Page 10 of When the Smoke Clears

My stomach churns as I press the speaker on the voicemail.

“Ms. Rae, this is Alan Gordon, an attorney in Wildhaven…” His voice crackles through static and distant gravel sounds.

“Your mother retained my services to handle her affairs in the event of her death. I’m sorry to tell you this over voicemail, but your mother has passed away…”

The words don’t hit—they sink. Slow, heavy, inevitable. Like they’ve been waiting years to find me.

“Please call me back…”

“Death?” I whisper. “In the event of her death.”

I listen again. And again.

“She’s gone.” The words scrape out of me. I’m not angry. Not sad. Just…numb.

If life has taught me anything, it’s that grief isn’t a scream. It’s a suffocation you don’t notice until you’re gasping.

By 9:20 PM, I’ve made my decision. It’s too late to call back. I text Erin, crawl under the blankets, and hope sleep brings clarity.

It doesn’t.

I jolt upright, sweat-slick skin clinging to my pajamas, heart pounding so hard it aches. My breaths hitch and rasp, lungs refusing to fill.

I stumble to the bathroom, flick on the light. My damp hair clings to my face; red blotches mar my chest. I plunge my face into icy water until the world steadies.

The nightmare always starts the same.

Flames crackle. A woof as the fire grows. Heat licking walls, crawling across the ceiling. The chemical burn of the smoke stings my eyes.

I drop to the floor, crawling blindly, shoulder slamming into furniture, knees aching. I can’t find the door. I press my shirt to my nose as thick phlegm blocks my throat.

This could be it. I’ll never see Luke again. I could have stopped this, but I refused to listen.

Shaking, I meet my reflection again. I look like hell. Secrets do that.

I didn’t lose my life in that fire. But sometimes, I think I died there anyway.

It’s time to face the past—everything I’ve avoided, everything buried so deep only nightmares touch it.

I grab a sheet of paper and sit at my small dining table. My hand moves before I fully decide anything.

I write Erin on the envelope. And beneath it:

Open this letter if I don’t return from Wildhaven.

CHAPTER 3

ISLA

BOOM! The steering wheel wrenches to the right, and the tires skitter across the pavement, barely clinging to the road. My heart races as I fight to keep the car steady, as it bumps along like Erin’s nineteen-year-old cat ambling to the food bowl.

I manage to guide the car to a complete stop on the gravelly shoulder. Climbing out, I squint against the sun’s glare and crouch beside the front tires. My jaw drops. The passenger side front tire is shredded, a deflated mess of rubber clinging to the rim.

I glance back at the road, where glistening shards of unidentifiable metal glint in the sunlight, strewn across my lane like a cruel obstacle course.

I had accepted that this trip to Wildhaven wouldn’t be a walk in the park. The drive is a long, winding ascent into the mountains, and I’m running on a measly two hours of sleep. I anticipated needing to stop for breaks and relying on dill pickle sunflower seeds and sour Skittles to keep my eyes open.

But I didn’t foresee having to change a tire just ten miles shy of Wildhaven, when my nerves are already stretched tighter than a guitar string.