Chapter 23
LUKE
“There’s been no sign of the van?” I ask.
Tim leans against my office door, shoulders slumped, head lowered, gaze fixated on the dingy gray tile floor.
“No,” he replies, shaking his head. “We scanned every security camera, every corner of town, hoping to spot any van that might fit the description of the one you described. But we couldn’t find a single match.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “All we know is that it was stolen from an industrial parking area in Las Vegas six months ago.”
That checks out with what Gabe has discovered as well. He’s cross-referenced a list of white panel vans with the database of registered gun owners within a two-hundred-and-fifty-mile radius. Yet, none of the matches seemed promising.
It’s hardly a surprise, given that individuals capable of orchestrating such a calculated ambush wouldn’t risk using the same van for everyday errands or the firearm they obtained through legal means.
This leads us to a critical question: Was my shooting bad luck, or is the shooter a professional who knew exactly what he was doing? Gabe believes it’s the latter, and I’m inclined to agree with him.
My frustration simmers near the surface, but I manage to tamp it down. “I appreciate how hard you’re working on this, Tim.”
He sighs, a deep crease forming on his forehead. “I wish I had better news.”
“Just keep working the case.” I glance out the window at the sleepy main street of Wildhaven. The fog is lying low this morning, adding an eerie silence. I barely recognize it. “How’s everything else going?”
“It’s been quiet since your accident,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “We haven’t received the results from the lab about the rock you collected near the scene of Isla’s near hit and run. We’re also waiting on the blood work from her mom.”
I already know what the test will reveal. I nod, the faint hum of the office’s fluorescent lights filling the silence.
“We will keep interviewing everyone we can think of.”
I shift my head from side to side, leaning into the long stretch of my neck. My shoulder is getting better every day, but the dull ache persists. At least the over-the-counter medication is working well, which has given me the freedom to drive.
“I’m going to tackle some of this,” I say, nodding toward the towering stack of imminent headache on my desk. “I’ll be taking off after that. Call me if anything comes up.”
He stands from his chair and gives a quick salute. “You got it, Sheriff.”
I settle into my creaky office chair and begin to sift through the invoices, acquisitions, and reports. Each time I sign my name with my left hand, the letters come out jagged and uneven, looking more like the scribble of a kindergartner than a sheriff’s signature.
Still, the growing pile of completed paperwork at the corner of my desk shows I’m making some headway.
Thankfully, just as my thoughts spiral from mind-numbing boredom, my phone buzzes with a new message.
ISLA: How about meatloaf for dinner?
A smile pulls at my mouth—the kind I only ever give her. These past few days, Isla and I have slipped into something easy. Natural. She moves around my cabin like she remembers it from another lifetime—where I kept the coffee, how I like my blankets folded, the way I take my eggs.
At night, we fall asleep tangled in shared warmth, learning each other again in small, intimate ways—her head on my chest, my hand smoothing over her back when she startles awake from a bad dream. No pressure. Just quiet closeness.
Being with her is like remembering how to breathe.
LUKE: That sounds good.
ISLA: What time will you be home?
Home. With Isla. I could get used to that.
LUKE: In a few hours.
I haven’t told her about my plan to confront my parents. Ever since the shooting, she’s been a bundle of nerves, spending every waking moment taking care of me. I don’t want to add to her anxiety, so the details can wait until I’m back.
After a thirty-minute drive, I arrive at my parents’ expansive, circular driveway. I don’t step out of the truck right away; instead, I find myself staring up at the towering structure before me.
It’s just a house, constructed from concrete, wood, drywall, and covered in layers of paint. Yet today, its aura is more menacing than usual. Like it knows I’m here to pull at the threads holding it together.
For a moment, I almost expect a fiery dragon to emerge from the darkened recesses. And then, he does.
My father exits with Nik, in deep discussion and oblivious to my presence. Their voices are raised and clipped. They aren’t having a heartfelt, agreeable conversation.
Nik is one of the few people who challenge my father’s megalomaniac tendencies. Their exchanges are often a spectacle, a verbal sparring match that I’d watch for amusement if I didn’t have my own matters to attend to.
I bide my time until they veer off toward the garage. Once they’re out of sight, I step out of the truck and make my way into the house.
