Page 22 of When the Smoke Clears
It’s probably nothing, but I bag it anyway.
With nothing else in the area standing out, I return to the crosswalk, my eyes scanning the road for any fragment of evidence that might have been overlooked, such as jagged skid marks etched into the asphalt.
Tim approaches, his footsteps crunching on the gravel.
“Did anyone see anything?”
He shakes his head. “No. Everyone was caught up in their own world. They only rushed out when they heard the noise.”
A tight breath hisses through my teeth.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” he asks, nodding towards my hand.
“Likely nothing,” I reply with a shrug. “What do you make of these skid marks?”
“Pretty typical for a car that’s turning too fast.”
“But look at this.” I point to the outer edge where the rubber has left a darker, more pronounced mark.
Tim studies the marks before glancing back at me with a puzzled expression.
“Don’t you think it’s strange?”
His brows furrow. “What?”
“Look here.” I trace my finger along the darker section. “This mark suggests the car might have accelerated as it entered the intersection.”
“Accelerated?”
I crouch down, resting my elbows on my knees and interlocking my fingers. “It’s possibly nothing. But if the car was accelerating right here…”
The thought I refuse to say aloud curls like smoke in the back of my mind.
It may have been trying to hit Isla on purpose.
CHAPTER 6
ISLA
The black car has returned, and this time it’s going to run me down.
I’m nearly back to the inn when the hum behind me slices through my angry haze. I glance over my shoulder—
Black car. Sedan. Closing in fast.
My breath catches, and something in my chest lurches in a way that feels horribly familiar—not the fear, but the impulse to look for Luke. That stupid, instinctual flicker of “he’ll know what to do”.
He isn’t here. He won’t come this time.
The cardboard handle of the wind-chime bag tears free from my grip. Metal clangs against pavement, lost beneath the roar of blood in my ears.
I run. Not gracefully. Not with any plan. Just pure survival instinct, hot and electric.
I’m three feet from the porch, from safety, when my foot snags on the edge of a decorative potted plant in a ceramic claw-footed vase, sending me sprawling onto the gravel path.
My knee slams into gravel, pain sparking white behind my eyes.
“Are you alright?” A man’s voice. Not Luke’s. Not the steady baritone that once talked me through fire and fear. This voice is concerned in the polite, distant way strangers are.
