TWENTY-SEVEN

LANE’S KNUCKLES TURNED WHITE as she gripped the steering wheel. Ms. Byrdie’s words had breathed new life into her, and the idea that God hadn’t made a mistake . . . well, if that was true for Lane, then it had to be true for Miguel too.

Charlie’s warning to stay away from Miguel lingered in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t ignore the danger Miguel might be in if Sydney’s father, or someone else bent on vigilante justice, found him before the deputies did. Lane’s gut told her they were wrong about Miguel. He was hurting. Like her. And people like them didn’t hurt others—they hurt themselves.

Lane pressed the accelerator and her Jeep sped closer to her destination—the jumping bridge. The place where not too long ago Lane allowed dark thoughts to overtake her, causing her to see suicide as an escape. Ms. Byrdie was right—Lane needed to take captive those thoughts. Focus on reasons to live and choose life. Fight for it.

The Coastal Highway stretched before her and Lane wondered if Miguel was in the dense woodland lining the Ogeechee River. Or would he be on the bridge? Would the deputies know to look there for him—a man on the brink of giving up on life?

POP!

Lane didn’t have time to react to the noise or where it came from before her world rolled in front of her eyes. The sound of shattering glass and screeching metal filled her ears, muffled only slightly by her own screams until it all stopped and everything went black.

The crunch of dry leaves and twigs reverberated in her throbbing head. Lane fought to remember where she was . . . what happened? She’d been driving on Coastal Highway. An explosion—had it been her tire? More crunching.

Lane licked her lips and tasted blood. Her blood. She squeezed her fingers and toes to assess the damage. Sore spots screamed their protest, but she didn’t think anything was broken. Taking a deep breath, Lane opened her eyes.

Carefully, Lane rolled to her back. She blinked several times trying to get her eyes to focus on the deep violet hues of the sky. The sun was setting and soon it would be too dark to see. She forced herself into a sitting position and regretted it instantly. Nausea accompanied the killer headache that felt like nails were being driven into the back of her skull. Where was she? The smell of wet earth answered her. She was in the woods.

And she wasn’t alone.

“Why are you here?”

Miguel stared at her from the trunk of a fallen tree. “Miguel?” Her heart thumped at his messy appearance. He wore a T-shirt and jeans covered in dirt. His hair was matted with sweat. “What happened? Where are we?”

Miguel looked around. “Your little boy wasn’t in the car.”

“No. H-he”—Lane pushed herself off the ground and felt the world tilt around her—“he’s with my sister.”

“You have a cut. On your head.” Miguel fidgeted with a tool in his hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Lane looked around at her surroundings. They were definitely in the woods. “Miguel, how did I get here?”

“I pulled you out.” An owl hooted and Miguel’s eyes flashed in its direction. “But you need to go.”

“Miguel, I came out here to find you. Sheriff Huggins wants to ask you some questions.”

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Sydney.” He lowered his head. “I taught her how to paint.”

Lane watched Miguel shift the tool back and forth in his hands. Her stomach knotted when she recognized it. Noah had picked up one like it in Miguel’s workshop—but they were nowhere near his workshop. At least she didn’t think so. Nothing around her looked familiar.

“You need to tell the sheriff that.”

“No.” Agitation rose in Miguel’s gruff voice.

“Okay.” Lane held up her hand. “Did you see her that night?”

“She was scared. I should’ve protected her.”

“From who?” Lane’s hands grew clammy. Asking the question scared her almost as much as finding out the answers. “Do you know what happened to Sydney?”

“She died. Just like the rest of them.”

Lane swallowed. “What do you mean ‘the rest of them’?”

“Sydney didn’t want to paint anymore. She was scared.” His grip tightened over the tool in his hand. “I didn’t protect her.”

“Miguel, do you know what happened to Sydney?”

“It was—” His eyes grew round. He slipped his hands along with the tool into his pockets. “You need to leave. Now.”

Lane shifted, grimacing. Miguel looked rough and fidgety. She had to convince him to come with her, but unless he came willingly, her body was in no condition to force him. Would he trust her? “Okay, but I need your help. I don’t think I can make it by myself. We’ll go see the sheriff and you can tell him—”

A dark silhouette appeared out of the shadows, making the hairs on the back of Lane’s neck rise. Annika’s sudden presence chilled the summer heat and drained the color from Miguel’s face. “You know, you really should listen when people try to warn you about something.”