As I enter, my boots thud against the polished marble floor of the grand foyer, reverberating off the high ceilings, announcing my arrival to anyone within earshot.
“Hello, Luke,” Charles greets me, descending the sweeping staircase with a practiced grace.
Charles is a butler of sorts, I guess you’d call him. I find the entire “servant” thing distasteful, and I’ve never pressed my parents about his role.
“Hello. Where’s my mother?”
“She’s in the library,” he answers, adjusting his glasses as he glances down the hallway. “I believe she’s on the phone, doing something for the foundation.”
That makes sense. My mother dives deep into philanthropy. Her calendar is always packed with meetings and events aimed at making our town a better place.
Sometimes I think she knows more about Wildhaven’s workings than anyone else. Maybe I should put her on the Sheriff’s payroll. She could run this place with her eyes closed.
“Mom!” I call out, my voice carrying through the polished wooden door as I approach the library.
“Luke?” she responds, her voice laced with a mixture of surprise and delight. The library door swings open, revealing her standing across the threshold, phone in hand.
Her eyes light up when they meet mine, and a heaviness settles in my chest. She speaks into the phone. “I’ll have to call you back.”
She wraps one arm around my waist, resting her head gently against my chest. Her voice is soft and warm. “I’m so happy to see you.”
She steps back, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. “You’re looking much better. I can’t believe you’re driving already.”
“Nurse Isla gave me the green light.”
“Come sit,” she urges, guiding me over to the plush, cream-colored chairs in the corner of the room.
“Mom, I need to talk to you about something,” I begin, my voice steady but my mind a whirlwind of thoughts.
“Me too. “Her eyes glistening as tears threaten to spill over her cheeks.
She leans forward, the room quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock, and places her hand on mine. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t at the hospital when you needed your blood transfusion and second surgery.”
“It’s okay,” I reply softly. “Dad explained that you took a sleeping pill.”
“Your father suggested it so I could get some sleep. I had no idea you weren’t out of the woods.”
My father. Those words sting like a sudden, sharp cut, unexpected and deep.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
She collapses to her knees and places her hands on my knees, holding my gaze. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”
My heart softens as I look down at her, vulnerable and raw. My mother loves me fiercely. I’m aware she did what she did to protect me, to keep me shielded from the harshest truths.
But despite her intentions, it was still deceit.
She eventually pushes herself back into the armchair across from me, her eyes searching mine with a desperate, unwavering affection.
I shift in my seat, the wooden legs creak beneath me. This is not a conversation I’m looking forward to. “Mom, is there anything you need to tell me about my childhood?”
A puzzled look flickers across her face, her brow furrowing. “What?”
I stare at her face, allowing the uncomfortable silence to beg her to speak. I don’t like interrogating my own mother, but I’m owed the truth.
She shifts uncomfortably as her face reddens. “What are you getting at, Luke?”
“I know, Mom.” My words hang in the air, heavy and unyielding.
“You know what?” she presses, her eyes narrowing.
I rise from the chair and walk to the large bay windows, looking out at the garden where sunlight is streaming through the clouds and dancing across the buttercups. “Are we really going to do this?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Luke, but you’re scaring me,” she replies, her voice trembling.
“I have a different father than my siblings.” The words replay in my mind, a truth that crushes relentlessly, like waves battering the rocky bluffs.
Her reaction is instant and visceral. Her hands fly to her face, fingers trembling against her cheeks as her complexion fades to a ghostly shade of gray.
Her voice cracks like fragile glass. “Luke, that can’t be possible.”
“And yet it is,” I murmur. “There’s no way Nathaniel can be my father. The blood type test makes it impossible.”
She shakes her head slowly, her expression a mix of denial and confusion. “But that can’t be true.”
I press on, seeking clarity. “So, there was no one else?”
Her gaze drops, and she inhales deeply, exhaling as she recounts the memories. “Your father and I had a falling out after about two years of dating. We had gone our separate ways.”
I look at her, urging her to continue with a nod. Her eyes flicker with a mix of apprehension and resolve.
“I spent one night with someone. An old boyfriend,” she admits, her voice softening as she recalls the past.
My jaw clenches as the silence devours the room.
“But your father and I reconnected shortly after, and everything seemed to fall back into place. Then, the news came that I was pregnant. Your father understood. He promised that no matter what happened, everything would turn out fine.”