Page 2 of When the Smoke Clears

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Ryan steps aside as I enter the small house and my heart clenches when I spot her sprawled on the dingy biscuit-colored living room carpet. The house is eerily quiet, leaving only the thunderous roar of my heartbeat echoing in my ears.

I kneel beside her and gaze over her ashen body. Gretchen’s face is serene, like she’s asleep. It’s impossible to make out any cuts or bruises through her sweater and jeans, so I’ll have to wait for Doc Stevenson, our medical examiner, to declare the cause of death.

From here, it looks like a quiet, peaceful passing. But I treat every death the same, with no assumptions and no shortcuts.

I rise and trudge through the house, traversing each room, as my eyes scan for anything out of the ordinary. Books are stacked on shelves, chairs are tucked under tables, and dusty curtains hang undisturbed. Gretchen was never the best housekeeper, but the place looks better than I would have imagined.

Yonaguni Monument: Natural Formation or Sunken City Beneath Japan?

Doggerland: The Drowned World Beneath the North Sea

The Channel Tunnel: How Engineers Joined Britain and France Under the Sea

Øresund Bridge–Tunnel: How the Engineering Marvel Between Denmark and Sweden Dives Beneath the Sea

My feet halt in the doorway to the back bedroom. Strained muscles hold me in place as the memory of my last visit here plays in my mind. On that day, this room was a fiery inferno, obliterating any traces of the teenager who lived here.

After a cursory peek inside from the hallway, I retreat to the living room to continue my thorough examination of the area around Gretchen’s body.

My deputy, Tim, arrives, along with one crime scene technician, and we work the room in steady, practiced motions, cataloging, photographing, and bagging. Keeping my hands and mind busy is the only way I know to keep my mind locked down.

When everything on the checklist is complete, I send Tim to interview the neighbor who found her.

Then I turn to Ryan—a single nod. My throat is tight when I give it, but it’s enough. They can take her now.

The ambulance carries Gretchen Tanner’s body away, and I’m left alone in the creaky house. A chill zigzags down my spine, and I give my shoulders a quick shake to dispel it.

With my pants almost dry, I focus on my next move. The thought of having to talk to anyone causes a heavy knot to settle in my gut, so when I reach the station, I keep my head down and power walk to my office.

It works. Still, life doesn’t slow down for my mood. The station’s steady clamor seeps through the thin walls, making concentration impossible.

I spend hours fixated on the computer screen as the cursor blinks rhythmically, taunting my inability to form coherent thoughts. In a futile attempt to dodge the mountain of paperwork spilling from my inbox, I pace the small space too many times to count. Finally, I give up and book it out the back door.

I’m just pulling into my driveway when my phone jingles—a new message lights up the group chat from my sister, Savannah.

SAV: Dinner is at 7:30. Don’t forget what you were assigned to bring. I’m talking to you, LUKE AND CHASE!

My fingers twitch to respond to her holier-than-thou shouty caps, but my brother beats me to it.

CHASE: Now that’s just offensive. I’d never forget a family dinner, or the fact that I’m “Bread Guy.”

I chuckle at my brother’s mock indignation. Chase has the easiest job: bringing some kind of bread product to family dinners. Savannah assigns him this, knowing that if he messes it up, as he often does, we can survive without it.

Meanwhile, I’m the designated “Salad Guy,” which doesn’t exactly scream confidence in my abilities to provide sustenance either.

SAV: Whatever, Chase. It’s 50/50 you show up to dinners.