Page 99 of Sinners Retreat

“There are plenty of Cattle to go around,” Ice Pick says through a chuckle. “No need to run. Maudlin Rose hasn’t even gotten here yet, and we can’t start without her.”

I wave my palm at him and shake my head. “No . . . I’m not here . . . for the hunt.” I point into the dense vegetation. “Kindra . . . out there.”

Much to my surprise, they get the immediacy of my plight with so little information. Their eyes go wide, and they look at each other before turning back to me.

“Let us help you find her,” Ice Pick says. “She’s a good girl, and I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to her.”

I give him a thumbs up. I’ll take all the help I can get.

We aren’t supposed to step into the jungle until Jim fires a pistol from Mount Jim—yes, he named a small mountain after himself, but he owns it, so I guess it’s his right—but I don’t have time to stand around and wait. I’ll have to risk his wrath.

“I’m heading in,” I say. “You all can wait until Jim fires his pistol, but I can’t.”

“We understand,” Grim says with a nod. He holds out his hand, and I shake it. I let the gravity of that handshake settle in.

Then I head into the jungle.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Kindra

Well, I’m fucking lost. There’s no way around it. I’ve been walking through this godforsaken jungle for over an hour, and I’ve seen nothing that looks like an airstrip. I can’t even find the fucking path at this point.

Instead of paying attention to my surroundings when we first arrived on the island, I was too busy drooling over that liar’s muscles and good looks. Now look where that’s gotten me. Lost in a jungle with a broken heart and mosquito bites in places I can’t scratch in public.

Fuck this island.

Fuck these miserable bugs.

Fuck the horrific humidity.

And most of all, fuck Ezra Carter.

I sling my travel bag over my shoulder and head in a different direction. My rolling luggage snags on a tree root and topples over, nearly taking me with it.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I say beneath my breath.

After righting the suitcase and wiping a waterfall of sweat from my brow, I look around and forget where I came from and where I planned to go. What an accurate depiction of my actual fucking life.

When I set out on this journey, I should have stuck to the plan. My brother’s killer should have remained my sole focus. Instead, I wound up in bed with the man I have hated for ten years. If he’s smart, he’ll stay far away from me. If I ever see his perfect face, I’ll make it imperfect.

With a loud groan, I drop my bags and lower myself onto a fallen log. I need a break from walking and getting lost. Just once, can’t something go right?

Somewhere nearby—I can’t tell which direction because sounds travel weird in this wet atmosphere—a twig snaps under heavy weight. Someone is moving near me.

I hold my breath and keep still. Something is headed right for me, and until I know if it’s a search party or a wild animal, I don’t want them to know I’m here. If it turns out to be Ezra, I’d rather die in the jungle.

A flash of yellow breaks through the trees, and a wild-eyed man tumbles into my tiny clearing. Twigs and leaves cling to his balding head, and red scratches mark his face.

The hunt.

I completely forgot that was happening today, and only now do I realize the danger I’m in. There is no airstrip this way. Bennett fucking tricked me.

The man’s eyes land on me, and I’m not surprised. When I set out this morning, I didn’t don camo and reconnaissancegear. I’m in a neon-blue tank top that practically screams for attention. Blending in isn’t an option.

Fighting is, though.

I reach for my overnight bag and scramble for my knife. Then I remember I used it to pin the note to the boardwalk. Fucking Ezra. He’s still screwing me over.

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