Chapter 15
LUKE
“I can’t say for certain, Luke, but there’s a real possibility that Gretchen Tanner was murdered.”
I run Doc Stevenson’s sentence on repeat the whole way down the mountain, as if I play it enough times, it’ll turn into something else. It doesn’t.
For years, Gretchen Tanner was the woman who hurt Isla. Now all I can see is a scared mother whose last act might’ve been dying for secrets she never got to tell her daughter.
My heart kicks harder the closer I get to town, every curve in the road another reminder that I’m up against a clock I can’t see.
The last place I wanted to be when Doc called was precisely where I was—at my father’s birthday “dinner,” which turned into a full-blown event for the entire town.
People filled the house—clients, donors, old money, new money, all circling my father like planets around a sun that thinks it invented light. They shook his hand, clapped his shoulder, laughed too loudly at jokes he’s told a hundred times. He soaked it up, every second.
I slipped away to his office, pretending I was looking for a file. Really, I was looking for air and a reprieve from all the ass-kissing.
The office felt like a showroom, too polished to be real, but the view was the one honest thing in the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the oak desk, giving a commanding view of Wildhaven.
Fields hugged the town on one side; forest and mountains guarded the other. At night, the lights spread out like a constellation that decided to settle here and call it home.
That view reminded me of why I stay in Wildhaven.
The door clicked shut behind me, soft but distinct. I turned to find Dalton and Sav slipping in.
“Thought we’d find you hiding,” Savannah said, heels dangling from one hand. “Too much sucking-up out there for you?”
“Way too much,” I replied.
She joined me at the window while Dalton wandered toward the glass gun case on the far wall. My father’s collection gleamed under recessed lighting. It’s beautiful, expensive, and primarily for show.
“Hey,” I said, half watching them, half watching the town below. “Either of you remember anyone from high school who had a grudge against Isla Rae?” I caught myself. “Isla Tanner.”
Sav scrunched her nose, eyes going distant as she sifted through a decade of gossip. Dalton shoved his hands in his pockets, boots scuffing against the rug.
“Nah,” he said after a beat. “She was always an adorable girl.”
Sav nodded. “Same. I mean, she took off and broke your heart, so I’m not campaigning for her sainthood now, but back then? I don’t remember anyone who had it out for her.”
“Why?” Dalton asked, leaning against the wall, one boot pressed to the charcoal paint like a casual pose in a magazine.
“Just something I’m working through,” I said, trying to keep my tone easy.
That’s when I saw it—the light at the bottom of the door dimming. A shadow cut across the gap beneath it. It didn’t move on. It stayed.
I filed away the shoe size. Male. Dress. Too generic to narrow down. Still, every instinct I had went on high alert.
Someone was listening.
For the first time, it hit me that this wasn’t just some shadow stalking Isla’s memories. Whoever this was—whoever had been pulling strings—wasn’t out there, far away.
They were in our walls. In our house. Breathing our air.
“Tell us what’s going on,” Sav pressed, oblivious to the shift.
I held up a finger, bringing it to my lips. Sav’s eyes widened with interest. She and Dalton went quiet as I crossed the room.
I yanked the door open.
Empty hallway.
Every door in the corridor was open. I did a quick sweep anyway, eyes skimming corners, beds, bathrooms. No movement. No footsteps retreating. Nothing.
Whoever was standing there either moved fast or knows this house as well as I do.
I scanned the crowd below from the landing—my father holding court with Nik, Chase, and a few others. No one looked out of place. No one moved like they’d just sprinted up or down the stairs.
“Okay, what is with him?” Sav muttered behind me.
Before I could come up with an answer that didn’t involve the word paranoid, my phone rang. I checked the screen.
Doc Stevenson.
“Hey, Doc,” I said, stepping into a guest bathroom and closing the door behind me. “You got something?”
“I’ve got the results of Gretchen Tanner’s autopsy,” he said. “Thought you’d want to know as soon as I did.”
“Thanks for getting to it so fast,” I replied, forcing my voice to stay level. “What’s the official cause of death?”
“Heart failure.”
A sigh sagged out of me. “I figured. Years of hard living…”
“I agree,” he said, hesitation cutting under the words. “But there’s something that’s bothering me.”
My hand tightened around the phone. “What is it?”
“She had a small puncture wound behind her ear,” Doc said. “I almost missed it. I was wrestling with her earring, and that’s when I saw it.”
Adrenaline spiked. “Like an injection site?”
“That’s exactly what it looks like. And in all my years, I’ve never seen anyone inject themselves behind the ear.”
The room shrank. I braced my hand on the sink.
