Page 50 of When the Smoke Clears
I resist the urge to remind her that murder is, in fact, grim. She’s on a roll.
The marker squeaks against the whiteboard as she writes. Her handwriting loops in perfect cursive while mine has always looked like a doctor wrote it during an earthquake.
She steps back from the board where “HIT AND RUN” stands in bold capitals. Below it: “SUSPECTS” and a single name. “STACY.”
“Stacy? That’s your suspect?”
Isla shrugs, eyes sparking. “She’s always been a villain in my book.”
I snort, plucking the marker from her fingers. “Do you want to go to your mom’s house?”
“The realtor can’t meet me until tomorrow,” she says, still staring at the word STACY with disdain. “I figured we could just work on the villain board. “
“Later. I need your help with something else.”
Her head tilts slightly.
“This place needs…something. The walls are too empty.”
“Wait. You’re letting me decorate?”
I lift my chin once.
“With your credit card?”
I got the idea while the mayor was talking about ways to increase tourism by making the town more “welcoming.”
My hand finds the back of my neck. “I guess.”
She squeals, her feet barely touching the floor as she bounds down the hallway. The floorboards creak, a door slams, and she’s back, shoelaces untied, grinning like she’s five and it’s Christmas morning.
We drive to the town center while she practically vibrates in the seat beside me. My hunch was correct. She needed a distraction.
Hell, maybe I did, too.
“Follow me,” she instructs, as we head for the patio store in the center of town.
She weaves between wicker chairs and outdoor umbrellas, straight to the far corner. Her hands flutter toward a wall of cushions in every shade imaginable.
“Just look at this vibrant tapestry of colorful pillows!”
“The only word I understood in that sentence was pillows.”
She giggles and then gazes longingly at an outdoor papasan chair.
I run my hand along the cushion of the chair. “Do you have space for anything like that where you live?”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s a rare luxury unless you’re one of the fortunate few with a sprawling home in the city.”
Carefully, she lifts a pillow from the chair and sinks into it. She closes her eyes. I should look away. Instead, I watch the tension drain from her face, piece by piece, until she looks like the girl I used to know.
“What are you thinking about?”
With her eyes closed, she answers. “A quiet place where a warm breeze flips the pages of a book in my hands, and soft wind chimes and birds are the only noises around me.”
“Are we here for you or me?”
She opens her eyes as she tosses a navy-and-baby-blue paisley throw pillow at me.
