Page 25 of One Last Chance

Flynn waved as Peyton took off, hating how hard she held onto Peyton’s words. But if Kennedy could stay here, so could she.

Except Kennedy had gone missing . . . from . . . here.

But Kennedy wasn’t a cop.

And if Flynn wanted to figure out how or why her sister went missing, maybe staying at her last known location could unlock something.

Even if it was only how to say goodbye.

She took a breath. Stared at the river for a long time. Frothy and wild, it mesmerized her, but she couldn’t nail why. Or why she’d so easily dismissed Nash’s words. No, Kennedy hadn’t gone missing in the Copper River. Or maybe Flynn simply didn’t want to believe it.

Heading inside, she found the kettle, then a pot and pan along with the silverware and plates, and took them to the river. Washed them out, left them to dry on a towel from her pack, then went inside and swept out the entire cabin, including the rafters, the windows, the bunk beds, the cupboards, and finally the floors.

She put away the clean dishes and was wiping down the wooden table when she spotted the hash marks.

No, not hash marks—a carving. She ran her finger over it. A bird. Probably a sparrow, to be more precise.

Her throat tightened.Hey, Kennedy.

She blew out her breath. Closed her eyes.Okay. Maybe this crazy feeling could be attributed to faith. Oh, she wanted to believe that.

She walked outside and stood on the porch. “Kennedy, if you’re out here, send me a sign. Something?—”

The crackle emanating from behind her nearly shot her out of her skin.

“CQ, CQ, CQ, this is . . . um, KL7SEA . . . CQ, CQ, CQ, this is KL7SEA . . .”

She turned. The voice came from the ham radio, still on, sitting on the table. A small box with a handheld mic. She picked it up. “Hello? Um . . . hello?”

“Hello! Hello—um, QRZ?”

“I’m sorry—I don’t know ham-radio-speak.”

“Who is this?”

It needled through her that whoever was on the other end just might be . . . well, maybe not Kennedy’s killer, but the last thing she needed was to tell him she was here alone, right?

“Just a researcher. You can call me . . . um . . .” Wait. “Sparrow.”

“Sparrow, I need your help. My name is Axel Mulligan. I’m on a capsized boat in the middle of Cook Inlet. And I think my team believes I’m dead.”

She had nothing.

“Hello?”

“I heard you. What . . . can I do?”

“Get ahold of Air One Rescue in Anchorage and tell them to come back for me.”

And how—Peyton could probably figure that out.

“Roger. Okay. Um, I’m sort of . . . out in the boonies?” Oh, please let him not be a serial killer. “But hang on. I’ll try. Stay there.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

He sounded a little sardonic, maybe.

She picked up the radio Peyton had left her. “Peyton. Calling Peyton. Come in, Peyton.”

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