable, a spill of notebooks, and Gabe’s sleek leather kit.

Each trip from the car makes my thighs chime with their complaints, and my lower back reminds me of recent close encounters with gravel and sidewalks.

Gabe studies my face. “What’s on your mind?”

“It just feels wrong being here without him.”

He shrugs, a crooked grin on his lips. “Nothing about the last few days makes sense. Wildhaven was quiet for decades—then suddenly people are getting run down and killed. I barely recognize this place.”

We crowd around the Villain Board—because let’s face it, it’s a murder board. Gabe uncaps a marker, and for the next half hour, we map a timeline:

ARSON – JUNE 2015

KIDNAPPING/ERASURE – JUNE 2015

THREATS – 2015, 2025

MOM’S DEATH – APRIL 2025

LUKE SHOT – MAY 2025

We add “black sedan/SUV,” “white van,” “injection site—behind the ear,” “MDMA + beta blocker,” and “strange red stone.” Arrows ladder between events like rungs of a crooked spine. ’Inside help?’ hovers near the words ’hospital transfer,’ because none of that night makes sense without a hand at the switch.

“There’s a pattern,” Gabe says, spinning a beer cap so it wobbles and hums. “It’s not clean, but something’s syncing these dates.”

I do my best to focus on the maps and timelines Gabe laid out, but part of me itches to drive back to the hospital, just to see Luke’s chest rise and fall. To reassure myself, he’s still breathing, still here.

My stomach growls like a caged animal. “Sorry,” I mutter.

“Don’t be. I’m hungry, too,” Gabe says. “I’ll run to the diner for burgers and hit the apartment to feed Hannibal. You stay. Door bolted. No answering knocks.”

I salute, and he frowns like I’ve insulted basic training. “Worst soldier ever.”

When the door closes behind him, the house goes quiet in a way that makes my skin itch. Wind sifts through the deck boards; pine hushes the eaves. The Villain Board stares back at me with its white eyes.

The open window breathes cool air across my skin and tempts me toward the deck chair with the view, but if Gabe catches me out there, he’ll revoke my outdoor privileges.

Instead, I call Erin. She answers on the second ring, voice warm and bright.

“I miss you,” I blurt.

“I miss you, too!” She rustles pages. “Before Connor went home, he left me a line in my notes app—hold on.”

Keys tap. She returns, reading in a mock-solemn tone, “My bounty is as boundless as the sea. My love is deep.”