Chapter 12
LUKE
My knuckles tap against Isla’s door, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway. From inside, a muffled groan echoes through the door, and it creaks open to reveal Isla, her hair a wild tangle that resembles a bird’s nest, and her eyes half-closed, still clinging to the remnants of sleep.
“Morning.”
She squints at me, rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”
“6:20”
She yawns, a long, drawn-out exhale. “Are you going to work?”
Her voice is soft, rough from sleep, like gravel smoothed by rain. “I’m going in this morning for a few hours, but then I thought I’d take the afternoon off.”
She raises an eyebrow, a hint of defiance in her sleepy gaze. “Are you my babysitter now?”
I stifle a sigh. “I didn’t say that. I’m sure you have plenty to take care of at your mom’s house. I thought I could lend a hand.”
Isla’s expression shifts, her features softening as her shoulders relax. “That would actually be really helpful.”
“I’ll be back in a few hours. In the meantime, stay here.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. Sleep. Take a long shower. Whatever you want.”
Her eyes brighten. “That sounds nice.”
“See you later,” I say, turning in the direction of the front door. Just as I reach the end of the hall, her voice halts me.
“Luke?”
“Hmm?” I pause mid-step, turning back.
“Am I safe here?” Her voice carries a tremor, the first crack in the bravado she’s worn as a shield exposed. That question shouldn’t hurt, but it does. I’ve built my whole life around keeping people safe, yet hers is the only safety that ever mattered.
“Yes. I promise you.” My gaze meets hers, steady and sincere. “This cabin is safe. No one is going to hurt you.”
She nods, her shoulders relaxing.
The drive to work is a haze of empty roads, the kind of journey that renders your mind idle until you find yourself at your destination.
Upon arriving, I pull into my designated parking spot and cut the engine. The digital clock on the dashboard reads 6:45 AM, giving me some time before I meet with the mayor.
The urge to check the home perimeter cameras tugs at me. I hesitate, not wanting to breach Isla’s privacy. The cameras are only outside, so unless she’s taken up the practice of naked yoga, her privacy will remain intact.
I unlock my phone and open the surveillance app, scanning through the various camera feeds that cover every angle of my property. The screens flicker with images of dew-kissed grass and the sway of tree branches. The stillness of the scene reassures me.
Satisfied that all is well, I exit the app and pocket my phone. I push open the station doors, where the familiar scent of stale coffee greets me. I still have about an hour before the meeting, so I call Doc Stevenson to check in about our open cases.
He answers on the second ring.
“This is Doc.”
“Hey. It’s Luke. Just checking in. You got anything new for me?”
The line crackles with Doc’s sigh. “I’m about to start working on Gretchen Tanner. I’m assuming her heart gave out, but I’ll confirm it.”
My shoulders drop an inch. I rub at the knot in my neck that’s been there since finding her body. “Appreciate you doing that, Doc.”
Paper rustles on his end. “Tox screen’s still cooking. It’ll be a couple of days yet.”
“What about those tire tracks? And the red stone with the—”
“Already in Washoe County. You know how backed up they are.”
“Right. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. And Luke? Get some sleep. You sound like hell.”
I hang up and pull the file from the case I mentioned to Isla last night.
Ben Manning was a young guy in his mid-twenties. We found his body discarded like trash at the base of the mountain pass two months ago.
I stare at this case file often, haunted by the gruesome way he met his death, but the list of suspects always evades me. Ben had no family or friends to speak of, so insight into his life has been impossible to obtain.
A confidential informant confirmed that his death was orchestrated by his “boss” but we don’t know who that could be.
My best guess is Louis Shafer, the slimy owner of the small casino in Cedar Hollow.
He’s a shady guy with his hands in more than gambling, but we can never find anything to prove it.
The case file blurs behind my tired eyes as Helen alerts me to my meeting time. I stagger into the conference room where Mayor Reynolds drones on about the town budget while my leg bounces under the conference table for forty-five minutes.
I check my watch three times during the final five minutes of the meeting, nodding mechanically at whatever the mayor is saying about quarterly projections. The second he says, “That’s all for today, I’m already halfway to the door, mumbling something about an appointment.
My tires kick up dust on the cabin’s gravel drive. I fumble with my keys, dropping them twice before getting the door open.
Real smooth, Wild.
“Isla?” My voice echoes through the empty living room. Sunlight streams through the windows, highlighting dust motes but no Isla.
I find her in the kitchen, her back to me, head tilted slightly as she studies a whiteboard propped against a barstool. She’s chewing on her thumbnail, her blonde hair falling across her shoulders.
I step closer. “Whatcha doing?”
She whirls around, fist flying toward my face. I jerk backward, the rush of air from her knuckles brushing my chin.
“Geez, Luke!” Her eyes are wide. “You scared me.”
Her laugh trembles before it steadies, like she’s learning how to be unafraid again.