“I can’t classify this as a natural death until I get the tox back,” he went on.
“What are you thinking, Doc?” I asked, even though I already knew what he was about to say.
Silence crackled on the line for a few seconds. “I can’t say for certain, Luke,” he said finally, “but it could very well be a homicide. For now, I’m logging it as ’unknown’.”
The words hit center mass.
I hung up a minute later and found Sav and Dalton near the food. “Hey,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “Can you guys do me a favor? Thank Mom and say goodbye for me.”
“What’s going on?” Sav asked, reading my face.
“Something came up at the office.” Not a lie, nor the whole truth. “I have to head out.”
They shared a look. Dalton clapped my shoulder; Sav squeezed my arm, the way she used to when we were kids and Dad was ranting.
Then I was out the door, dialing Gabe before I even hit the driveway.
By the time I reach my place, my nerves feel like live wires under my skin. I kill the engine and spot Gabe’s car out front. Good.
I step inside.
Isla’s on the couch, posture tight, arms wrapped around herself like she’s holding everything in by force. Her thumbnail is caught between her teeth, worrying the corner raw. She looks up the second the door clicks.
Her eyes find mine and linger, like she’s checking for visible damage. I feel that look everywhere.
Gabe stands a few feet away, hands on his hips, like he’s been pacing and only just stopped. “What’s going on?”
My gaze automatically returns to Isla. She looks smaller somehow, but there’s a crackle in her eyes that says she’s not broken. Not yet.
“Isla,” I say, keeping my voice soft. Calmer than I feel. “I asked Doc Stevenson to expedite your mom’s autopsy.”
Her fingers tighten on the throw pillow in her lap. “Why? “Did you…Suspect something?”
I shake my head. “No. At first, I just figured you’d want to leave town as soon as you could, and I didn’t want the autopsy or paperwork holding that up.”
The words taste different now. Leave town. The idea sits wrong in my throat.
“That was before we talked about you staying,” I add quietly.
Her eyes search my face, lingering on my mouth for half a heartbeat before jumping back to my eyes, like she didn’t mean to go there. “What did he say?”
I sit on the coffee table across from her, close enough that our knees almost touch. Up this close, her eyes look even more raw—bright blue rimmed in red.
Of all the conversations I’ve imagined having with her, this one never made the list.
“Doc thinks there’s a chance your mom may have been murdered.”
The pillow creaks under her grip. “But Alan said she looked peaceful,” she whispers. “Like maybe a heart attack.”
“And that might still be true,” I say. “But there’s something else.”
Her hand reaches for mine before I can finish, fingers brushing my knuckles as if she isn’t sure she’s allowed. I turn my palm over and let her tuck her hand into it. It’s cold. She’s shaking.
“There was a small puncture wound behind her ear,” I say.
“Fuck,” Gabe snaps behind me. He cracks his knuckles, one after the other, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
“She was injected with something,” Isla says. Her voice is flat, but her hand clenches around mine.
“That’s what it looks like,” I confirm.
Gabe drops into the desk chair and spins halfway around, staring at the ceiling. “Jesus.”
Isla swallows hard. I feel the tremor all the way through her arm. “How do we find out what it was?”
“Toxicology can take weeks,” I tell her. “We don’t have the tech here. Doc sends it out.”
“He took multiple vials?” Gabe asks.
“Yeah.” I nod. “He said he drew several.”
“Then steal me one,” Gabe says.
I look at him. “That’s not how this works.”
He leans forward, locking eyes with me. “I know people who can run this in under twenty-four hours. And they can find anything.”
“There’s a chain of custody,” I say, tugging my hand free from Isla’s only because I need both hands to emphasize the point. Her fingers linger on mine for a second before falling back to her lap. “I can’t just walk into the lab and take evidence. It’ll never hold up in court, and if I get caught—”
“You won’t,” Gabe cuts in. “And we’ll cross the court bridge if we ever get to it. Right now, we’re up against someone who’s already set a house on fire and nearly run Isla down in the street. This isn’t about rules. It’s about time.”
I drag a hand over my face. The line between right and wrong used to be bright and straight. Somewhere between Isla’s grip on my hand and Doc’s voice saying murder, it turned into a blur I’m already standing on the wrong side of.
“Yeah,” I exhale. “Okay.”
Gabe stands. “I’ll break in and grab it. You can stay clean.”
“Can you even do that?” Isla asks, eyebrows lifting slightly. Her voice is small, but there’s a thread of dark amusement woven through it.
He smiles without humor. “I can do a lot of things I’m not proud of,” he says. “Most of which I don’t talk about.”