Chapter 11
ISLA
Fields of stubble roll past under a bruised sky. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel until my knuckles pale. The gravel’s rattle sounds like bones clattering beneath the tires.
After fifteen minutes, we turn onto a dirt road, and the car bounces over loose stones.
Through the windshield, I spot the weathered cabin framed by pines.
It stands silent like a secret keeper, holding the life we might’ve had inside its ribs.
I slowly emerge from my car. My heart stumbles at the sight.
This place is where Luke built his life when I disappeared. My mind races with thoughts. What if I’d never left? Would this—this cabin, this land—be our life together? The question echoes as I park to the right of Luke’s cruiser in a patch of dirt and step out.
Luke studies my face. “What’s on your mind?”
My gaze stays fixed on the cabin. “It just feels strange being here.”
He shrugs. “Nothing about the last few days makes sense. Wildhaven has been quiet for decades—now suddenly, people are getting run down in the streets. I barely recognize this place.”
“This all started not long after Gabe came home.” I joke, attempting to tear the scowl from his face. “What’s his alibi?”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about that.” It’s a joke, but he still huffs it out.
We climb the warped wooden steps, passing two rocking chairs whose white paint has blistered and curled into riverbeds of chips.
I can almost see Luke perched in one, tapping his boot on the deck, listening to wind whistle through trees.
He’s always craved the outdoors; at least that hasn’t changed.
He pushes open the front door, and I stop at the threshold. The scent hits me first. Cedar, smoke, and something undeniably him.
He glances back. “What?”
“You don’t lock your door?”
“In Wildhaven? Who’d bother? No one ever had a reason to.”
That’s what he thinks.
“I’m going to use the bathroom, then we’ll unload.” He slips down the hallway, leaving me alone.
I wander into the entryway, trailing fingertips along the wall as it steadies my steps. It leads me to the ample open space, with the kitchen to the right and the living space and hallway to the left.
The kitchen gleams with honey-toned pine cabinets and marble countertops, their veins swirling with gray like storm clouds. The polished range and humming fridge suggest a man who cooks. Back in our teens, Luke barely managed grilled cheese.
Heat panels echo in my chest as I imagine another woman kneading dough here, stirring sauces, leaving traces of herself on these counters.
I shake the thought away and wander into the living room, where long floor-to-ceiling windows frame nothing but towering firs and dappled sunlight.
A leather sofa sits low to the ground, its cushions pressed in gentle arcs where bodies have lounged.
It feels like a suspended treehouse, the world beyond softened and green.
A short hallway leads to two smaller rooms. An office: an oak desk strewn with files and an open, dark laptop. I picture Luke here at 2 AM, mind racing, eyes too bright for bedtime.
Next, a guest room: a queen bed draped in a soft blue-gray quilt, two nightstands bearing matching lamps, a dresser polished to a shine. Cozy but impersonal, like a paused welcome.
My heart drums as I approach the master bedroom. I shouldn’t go in there. I have no right to invade his personal space. I stutter-step at the doorway, but my legs carry me inside anyway, looking for more of a glimpse into the life he created without me.
The room bathes in soft light through sliding glass doors that open onto the wraparound deck. One Adirondack chair waits outside, its white paint cracked like old porcelain. I swallow hard. As much as the thought of him with someone else stings, his loneliness gnaws at me more.
Did I drive him into solitude?
His king-sized bed dominates the room, two plump pillows fluffed on the left side. He sleeps left. So do I. That small domestic symmetry feels intimate, like muscle memory built without me.
I press my palm to the mattress, savoring its give. I’d fight him for that spot any day. I smile at the thought.
The room’s palette is muted, with charcoal walls and ash-wood nightstands—practical and masculine, unmistakably Luke’s.
I let out a breath and slip into the master bath. Luke has clearly renovated this space as well. A glass-enclosed shower boasts a rainfall head and twin jets; tiles the color of sea glass shimmer under recessed lights.
But it’s the clawfoot tub that steals my breath—its white enamel gleaming, polished brass feet curled like a ram’s horns. Positioned before a frosted window, it offers the views without the exposure.
My thoughts betray me: me straddling Luke, hands steady on my hips, water lapping over porcelain edges. My cheeks burn.
“Isla?”
Luke’s voice crashes over me like an icy splash, extinguishing the spark I never meant to kindle.
I quickly make my way down the hallway and meet him in the living room, where he’s looking out the large windows.
