Page 54 of When the Smoke Clears

Her eyes lock with mine. A sharp breath catches in her throat. “I never wanted you to get hurt,” she whispers.

My chest squeezes so tight it hurts to inhale. “Talk to me, Isla.”

Tears carve warm, glistening trails down her cheeks. “I’ve been so scared. And I just wanted to be left alone.”

“You’re not alone.” My voice leaves no room for argument this time.

She looks down at her bare feet, toes digging into the wet sand. “My mom left everything to me,” she says. “She wrote me a letter. It was with the will. She said she loves me, and she wants me to live a happy, fearless life. The kind of life she wished I’d had when I was younger.”

Her shoulders sag under the weight of that word—fearless.

“She was changing, Luke.” Her voice cracks. “She was getting her life together. And I missed it. I kept her at arm’s length, and I missed it.”

I brush another tear off her cheek, my thumb catching the tremble in her bottom lip. “What are you scared of?”

She laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Staying. Leaving. Breathing. Existing. Take your pick.”

I let that sit for a moment, then add, “Tell me about the night of the fire.”

Her chin drops, shoulders curling inward as if she’s trying to make herself smaller. When she finally looks up, her pupils are blown wide, blue eyes ringed in a shaky halo of black. Her fingers twist the frayed edge of her sleeve like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“Once I tell you,” she whispers, voice splintering, “I drag you into something so much bigger than us. You’d be safer—God, so much safer—if you just walked away. And telling you anyway…”

Her throat works around the words. “It’s selfish. I know it is.”

I step closer until that familiar coconut-citrus scent wraps around me, dragging me back a decade in one breath.

“I’m not letting you walk away,” I say quietly. “Not again.”

A breeze comes off the lake, cool and damp. I turn and walk to the edge, the water almost kissing my boots. The lake looks calm, but I know its depths. I know how fast it goes from shallow to dark.

“I’m in this,” I tell the horizon. “Whether you talk or not.”

“Okay,” she breathes.

Her knees fold and she sinks onto the cool, damp sand. I lower myself beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch, a small line of contact that lights up every nerve on that side of my body.

I rest my elbows on my knees and lean forward, watching her profile in my peripheral vision. The air feels charged, like right before a summer storm.

“When I got home after being at the lake that night,” she begins, staring straight ahead, “the house was dark. Quiet. My mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway.”

She shrugs, a small, brittle lift. “That wasn’t weird. She was probably out drinking.”

Guilt gnaws at me for making her walk back into this. But the hell we’ve both been living in was built on silence. We can’t stay there.

“I climbed into bed,” she says. “My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I figured it was you. But when I checked, it was a text from an unknown number.”

My jaw slackens. I force my voice to stay steady. “What did it say?”

“It said, ‘Leave town. Now. Or you and your boyfriend won’t live to regret it.’”

The words hit like a punch to the sternum. Ten years too late, but the impact still lands.

She swallows. “I’d gotten a few texts before that,” she adds. “Telling me to leave you alone. To back off. I thought it was some stupid, jealous girl. Stacy, maybe. Just…petty crap. I ignored them. But then they got more aggressive and started threatening you.”

I turn toward her and gently hook a finger under her chin, dragging her gaze to mine. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Honestly?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “I didn’t think it was serious. You were already dealing with your dad, with college applications, with everything. I thought saying anything would make it a bigger thing. So, I decided to sleep on it. I was going to tell you the next morning.”