Chapter 6
ISLA
The black car has returned, and this time it’s going to run me down.
I’m nearly back to the inn when the hum behind me slices through my angry haze. I glance over my shoulder—
Black car. Sedan. Closing in fast.
My breath catches, and something in my chest lurches in a way that feels horribly familiar—not the fear, but the impulse to look for Luke. That stupid, instinctual flicker of “he’ll know what to do”.
He isn’t here. He won’t come this time.
The cardboard handle of the wind-chime bag tears free from my grip. Metal clangs against pavement, lost beneath the roar of blood in my ears.
I run. Not gracefully. Not with any plan. Just pure survival instinct, hot and electric.
I’m three feet from the porch, from safety, when my foot snags on the edge of a decorative potted plant in a ceramic claw-footed vase, sending me sprawling onto the gravel path.
My knee slams into gravel, pain sparking white behind my eyes.
“Are you alright?” A man’s voice. Not Luke’s. Not the steady baritone that once talked me through fire and fear. This voice is concerned in the polite, distant way strangers are.
I turn my head and blink at the family inside a black Honda Civic. A dad. A mom. A toddler licking ice cream like none of this is interesting.
The furthest thing from danger.
I exhale shakily, humiliation flooding my cheeks. That’s the third time today I’ve eaten pavement. Some people do yoga retreats to reconnect with their roots. I do public faceplants.
Standing, I wipe gravel from my skin and try to savage some shred of dignity. “I’m fine. Just getting some cardio in.”
God. Kill me.
The dad gives a hesitant wave before pulling into the inn’s parking lot. I don’t bother picking up the wind chimes. They clearly have it out for me.
I drag myself up the stairs, alternating curses and the Bill of Rights under my breath. When I reach my room, I collapse onto the bed.
“It was just an accident,” I whisper. “Just an accident.”
But the words fall flat, flimsy as tissue paper. Tears spill over before I can stop them. Everything I’ve been clenching tight since I arrived begins to slip.
In less than forty-eight hours, my mom died; I returned to a place that still tastes like smoke and regret; I almost got hit by a car; I humiliated myself more times than I can count. And worst of all…
I saw Luke.
Luke, who pulled me from a burning house. Luke, who carried my secrets and touched me like I mattered. Luke, who looked at me today like he wished he didn’t recognize me.
I press both hands to my face, trying to dam the tears. It doesn’t work.
And then there was Stacy and her tiny hobbit hands sliding up his arm like she owned a deed to him. Jealousy burned through me, fast and vicious. A decade apart, and somehow she could still flip that switch.
I didn’t think love could imprint like trauma, but I could not have been more wrong.
But none of this matters, because it can’t matter.
Luke Wild is not my future, and he will never be, even if he’s somehow grown into a man who looks like a storm you want to stand in.
Even if his voice still moves through me like heat.
Even if the moment he saved me today is burned into my body in ways I don’t want to analyze.
I sob until something inside me empties out.
Eventually, I force myself into the shower. The warm, soapy water maps my skin, and I wince as it stings the raw cuts on my hands and knees.
In the city, I move through chaos without blinking. But put me in Wildhaven for an evening, and I’m running from shadows and engines and ghosts. Maybe this place is a wound. And maybe seeing him tore the stitches loose.
After drying off, I slip into yoga pants and my oversized 49ers sweatshirt. The soft cotton feels like armor. It’s thin, but better than nothing. When I head out, I tell myself I’m ready to see my childhood home.
The drive takes only a few minutes, and before I realize it, I’m parked in front of the petite craftsman with its white shutters and small porch.
Turns out I am not ready. My hands tremble around the steering wheel. The house stares back at me with hollow windows, waiting for me to remember everything I tried to forget.
I step out on wobbly legs, find the spare key beneath the porch stone, and grip it so hard it leaves indentations in my palm.
I need reinforcement, so I call Erin. Her voice flows through the line, instantly easing the knot coiled in my stomach.
“I’m at my old house,” I whisper.
“Oh, Isla.”
While she keeps me anchored, I glide the key into the lock with the memory of countless repetitions, and I inhale before nudging the door ajar.
I step inside. The air smells like lavender and old summers. Like memories that weren’t all bad, which somehow makes this more difficult.
The old couch stands in the center of the living room. Its floral upholstery is slightly faded, but unmistakably the exact piece that occupied this spot a decade ago.
“It looks the same,” I murmur. “Like I never left. Like she never changed.”
“That’s complicated,” Erin says gently.
Everything feels complicated. Mom. Grief. Guilt. And Luke—whose name I don’t say, but who still takes up too much room in my chest.
I wander into my old bedroom. The motion light snaps on, and I startle. The room is mostly empty except for a daybed pushed against the far wall, made up with a plain blue quilt and mismatched pillows, and a few boxes on the floor.
The space feels alien. The walls that were once decorated with posters of my favorite bands and photos of friends are now empty, covered in a neutral beige paint.
They no longer echo with memories of sleepovers, late-night cramming for exams, and the thrill of Luke climbing through the window. The cozy nook where I used to curl up with a book is gone.