“The view is spectacular.”
He nods with a proud tilt of his chin. “It’s the entire reason I bought this place. Well, that and the distance from my parents’ house.”
“Looks like you’ve put some work into it.”
“When I find time. I’m not in a rush. Pleasure in the process and all that.”
My eyes sweep over the dense canopy, and the scattered sunbeams peeking through the leaves one final time before Luke clears his throat, breaking the tranquility. “All right. Let’s grab your stuff and get you settled.”
Luke carries my bags into the guest bedroom and sets them on the chair beside the queen bed. We stand there for a moment, enveloped by the silence, each of us hesitant, our eyes meeting but unsure of what to say or do next.
Luke finally breaks the tension. “Are you hungry?”
My mind drifts back to the meager meals I’ve had since that life-changing phone call, my stomach growling in agreement. “I am.”
“Let me see what I have in the kitchen.”
“Can I cook?” I blurt out.
Luke’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Sure, if you’re up to it.”
I can barely contain my enthusiasm, feeling a burst of energy as I nod eagerly. “I love to cook, especially when I’m anxious. And cooking for one just isn’t as much fun.”
Luke’s head tilts as a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Great, Isla. Real smooth. I just inadvertently told him that I’m single as the day is long. But clearly he is too. There are no traces of a woman’s touch in this cabin.
I pad into the kitchen and crack open the fridge.
A lonely six-pack of craft beer stares back at me, next to a half-empty bottle of Sriracha, a jar of orange marmalade, a limp bag of spring mix, some shredded cheese, and a bucket of pre-made chocolate-chip cookie dough.
I hold up a bottle of beer. “This kitchen is even more depressing than Gabe’s. ”
“That was mean,” he calls from the dining room. “Make me a shopping list. I’ll swing by the store later.”
“Knowing your father, I’m surprised he doesn’t have a private chef dropping by.”
“Oh, he hired one for the family right after I moved out. But Chase had sex with her. My mother has had the final say in household matters ever since.”
My hand flies to my mouth, and I double over, laughter bursting from me like a bubbling brook. It’s the first hearty laugh I’ve had since this whole fiasco began, and though it feels good, it also accentuates the empty ache in my stomach.
“There’s got to be something I can throw together in this house.”
“I have some ground beef and chicken in the freezer,” he says, sinking into his chair. “Some frozen vegetables, too.”
I slip behind the kitchen counter and begin rummaging through the cabinets. Luke’s shelves are sparse, but I manage to unearth a half-empty container of breadcrumbs, assorted seasonings, a small can of tomato paste, and a box of pasta with a slightly crumpled edge. Chicken parmigiana it is.
I quickly defrost the chicken under a stream of warm water and dip each piece into a bowl of beaten eggs, followed by a coating of flour that puffs up in little clouds, then into the breadcrumbs, patting them down gently to adhere.
The rhythmic, repetitive task lets my thoughts drift back to the whirlwind of events of the past few days. I was just in the hospital, taking care of Connor and planning a girls’ night out in Chinatown with Erin before my world completely flipped upside down.
Now, here I am in Wildhaven, facing down someone who will stop at nothing to destroy me. The irony is that even after all of this time, I still can’t figure out why.
I’m in awe that I chose to do this, leaving behind the comfort of my routine in San Francisco. Life was easy. I was happy.
I slip the seasoned chicken into the oven. But was I happy? If I’m honest with myself, the answer is no. I was merely existing. And with the amount of paid time I’m using now, the only place I’ll be existing when I return is at work.
I love my job, that much is true; the way it challenges me and keeps my mind engaged. But I was restless and lonely, the kind of restlessness that gnaws at you slowly, destroying the light in your eyes within its self-imposed prison walls.
Being home, while being threatened and nearly run down in the street, has made me feel more alive than anything in the past decade.
I must be out of my mind.
And Luke…he doesn’t want me here. That much is obvious. But he can’t stand the thought of not protecting me, either. I can’t decide if it’s because of his duty or our past. My foolish heart hopes it’s the latter.
I glance at him, admiring the way he’s studying whatever he’s reading in the file in his hand. Even when we argue, there’s a powerful energy that courses through me. I’ve tried to erase every memory of him, to bury the past deep within, but now, standing here, there’s no way I can retreat from it.
I fan myself with a towel. Is it hot in this kitchen, or is it just me?
