Page 94 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

A cluster of large, white Tyvek sacks cinched with metal clips are heaped in the middle of the floor. Like they were transported by helicopter. Are they supplies for the project? I touch the fabric. The tightly woven fibers are silky smooth—no dust, so this is recent.

Is this Brielle’s doing? Or has Quinn been orchestrating something behind my back? I shove the thoughts aside—we need to find Lexie. There will be time to sort everything out later.

Quinn opens the door to the bunkroom. Rows of bare cots line the interior end to end, like an army barracks. In between them, stacked ten feet high, are giant black rations tubs, their ends zip-tied shut.

“Don’t come any further,” Lexie says from somewhere inside.

“Lexie,” I say in a relieved breath. “Where are you?”

“You’re not supposed to be here.” She sounds desperate. My heart twists into knots. I have to make this right.

“It’s my fault, Lexie,” Quinn says, eyeing me. “I lied to Dawson.”

I nod toward the sound of Lexie’s voice so he knows that I’m going to try to locate her while he keeps her talking. He nods in acknowledgement.

“I feel so—” she breaks off, and a tight sob echoes through the room “—stupid.”

“Lexie, no. That’s not true.” I ease into the bunkroom. The tall rows of rations tubs make good cover, but it means I’ll have to search each gap in order to find her.

“We had no idea Soren Creek belonged to you,” Quinn adds.

“It doesn’t belong to anyone!” she cries.

“We get that now. You showed us that.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I lied about Dawson’s signature on the contract,” Quinn says.

“I don’t understand,” Lexie says, practically a whisper.

The first row is empty. The smell is stronger in here, making my eyes water. What is Lexie up to?

“If you’d come out of there, we can talk,” Quinn says from the entrance, sounding desperate now too. “We can make this right.”

“You can’t. Please go.”

I peer down the second row. It’s empty except for a mound of white powder. I’m alarmed until I realize it’s flour from a giant bag. The contents of dozens of dried food rations packets litter the floor like colorful confetti.

“Not without you,” Quinn says.

From the end of the last row, I carefully peek into the gap. Lexie is sitting with her knees up, her back against the row of rations tubs. The contents of more dried food packets cover the floor. She’s cradling a folding buck knife, like the one she carries when we go fishing. Near her feet is a gray metal box.

“Let us take you away from here,” Quinn says. “We can sort all of this out.”

“It’s too late,” Lexie says, and rests her head against the tubs, like she’s tired.

“Lexie,” I say in a soft voice.

With a gasp, Lexie jumps to her feet. She glares in my direction, her expression fierce in the low light. “Stay away from me!”

A door slams.

Lexie whips around. “What was that? What’s happening?”

“Quinn?” I call out. But there’s only the whistling wind and my thundering heart.

There’s a flash of light from the other side of the building, like a flare.

---