Chapter 15 #2
“I’ll go to the lab,” I say. “It’s my jurisdiction. If anyone sees us, it makes more sense if I’m there.”
“I’ll call my contact,” Gabe says. “Meet you when it’s done. Text me when you’ve got it.”
“I don’t want Isla alone here,” I add. I can’t keep the edge out of my tone. “Not for even a few minutes.”
“Agreed,” Gabe says. “She’ll come with me. We’ll wait at the diner. Once I have the vial from you, you take her back here.”
I nod, already reaching for my phone. “Give me half an hour.”
As I head to the door, I feel Isla’s gaze on me. I glance back.
She’s watching me like she wants to say something—be careful, don’t go, come back—but all that comes out is a hoarse, “Okay.”
“I’ll be right back,” I promise, holding her eyes for a beat longer than necessary.
Something flickers there. Trust, maybe. Or the ghost of it.
The hospital is quiet in that way that feels loud, monitors beeping, distant footsteps, and the occasional cough echoing down the hall.
The morgue and lab sit in the basement, down a narrow stairwell that always smells faintly of bleach and old coffee.
A nurse at the station glances up as I pass. “Evening, Sheriff. Is everything alright?”
“Just need to check on something in the lab,” I say, keeping my tone casual.
My pulse is pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth. Lying has never been my strong suit. I just hope she’s too bored to notice.
Downstairs, I unlock the lab with the brass key Doc gave me a few years ago, “just in case,” and flick on the lights. The room snaps from shadow to sterile white—machines, microscopes, neat rows of supplies.
The oversized refrigerator against the far wall is exactly where I expect it to be. The sleek silver padlock on the handle is not.
“Of course,” I mutter under my breath. “Can’t make this easy.”
Doc’s office is across the hall. Also locked.
“Fuck,” I snap, the word bouncing off the cinderblock.
“Need some help?” a voice says behind me.
My hand goes instinctively to my hip.
Gabe leans in the doorway, like he’s been there all along. “Jesus, man,” I say. “Where’s Isla?”
“At the diner,” he replies. “Corner booth. Half a hot chocolate left and an empty plate where a slice of apple pie used to be. She’s safe.”
Relief hits first, then a flash of jealousy aimed squarely at a piece of dessert. “What are you doing here?”
“Figured the guy who still flinches when he forgets to use his turn signal might need backup,” he says. “Step aside.”
He kneels in front of Doc’s office door and pulls a small leather kit from his pocket. A moment later, the delicate click of tools on metal fills the hall.
Within seconds: click.
He stands, slides the kit away, and gives me a look that says, “Don’t ask.”
“You’re terrifying,” I mutter.
“You’re welcome.”
We repeat the process with the fridge lock. This time, I watch more closely and file away the sound of the second click as the point of no return.
The cold air kisses my face when I pull the fridge open. Rows of vials line up, labels facing outward in neat black print. I spot Gretchen’s name easily.
I grab one vial and slide it into my inside jacket pocket. It’s colder than the air around it, pressing against my ribs like a reminder of what I’m doing, and who I’m doing it for.
We relock everything, wipe prints, and leave the lab exactly as we found it.
Almost.
We’re steps away from the stairwell when a voice calls, “Hey, Sheriff. What are you doing down here?”
I school my features before I turn.
Tim stands at the end of the hall, hands on his belt, expression open. Good deputy. Just doing his job.
“Thought Doc might be working late,” I say. “I wanted to ask him about a case. No sign of him.”
Tim nods easily. “Sometimes I swing through, too. Just to make sure everything’s secure.”
His gaze flicks to Gabe. There’s a question there, but not suspicion.
“Appreciate you keeping watch,” I say. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Have a good night, Sheriff,” he says, and heads for the stairs.
We slip out of the hospital into the cool night.
“I’m meeting my contact in an hour,” Gabe murmurs as we cross the parking lot. “I’ll text when I’m heading back.”
I clap his shoulder. “Thank you. For all of it.”
He gives me a half smile.
“Just doing my part to keep your love life complicated,” he says, then slides into his car and pulls away.
I find Isla at a corner booth in the diner, just like Gabe said. Empty plate. Half a mug of cocoa, skin forming on top.
She’s staring at the door when I walk in, shoulders tense. When she recognizes me, some of that tension leaks out in a visible exhale. She sits a little straighter, tugging her sleeves over her hands.
“Everything okay?” she asks as I reach the table.
“Yeah,” I say. It’s not, but she doesn’t need more weight tonight. “Let’s get you home. You need sleep.”
She nods, sliding out of the booth. As she steps past me, my hand finds the small of her back almost on its own. I feel the heat of her through the thin fabric.
She pauses for a second at the contact, like she’s not sure if she should lean into it or step away. She doesn’t step away.
“Thank you,” she says quietly as we walk toward the door. “For…all of this.”
Her gaze flicks up to mine. There’s gratitude there, yes, but something else flickering under it, something softer. Something that makes my chest ache.
“It’s about time we get to the bottom of it,” I reply.
Outside, the air is cold enough to sting. I open the truck door for her. She grabs the handle and hesitates, looking at me over her shoulder.
“Luke?”
“Yeah?”
She searches my face for a long second, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of this moment. “Just…don’t do anything too reckless,” she says. “I need you alive for at least another week.”
My mouth twitches. “Minimum.”
Her lips curl into the ghost of a smile before she climbs in.
The ride back is quiet, but it isn’t the same silence as earlier. It’s fuller. Heavy with everything we’ve said and everything we haven’t.
At the cabin, I walk her to the bedroom door. She turns to me, fingers catching the hem of my T-shirt for half a heartbeat before she lets go.
“Goodnight, Luke,” she says softly.
“Goodnight, Isla.”
She closes the door with a soft click. I stay there, palm pressed flat to the wood, listening. No muffled crying. No movement either. I picture her collapsed on the bed, finally too exhausted to fight sleep.
After a few minutes, I step away.
In my room, I strip down, sit on the edge of the mattress, and finally let the day settle in my bones. The pillow smells of laundry detergent and pine. The whole house smells like her shampoo now, too. Coconut, citrus, and trouble.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
GABE: My contact is delayed. This is going to take longer than I thought. Expect several hours.
GABE: I’m sorry.
LUKE: It’s alright. Thanks for the update.
I set the phone down and cross to the window. The forest looms beyond the glass—dark, dense, whispering with things unseen. Somewhere out there is someone who thinks they can scare Isla into running again.
I rest my palm against the cold glass and look back down the hallway, toward the closed bedroom door.
“As long as I’m breathing,” I murmur to the trees and the shadows and whoever might be listening, “they’re going to have to go through me first.”