Page 23 of Knox

I straightened. “I’ll give him a call. If the VW was still there when he arrived, we’ll have something to go on. Good thinking.”

“It’s what I do,” she said. “Think.” Something sad flickered behind her words, and I filed it away. She’d had one hell of a night after all.

“We know the general area where the hikers disappeared. We know they were all visitors to the island. And we have Mom’s notes. I should get those to Nash. I’ll text him some photos of the information when I ask about his dash cam.”

“May I see them?” Sloane asked quietly.

“Her files are in the house, but I took some photos of the maps and articles on her wall at the store.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and swiped through the photos, my mother’s handwriting sharp and clear on the screen. “Mom marked the trails corresponding with those where the hikers were last seen. But look at this.” I zoomed in on a cluster of notes in the corner. “She wrote ‘common ground?’ and circled it. Then she marked another location about two miles inland from where the first hiker disappeared.”

Sloane leaned closer to see the screen, her shoulder pressing against mine. I tried to ignore the way my awareness of her sharpened. The scent of her shampoo, something floral and clean, begged to distract me, and the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress was nearly enough to send me jogging again. I especially liked the way her breath hitched slightly when she recognized something in the image.

“That’s not far from the old ranger station,” she said. “It’s been abandoned for years. The county built a new one closer to the main highway, and the old building just... sits there. Falling apart.”

“You know it?” My childhood friends and I used to smuggle beer out to the old station when we were well underage. We’d spent long nights dreaming of our futures. All hoping to escape our small island town and see the world. I had seen more of the world than I wanted by age twenty-five, but I’d served another term anyway, when I learned several of my brothers faced a deployment they weren’t yet prepared for. I stayed and led them through it, but none of us had returned the same.

“I hiked out there when I first visited here,” Sloane said. “Before my family built the house.” She looked pensively away. “I wanted to explore the area we’d be developing. Understand what we were taking away.”

I heard the guilt in her voice, the conflict. She hadn’t wanted the massive house on conservation land any more than my mother had wanted it built. But family obligations were complicated. I understood that better than most.

The ranger station would make a good base of operations. It was isolated. Close enough to the trails for easy viewing and access. Far enough from civilization that nobody would notice unusual activity. I made a mental note to hike out that way or send the guys.

“Do you think that’s where he waited for them?” Sloane’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The missing hikers?”

“I think it’s worth checking out.” I closed the photos and pocketed my phone.

“So what do we do?”

I stood and offered Sloane my hand. She took it, her fingers cool in the autumn air. She didn’t let go when she was on her feet. Instead, she squeezed gently, maybe trying to communicate something she couldn’t quite put into words. “I’ve got you,” I promised her. “You’re not alone in this.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“Come on,” I said. “Let me make you some coffee. You can meet the guys, and we can catch them up on the plan.”

“And then?”

I released her hand, immediately missing the contact. “Then I’ll pack a bag.”

Chapter 9

Sloane

Knox led me up the wooden steps, his hand warm against the small of my back. The touch was desperately welcome, and I found myself leaning into it.

Claire’s home was classic coastal Carolinas, raised on stilts against storm surges, with weathered gray shingles that had survived decades of salt spray and Atlantic storms. A wide porch wrapped around three sides, complete with a swing that creaked gently in the morning breeze and mismatched rocking chairs that’d hosted a thousand conversations. Some of them ours.

“Fair warning,” he said as he opened the front door. “Archer and Colton aren’t exactly known for their subtlety.”

“Noted.”

We stepped inside and I smiled with warm memories. I’d been here several times before. Rocking with Claire on the deck discussing business plans over sweaty glasses of sweet tea.

It wasn’t grand like my parents’ beach house with its soaring ceilings and designer everything. This house was better. It was loved-in.

Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows that framed a stunning ocean view. The open-concept living area was decorated in soft blues and sandy neutrals, with driftwood sculptures on every surface and vintage nautical charts covering one wall. Everything about it screamed Claire Hawthorne: adventurous, warm, welcoming.

A collection of photos lined the mantel above a stone fireplace. Knox as a gap-toothed kid holding up a fish. Knox in his dress blues at what must have been his graduation from boot camp. Claire with her arm around a younger Knox, both of them windblown and laughing on a beach.

My throat tightened. This was the home of a woman who’d loved fiercely and lived fully.