Lane scooted back. “What are you doing here?”

Annika’s eyes narrowed as she looked down at her. “I guess I could ask you the same thing. Unless what they’re saying is true. Did you kill your husband?”

Heat climbed its way up Lane’s neck. “No.”

Annika crossed in front of them. She paused next to Miguel, who shifted from side to side and rubbed his arm. “I knew I’d find him out here, but I didn’t think I’d find you too.” Her gaze snapped to Lane. “Walton’s two killers hiding here in the woods—”

“That’s not true. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I do, my dear. I mean, your situation is slightly different since you didn’t actually drive your husband’s truck off the road and into the tree, but he’d still be here if you hadn’t swallowed a bottle of pills and called him.” Annika’s accusation swam around Lane’s head, making her dizzy. “And now, here you are hiding out with the man who killed Sydney.”

“What is she talking about, Miguel?”

Miguel swayed.

“Don’t tell me that handsome deputy boyfriend of yours didn’t tell you? They found Sydney’s phone in Miguel’s house.”

Lane’s heart stopped. That was the evidence Charlie had been talking about. The evidence that made Miguel a suspect. She was wrong. Lane looked at Miguel. How could she have been wrong? “Miguel?” Lane’s voice cracked. “Did you—”

“No. I didn’t kill her.” Miguel shook his head and then clarity reached his eyes as he focused on Annika. “It . . . it was you. You did it. She was scared of you. She didn’t want to paint anymore, but you . . . you killed her.”

Annika’s cackle echoed. “You think they’re going to believe you? An alcoholic veteran with mental health issues? It was only a matter of time before you snapped. Besides, Sydney’s phone wasn’t the only thing they found. The tool used to kill Sydney was found at your house too.”

The tool? Like the one in Miguel’s pocket? But how did Annika know? Unless . . . “He’s telling the truth. It was you.”

Annika clapped her hands together mockingly. “At least I know your mental deficiencies don’t make you stupid like him.”

Anger bubbled inside of Lane. “He’s not stupid. And the sheriff will believe me. I’ll tell them the truth.”

“Actually, you won’t.” Annika raised a gun. “I warned you, Miguel, that others would get hurt.”

The despondent look on Miguel’s face morphed into an angry one as he lunged at Annika, knocking her to the ground. He wrapped his hands around her throat. Lane needed to run. To get help. But her legs felt like rubber and she couldn’t leave Miguel.

“Miguel, stop!”

A gunshot pierced the air. Miguel crumpled to the ground.

“Wha—” Lane crawled to Miguel’s side. Blood began to spread from a hole in his arm. She turned to Annika. “What did you do?”

Annika pushed herself up from the ground. She kept the gun aimed at Miguel. “Get up. Both of you.”

“He’s bleeding.” Lane pressed her hand to the gunshot wound on his arm. He needed an ambulance.

“He’s lucky that’s all he’s doing and that I didn’t kill him right away.” Annika plucked a dead leaf from her hair. “Now, get up.”

“Why?”

“We’re going to take a little trip.”

Lane helped Miguel to his feet. His face was pale. “I didn’t kill her. Tried to protect her.”

“I believe you,” Lane said.

“Try something like that again, Miguel, and I’ll kill her.” Annika jabbed the gun into Lane’s temple. “Now, tell me where the painting is.”

Miguel’s eyelids fluttered open. He looked at Lane and moved his lips, but no sound escaped.

The cold metal of the gun dug into Lane’s temple. “Where’s the painting?”

Tears slid down Lane’s cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The gun made a noise that sounded like Annika was about to pull the trigger again and Lane’s stomach lurched. “The painting your friend Miguel gave to you. I know you have it, so tell me where it is.”

“I really don’t—” And then it hit Lane. The painting with no name. No label indicating where it had come from. Lane looked at Miguel. He brought her the painting? Why? Because he trusts you.

“Five seconds and your little boy will be an orphan.”

“N-no! I know where it is. It’s at the Benedict House.”

Annika snorted. “How poetic.”

“You have what you want. Let us go.” Miguel slumped against Lane’s shoulder. Salty tears blurred her vision. “He needs to go to the hospital.”

“In a few minutes, it won’t matter.”