Page 96 of When the Smoke Clears
“We will keep interviewing everyone we can think of.”
I shift my head from side to side, leaning into the long stretch of my neck. My shoulder is getting better every day, but the dull ache persists. At least the over-the-counter medication is working well, which has given me the freedom to drive.
“I’m going to tackle some of this,” I say, nodding toward the towering stack of imminent headache on my desk. “I’ll be taking off after that. Call me if anything comes up.”
He stands from his chair and gives a quick salute. “You got it, Sheriff.”
I settle into my creaky office chair and begin to sift through the invoices, acquisitions, and reports. Each time I sign my name with my left hand, the letters come out jagged and uneven, looking more like the scribble of a kindergartner than a sheriff’s signature.
Still, the growing pile of completed paperwork at the corner of my desk shows I’m making some headway.
Thankfully, just as my thoughts spiral from mind-numbing boredom, my phone buzzes with a new message.
ISLA: How about meatloaf for dinner?
A smile pulls at my mouth—the kind I only ever give her. These past few days, Isla and I have slipped into something easy. Natural. She moves around my cabin like she remembers it from another lifetime—where I kept the coffee, how I like my blankets folded, the way I take my eggs.
At night, we fall asleep tangled in shared warmth, learning each other again in small, intimate ways—her head on my chest, my hand smoothing over her back when she startles awake from a bad dream. No pressure. Just quiet closeness.
Being with her is like remembering how to breathe.
LUKE: That sounds good.
ISLA: What time will you be home?
Home. With Isla. I could get used to that.
LUKE: In a few hours.
I haven’t told her about my plan to confront my parents. Ever since the shooting, she’s been a bundle of nerves, spending every waking moment taking care of me. I don’t want to add to her anxiety, so the details can wait until I’m back.
After a thirty-minute drive, I arrive at my parents’ expansive, circular driveway. I don’t step out of the truck right away; instead, I find myself staring up at the towering structure before me.
It’s just a house, constructed from concrete, wood, drywall, and covered in layers of paint. Yet today, its aura is more menacing than usual. Like it knows I’m here to pull at the threads holding it together.
For a moment, I almost expect a fiery dragon to emerge from the darkened recesses. And then, he does.
My father exits with Nik, in deep discussion and oblivious to my presence. Their voices are raised and clipped. They aren’t having a heartfelt, agreeable conversation.
Nik is one of the few people who challenge my father’s megalomaniac tendencies. Their exchanges are often a spectacle, a verbal sparring match that I’d watch for amusement if I didn’t have my own matters to attend to.
I bide my time until they veer off toward the garage. Once they’re out of sight, I step out of the truck and make my way into the house.
As I enter, my boots thud against the polished marble floor of the grand foyer, reverberating off the high ceilings, announcing my arrival to anyone within earshot.
“Hello, Luke,” Charles greets me, descending the sweeping staircase with a practiced grace.
Charles is a butler of sorts, I guess you’d call him. I find the entire “servant” thing distasteful, and I’ve never pressed my parents about his role.
“Hello. Where’s my mother?”
“She’s in the library,” he answers, adjusting his glasses as he glances down the hallway. “I believe she’s on the phone, doing something for the foundation.”
That makes sense. My mother dives deep into philanthropy. Her calendar is always packed with meetings and events aimed at making our town a better place.
Sometimes I think she knows more about Wildhaven’s workings than anyone else. Maybe I should put her on the Sheriff’s payroll. She could run this place with her eyes closed.
“Mom!” I call out, my voice carrying through the polished wooden door as I approach the library.
