Page 49 of When the Smoke Clears

The line crackles with Doc’s sigh. “I’m about to start working on Gretchen Tanner. I’m assuming her heart gave out, but I’ll confirm it.”

My shoulders drop an inch. I rub at the knot in my neck that’s been there since finding her body. “Appreciate you doing that, Doc.”

Paper rustles on his end. “Tox screen’s still cooking. It’ll be a couple of days yet.”

“What about those tire tracks? And the red stone with the⁠—”

“Already in Washoe County. You know how backed up they are.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. And Luke? Get some sleep. You sound like hell.”

I hang up and pull the file from the case I mentioned to Isla last night.

Ben Manning was a young guy in his mid-twenties. We found his body discarded like trash at the base of the mountain pass two months ago.

I stare at this case file often, haunted by the gruesome way he met his death, but the list of suspects always evades me. Ben had no family or friends to speak of, so insight into his life has been impossible to obtain.

A confidential informant confirmed that his death was orchestrated by his “boss” but we don’t know who that could be. My best guess is Louis Shafer, the slimy owner of the small casino in Cedar Hollow. He’s a shady guy with his hands in more than gambling, but we can never find anything to prove it.

The case file blurs behind my tired eyes as Helen alerts me to my meeting time. I stagger into the conference room where Mayor Reynolds drones on about the town budget while my leg bounces under the conference table for forty-five minutes.

I check my watch three times during the final five minutes of the meeting, nodding mechanically at whatever the mayor is saying about quarterly projections. The second he says, “That’s all for today, I’m already halfway to the door, mumbling something about an appointment.

My tires kick up dust on the cabin’s gravel drive. I fumble with my keys, dropping them twice before getting the door open.

Real smooth, Wild.

“Isla?” My voice echoes through the empty living room. Sunlight streams through the windows, highlighting dust motes but no Isla.

I find her in the kitchen, her back to me, head tilted slightly as she studies a whiteboard propped against a barstool. She’s chewing on her thumbnail, her blonde hair falling across her shoulders.

I step closer. “Whatcha doing?”

She whirls around, fist flying toward my face. I jerk backward, the rush of air from her knuckles brushing my chin.

“Geez, Luke!” Her eyes are wide. “You scared me.”

Her laugh trembles before it steadies, like she’s learning how to be unafraid again.

A laugh escapes me as I straighten. “Sorry.”

I peer over her shoulder at the board where “Villain Board” is written in bold red letters across the top.

For a second, my chest tightens. She’s smiling and treating it like a game, but the fact that Isla is mapping suspects at all tells me she’s scared, maybe more than she’ll admit. And that scares the hell out of me.

“What’s with the—” I gesture at her creation.

Her shoulders lift in a shrug. “I’m building a suspect board. TV detectives always have one.” Her shoulders lift in a shrug.

I cock my head to the side. “You’re not a TV detective.”

“Oh wow, thank you for that brilliant observation. Just grab a marker, will you?” She points to the box.

“Are you talking about a murder board?”

“I don’t like the sound of that. It’s too grim. Our board is called a villain board.”