A laugh escapes me as I straighten. “Sorry.”
I peer over her shoulder at the board where “Villain Board” is written in bold red letters across the top.
For a second, my chest tightens. She’s smiling and treating it like a game, but the fact that Isla is mapping suspects at all tells me she’s scared, maybe more than she’ll admit. And that scares the hell out of me.
“What’s with the—” I gesture at her creation.
Her shoulders lift in a shrug. “I’m building a suspect board. TV detectives always have one.” Her shoulders lift in a shrug.
I cock my head to the side. “You’re not a TV detective.”
“Oh wow, thank you for that brilliant observation. Just grab a marker, will you?” She points to the box.
“Are you talking about a murder board?”
“I don’t like the sound of that. It’s too grim. Our board is called a villain board.”
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.
“Why can’t it be both? On second thought, let’s just shop for you. And Gabe. He needs some serious help as well. Besides, the last time I bought something here, someone tried to run me over.”
“This place is too domestic for me. I don’t know where to start,” I say with an exaggerated shiver. “I’m going to the feed store around the corner. Text me when you’re ready.”
“The feed store?”
“They carry ammo.”
She rolls her gaze. “Of course they do. But you need stuff. Trust me, your cabin is the equivalent of the color brown.”
I tilt my head to the side. “There’s nothing wrong with brown. It makes for great camouflage.”
“You’re hopeless,” she says with a sigh. “I’ll pick you out a few things. Give me your credit card and come back in twenty minutes.”
I blow out an exaggerated breath. Hopefully, she doesn’t go crazy in here. My meager salary can’t handle it.
I start to leave, but then linger in the doorway, one shoulder pressed against the frame. My desire to watch Isla for a few minutes, unguarded, is too strong to ignore.
She sinks back into the plush chair before her eyelashes flutter closed. A shadow falls across her face as the saleswoman approaches, red lips already forming a question. “Cozy, isn’t it?”
Isla blinks and looks up.
“It is,” she replies, sliding out of the chair.
“I have one just like it at home,” the saleswoman says with a knowing smile. “Makes it hard to motivate myself to come to work on days like today.”
“I’d face the same struggle,” Isla says, glancing around at the store’s inventory. “I wish I could just buy one of everything in here.”
“Are you new to the area? I know most people in town.”
Isla responds with a well-rehearsed smile. “No, just passing through.”
“Still, you look familiar.”
It’s not evident to the stranger, but I clock the irritation etched into Isla’s features. “I grew up here but moved away a long time ago.”
The women’s eyes light up with recognition. “That must be it! I went to school with you. I was two years behind.”
Isla smiles politely but offers no confirmation.
The woman places a hand over her heart in a mock-dramatic gesture. “I was so envious of the girl who dated Luke Wild. I always wanted to date a Wild brother.”
Isla’s brows peak. “Did you have your eye on any Wild in particular?”
“To be honest, I dated one briefly, and it was a complete disaster.”
Isla’s eyes narrow. “Which one?”
Her expression shifts to one of distaste. “Chase. I must’ve been in some sort of emotional crisis to agree to a date with him.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Let’s just say you can’t swing a dead cat in Wildhaven or Cedar Hollow without hitting a woman Chase Wild has tried to screw.”
I press my lips together, feeling my cheeks strain with the effort of holding back a laugh. This is my cue to leave, so I slip out and return twenty minutes later with two bags of groceries.
Isla is holding her own bags.
“What’s in there?”
“A few colorful pillows, a throw blanket, and some decorative candles.”
“Sounds harmless, I guess.” I hold out the bags. “Got actual food. No more jokes about my empty fridge.”
She peeks into one of the bags. “What’s on the menu?”
I hesitate and swallow past the lump in my throat. “Remember that little Italian place on Mooncrest Drive?”
She screeches. “Their chicken alfredo?”
“I thought I’d try making it tonight. I’m not as helpless in the kitchen as everyone thinks I am.”
“I can’t wait,” she says, lips curving into a smile that reaches her eyes. “Would you mind coming with me tomorrow to sign the realtor paperwork at my mom’s house?”
I give her the slightest incline of my head—barely a yes. I’m already in too deep, and I know it. Ten years of bitterness crumble under one smile. Pathetic doesn’t even begin to cover it.
We hoist our bags into the truck bed. The engine rumbles to life, and gravel crunches beneath the tires as we pull away.
Isla glances out the window. “Is it weird to be shopping when someone might be hunting me?”
“You’re safe with me. Better to live normally. It shows whoever it is, they don’t control you.” Her profile catches the light, fierce and fragile all at once, and I wonder if she knows how much I need that to be true.
She straightens, shoulders firming. “I like that. Instead of being scared and running, I’m taking control of my life. I’m like the Cowardly Lion, finding my courage.”
And that’s what terrifies me. Because taking control always draws attention. And the wrong people in Wildhaven may already be watching.