“Hey, Luke, dinner’s in the oven. I’m going to take a shower,” I call out, lingering in the doorway of the bedroom. A cold shower.
“Yep,” he responds, his eyes glued to the glow of his computer screen, fingers tapping on the keyboard.
After a quick shower with the steam still swirling in the bathroom, I wrap a fluffy towel around myself and run a brush through my damp hair before settling on the bed.
The sudden chime of my phone vibrating on the nightstand startles me.
My heart races as I approach the device, like a bomb ready to detonate.
For a moment, I consider calling out for Luke to join me, but then I glance down at myself, wrapped only in a towel, and remind myself that I am a grown woman.
With trembling fingers, I reach for the phone and unlock the screen to reveal a series of worried texts.
ERIN: WHERE ARE YOU????? YOU’VE BEEN MIA SINCE LAST NIGHT.
ERIN: STOP IGNORING ME!
ERIN: YOU BETTER BE TRAPPED UNDERNEATH A HOT GUY.
The last one makes me laugh. I quickly type a response.
ISLA: I’m so sorry. I have so much to tell you.
ERIN: Is everything alright?
ISLA: Not even a little bit. But I’m okay.
ERIN: You can’t go radio silent on me. I almost called the Coast Guard.
ISLA:
ERIN: What’s so funny?
ISLA: I think you mean the National Guard.
ERIN: I will call a bodyguard, a lifeguard, and a pack of guard dogs!
Man, I missed her.
ISLA:
ISLA: Can I call you?
ERIN: I’m at the hospital. Connor went home today! Let’s chat tomorrow.
ISLA: That makes me so happy. I LOVE YOU!
ERIN: You better.
ERIN: I LOVE YOU MORE!
After slipping into a pair of comfortable sweatpants, I head back to the kitchen, where the scent of basil and tomato fills the air. I pull the chicken out of the oven and set the plates on the cool marble countertop.
“Dinner’s ready.”
Luke strolls over, exaggeratedly rubbing his stomach. His shirt rides up, revealing a chiseled set of abs. Saliva begins to collect in my mouth—whether it’s from the aroma of the food or the sight of Luke’s sculpted torso—I’m not sure.
As we settle down at the wooden kitchen table, I look across at Luke. “What are you working on?”
He sighs. “It’s a case from a couple of months ago.”
I pause mid-bite, the fork hovering near my mouth. “What about?”
One of Luke’s eyebrows arches. “You gonna help me solve it?”
“Sure. I watch a lot of true crime documentaries.”
Luke chuckles, his deep laugh filling the room and making my heart flutter. “You and Eden. Why do women like that kind of stuff?”
“Well, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that it’s probably the husband or wife.”
“What makes you say that?” He studies me like I’m a witness who doesn’t realize she’s confessing.
I shrug. “Statistics.”
“This guy didn’t have a wife,” he says, before shoveling a forkful of chicken into his mouth. “This is delicious, by the way.”
I beam at the compliment. “Thank you. So, what’s up with this case?”
Luke leans back in his chair, pushing it away from the table slightly. “A guy was murdered, and it was gruesome. He wasn’t from Wildhaven, but he was found here.”
“Grizzly how?”
“His throat had been slit, and three of his fingers were severed cleanly at the knuckle.” A frown creases his brow. “Doc Stevenson confirmed that his fingers were removed before death. Torture.”
A wave of nausea rolls through my stomach.
He stands abruptly and begins pacing the room, his mind working through the details. I watch him, captivated by his focus and determination.
“But why?” he continues, talking to himself more than me. His voice filled with frustration. “What message does this brutality convey, and who was meant to receive it? Wildhaven isn’t accustomed to violent crimes.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Only that he was a low-level drug dealer from Cedar Hollow.”
I start clearing the dishes, stacking them carefully before carrying them to the sink. “Sounds like a rival dealer or a pissed-off customer.”
Luke follows me, grabbing his own plate and joining me at the sink. “Exactly, but no one is talking.”
“Do you have a suspect?”
He shrugs, his eyes narrowing slightly. “There’s this real dirtbag over in Cedar Hollow. He owns the casino and a few other seedy businesses. I think the guy was working for him, but I can’t confirm it.”
He grabs the dishtowel and begins to dry the dishes as I set them on the towel on the counter. “I have no doubt you’ll figure it out.”
He tilts his head. “What makes you so sure?”
“Because you don’t quit,” I reply, meeting his gaze.
“Not even when I should know better.”
Ouch.