Page 31 of When the Smoke Clears

Could I go to the sheriff’s station? Luke probably isn’t there. Maybe I could sleep on one of those hard benches. I shake off the thought almost immediately. There’s no way he wouldn’t hear about it if I showed up there.

Every path I consider leads me to Luke Wild.

Clinging to the idea that being around people is safer than being alone, I grip the steering wheel and drive to The Rusty Nail.

The parking lot is nearly empty, with just three cars scattered under flickering streetlights. Still, my shoulders loosen at the thought that I won’t be completely alone with my thoughts tonight.

I hurry inside. The walls are lined with dark wood paneling, and one entire section is covered in stapled one-dollar bills. The air smells of fried food and liquor, thick and greasy. It hits my nose, and a wave of nausea climbs my throat. Not that I’d be the first one to lose it here.

I’m seconds away from slipping into a shadowy back booth when I feel a presence beside me. A firm, masculine hand lands gently on my shoulder, steadying me.

“Isla.” The voice is low, steady. “Look at me.”

I turn my head and focus on a familiar face from the past. Older now, like the rest of us, but the kindness in his eyes hasn’t changed.

Gabe Mercer.

The sight of him knocks loose the last shred of composure I was clinging to. I choke out his name on a sob and collapse into his arms.

“Ssh,” he murmurs against the top of my head, his breath warm and reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

Time blurs. We stand there, his arms wrapped securely around me, until he finally pulls back and studies my swollen, red eyes.

“Randy, can we get a glass of water?” he calls to the bartender, then guides me toward the back booth I’d been aiming for.

My water arrives a second later. The condensation is cool against my fingers as I wrap my hands around the glass and take a small sip, letting it soothe the tightness in my throat before I try to speak.

“Can I get you something else?” the burly man in the plaid shirt asks, fabric stretched tight over his broad chest.

I shake my head.

“Thanks, Randy,” Gabe says.

I drag the sleeve of my worn sweatshirt across my face, swiping away tears and an undignified trickle of snot. My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “Hi, Gabe. It’s good to see you.”

He offers a gentle smile, eyes soft and understanding. “Hey, Isla. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

I shake my head and lie. The words taste bitter. “I have a flat tire, and I need to go back home for an emergency, but I can’t until it’s fixed.”

Gabe narrows his eyes, studying me with a mix of skepticism and concern, then leans back against the worn leather of the booth. “Do you know what I’ve been doing for the past ten years, Isla?”

I shake my head, unable to meet his gaze. Gabe was my friend in high school because he was Luke’s best friend. I knew him well back then, but now he’s a stranger, just like everyone else in this town.

“I’ve been in the military,” he says. “Cyber warfare for the Seals. If there’s one thing I know, it's because I’ve seen it firsthand. It’s fear.”

My cheeks heat with embarrassment.

“So do me a favor and tell me what’s really going on, because the woman who walked into this bar was terrified.”

The truth pushes at my chest like it’s trying to claw its way out. “I can’t tell you, Gabe. I can’t tell anyone.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a whisper. “Look at me. Whatever is going on, you need to tell me right now.”

His calm confidence feels almost tangible, a solid thing I can lean against. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull my phone from my pocket, my hand trembling as I slide it across the table.

He reads the open text message, his expression hardening as he sets the phone down. “When did you get this?”

“Less than an hour ago. There was an accident earlier today,” I begin, but he raises a hand, stopping me mid-sentence.