No piece of me lingers here anymore, and I don’t know why I’m surprised. The fire consumed everything back then. It continues to consume my peace to this day.
My chest constricts as I move toward the closet, hesitating before pulling open the door. I’m not sure what I hope to find. Perhaps some trace, some whisper that a younger version of me once lived here, but inside, there’s only emptiness.
With nothing left in this room for me, I turn and walk across the hall to my mom’s bedroom.
“It’s so strange to be back here. I had barely spoken to my mom in the past ten years, but now that she’s gone, I want to. Is that weird?”
“Not at all.” Erin’s reply resonates with warmth and understanding. “Just because you weren’t close doesn’t mean she wasn’t your mom.”
“She wasn’t even here the night of the fire. She was out drinking.”
Erin exhales, the sound heavy.
Although the urge to walk around tugs at me, I sink into the couch and study my surroundings.
“I feel so guilty that I didn’t keep in touch with her more.” My hands twist in the hem of my shirt. “But I’m also angry at her. And I feel guilty for being angry.”
“You put up a healthy boundary with her for your own mental health, Isla.”
“It shouldn’t be that way with parents.”
“No, it shouldn’t.” Erin agrees. “But sometimes it is. It’s a shitty hand, but it’s the one you were dealt.”
Don’t I know it? My hand was an absentee mom who blamed me for every bad thing in her life and a father who took off as soon as he received the news of impending fatherhood.
“I can do the rest alone,” I tell Erin.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
Once I end the call, the silence screams, making it difficult to focus. I flick on the television and begin to move about the space while Tom Selleck fills the screen. Mom always had a thing for Magnum PI.
The more I wander through the dimly lit rooms, opening and closing drawers, the more I understand that as much as I moved on from this life, it also moved on from me.
Yet, Mom kept my senior portrait. She kept little trinkets. She kept…pieces of me.
I slip her earrings into my ears, craving connection in the smallest, safest form.
The rest of her belongings, along with the house itself, will be donated or sold.
I’ll never visit here again, let alone consider moving back, and the notion of becoming a landlord is not appealing. It’s far simpler to sell the house and close this chapter.
I exhale deeply, the sound echoing around me, and my eyes wander over the space again as morbid curiosity tugs at me.
Where exactly did my mom’s last moments play out? Was she comfortable in her bed, or did she die on the cold, unforgiving tile of the bathroom?
I shake the thought from my mind, knowing it will only hinder my ability to complete the tasks ahead. I can only hope her passing was serene. As a nurse, that’s all I can ask for sometimes.
By the time I leave, I know what I have to do. I’ll pack what matters. Sell the rest. Walk away from this place for good.
If only walking away from the past were that simple.
As I near the inn, my stomach rumbles, a hollow reminder that my last meal was hours ago, sometime in the fading afternoon light. Now, the clock hands creep past 10 PM.
I weigh my options: skip dinner and hope sleep comes quickly, stop at the gas station for a bag of salty snacks, or venture into the Amber Glow Diner.
As much as I don’t want to visit my old place of employment, it’s the only spot open in Wildhaven at this time of night.
I reason with myself that if there’s parking in front, I’ll stop in and grab some takeout without being noticed.
Sure enough, when I get down the block, there’s a spot right in front. There’s no turning back now.
The bell above the door jingles with a sharp metallic ring, announcing my entrance and making me wince. I can’t believe I thought I could slip into town unnoticed and blend into the background for a few days when I had overlooked the simple necessities—like eating and basic car maintenance.
Ugh. I chide myself for my lack of foresight as I pick up a laminated menu from the neat stack on the counter.
My eyes scan the items, landing on the patty melt I used to order whenever I had the chance.
A young girl approaches, and her ponytail bounces with each step. It reminds me of my younger self when I worked here. I mirror her cheerful expression. “Hi! Table for one?”
“Actually, I’d like to place a to-go order.”
Her fingers fly over the keys of the computer as she enters my order, and I settle onto the long, cushioned bench in the waiting area. My gaze wanders around, absorbing the subtle changes time has effected.
The diner’s layout remains unchanged, with its cozy nooks and crannies. The decor is a nod to its roots as a classic ’50s diner, with retro posters and vintage trinkets on the walls, including the same red-and-white Coca-Cola bottle cap sign above the bar counter.
The booths, however, have been updated with fresh upholstery, and the tables gleam with a new cherry wood finish.
But the soul of the place remains the same, and its epicenter is the jukebox in the corner. A tug of nostalgia tempts me to stroll over and browse the song selections. Luke and I used to have a favorite tune on that old music machine. Is it still there?
I don’t look. Revisiting those memories won’t make anything about this day less demanding.
Fortunately, the hostess soon returns with my order packed in a to-go container, and I make the quick drive back with the aroma of a savory burger and onions wafting up to meet me.
Once inside my room, I shut and lock the door behind me, the click of the lock competing with the chirp of the new text message, echoing in the quiet space.
Placing the food on the small desk, I rummage through my purse and fish out my phone, expecting a check-in message from Erin.
But what appears on the screen makes my heart thunder as a surge of familiar fear courses through me. The message from an unknown number reads,
“The sheriff won’t be able to save either of you next time.”