“Great,” Cullen muttered. “That’s not ominous.”
Fallon shut off the engine, letting the boat drift the last few yards. “Hello?” she yelled, cupping her hands. “FWC officer. If you can hear me, call out.”
Nothing—just the buzz of insects and the creak of branches shifting overhead.
Cullen coasted up alongside her. “Kayak’s wedged in there pretty good. Doesn’t look overturned.”
She scanned the shoreline. A gator eased across the water. Another set of reptilian eyes settled on hers from the port side, not far from the kayak. Frogs sang that deep throaty twang that reminded her this was their world, not hers.
Then it came—a voice, faint and frayed, threading through the air like a whisper.
“Help… please…”
Fallon froze. “You hear that?”
Cullen nodded once, his eyes narrowing. “Direction?”
She turned her head, trying to track it. “Could be anywhere. Sound bounces off the water.”
“There’s a hut on the point,” he said, nodding toward the bend in the river. “If anyone dragged themselves ashore, that’s the only shelter. And it’s not safe to go wading in these waters. I’m not even sure Trent would dare. I’ve counted six gators so far, and they ain’t small ones.”
They grounded the boats and climbed out. The mud sucked at their boots as they moved up the bank. The hut looked abandoned—a wood and grass structure. “My dad took me back here when I was a kid. We’d sit with the Seminoles, and they’d tell us stories. They consider these huts sacred because their ancestors built them.”
“When I first came back from the Marines, I came out here. I heard about another Marine who lived out here for a while. That the Seminoles let him. Someone—broken—like me,” Cullen said.
“That would’ve been Cole Delany. He left town before you returned,” she said softly.
“I wasn’t too good at listening back then and I didn’t people too well. I heard this Cole guy was slowly easing back into society.”
“He kind of jumped right back in one day when his daughter showed up with a couple of grandkids. He hadn’t seen her in like seventeen years. It was a beautiful thing. Four months later, he left to go live near her. Dawson, Hayes, Keaton, and Fletcher all hear from Cole every once in a while. They get Christmas cards. Cole still has some issues, but he’s doing well.”
“That gives me hope.” Cullen stopped, raising his hand.
“FWC!” Fallon called again. “Help us find you?”
Another whisper. Closer this time. Faint but definite. “Help… me…”
“That’s not wind,” Cullen said.
She felt the hairs rise on her arms. “Maybe it’s coming from inside and muffled by grass.” She rested her hand on her sidearm. She pushed it open slowly. The hinges screamed.
Empty. Dust, a few scattered tools, a half-broken chair. No sign of anyone.
Cullen went still beside her. His entire body changed—the subtle coiling of instinct. Eyes wide. Jaw clenched.
“Fallon,” he said quietly. “You hear that?”
Before she could even breathe, the heat hit, sharp and consuming and the air turned to fire. A sheet of flame raced up the wall and leapt to the ceiling.
“We've got to get out of here.” Cullen did a one-eighty. “Now.”
Fallon threw an arm up over her face.
“Go,” Cullen yelled, already shoving her toward the door.
She stumbled as the heat clawed at her back, the roar of flame deafening. They didn’t run—they dove, straight through the mouth of the blaze, out onto the scorched grass beyond.
The ground hit hard. Fallon rolled, instinct taking over, smothering sparks that clung to her clothes. Beside her, Cullen was beating at his pant leg where it smoked.
