Page 92 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

“Could this be related to Otter Creek?” she asks.

“Hell,” I say, “I hadn’t even considered that.”

“On it,” Deb says.

“We’ll be out of pocket until we get back,” Quinn replies.

“Where are you headed?” Her concerned tone tightens the knot in my chest.

I remember the way Lexie smiled when she opened her eyes in the morning to find me still there. I love her laugh, so bright and joyful.

Maybe saving Lexie will redeem the damage I’ve done.

But is it too late for both of us?

If Quinn is right, what she’s planning will destroy her, too.

A small white helicopter approaches as we reach the parking lot. Squinting against the rotor wash, I wait for the pilot to land the ship, then when he signals, Quinn and I crouch down and approach. I take the front seat next to the pilot; Quinn climbs into the back. Once we’re strapped in with our headsets on, the pilot increases rotor speed and we lift into the sky.

He follows the ripsaw ridge edging Soren Lake’s south side, then once we’re clear of the lake, he drops into the same steep-sided valley as before on Ken’s flight. The helicopter’s shadow splashes across the headwall as the bright sun blares in the sky.

Rocky ridges punctuated by patches of green zip by in a colorful blur. We pass snow patches that look close enough to reach out and touch, tiny lakes in vivid blue and bright turquoise, and a hidden waterfall cascading over a cliff in a spray of white, like a bridal veil.

I’m hoping we’re wrong, and the camp will be empty. But if we’re right…

The valley curves east and levels to a broad plateau the color of moss, broken by rocks and shallow lakes shining like mirrors in the sun. The snow Quinn and I observed during our first flight here has vanished, and the ground looks spongy and vibrant.

Minutes later, the survey camp on the bare patch of earth dominates the view. It looks as ugly and out of place as before. There’s no sign of Lexie, but it’s not like she’s going to come running.

Quinn points to the shipping container used as an office. The door is ajar. I notice something else—on the far side of the camp, water is gushing from the water tanks, flooding the ground.

In our headsets, the pilot says, “Is something going on?”

Like a bomb?“We’re going to find out.”

The pilot’s eyes are hidden behind his aviator sunglasses, but his jaw tenses. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes, and then I’m calling the sheriff.”

Once the helicopter touches down, I yank off my headset and climb out. Crouching, Quinn and I sprint clear of the rotor wash.

“Let’s check that trailer!” Quinn says over the roar of the chopper blades.

“Right!” There’s no use in visiting the water tanks. They’ll be empty by the time we can get to them.

The air is icy-cold and dense. Wind whips across the barren landscape, flattening the grasses and tiny flowers sprouting from the tufty ground.

We cross a muddy field to the trailer. The chain lock has been cut and the hasp is open.

Quinn and I exchange a glance.

The trailer door groans on its hinges when I slip inside. “Lexie?”

Dust and a faint odor inside makes my nasal passages prickle.

In the dim light, I can make out a row of cheap desks with folding chairs facing the left wall. Cardboard boxes are stacked on the right. Footprints scuff the dusty floor, but the space is empty.

“What if—”

Behind us, a shadow darkens the doorway.

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