Page 91 of All Along The Watchtower

“They’ll find them.” My voice shook with the fear I was trying desperately to hide, undermining the comfort I was trying to offer. “The whole island’s looking. You know how Hatterwick takes care of its own.”

“Before the storm hits?” His words were barely audible over the wind that whipped my hair around my face. “Before whoever took them?—”

I grabbed his hand, squeezing hard enough that my knuckles went white. We both knew what he wasn’t saying. That this wasn’t just two kids skipping school for an afternoon adventure. Not with everything else going on. Not with the shadows that had been gathering around the edges of our lives these past weeks.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as we docked, the hollow sound echoing across the water like nature’s warning bell. Time was running out.

I white-knuckled the steering wheel as we pulled off the ferry, Ford vibrating with tension beside me. The late afternoon sky had turned an ominous gray-green, the kind of color that made my stomach clench with dread, and I knew the first fatdrops of rain wouldn’t be far off. The air felt thick enough to chew.

The school parking lot had transformed into a command center, with Carson’s cruiser serving as the hub, its lights cutting through the murky twilight in steady red and blue pulses. Clusters of people huddled around maps spread across car hoods, marking off areas already searched, their fingers tracing desperate patterns across the paper. Parents clutched their own children close, as if afraid they might vanish too, while teenagers pointed out favorite hangout spots to officers, their voices carrying notes of barely contained panic.

My throat closed up at the sight. God, it was just like before. The same faces wearing the same worried expressions. The same mix of determination and fear. The same helpless feeling that we were already too late, that history was about to repeat itself in the worst possible way.

I killed the engine, and Ford was out before I could unbuckle my seatbelt. He made a beeline for Carson, who stood barking orders into his radio, his face lined with the kind of tension I hadn’t seen since Gwen disappeared.

“Chief.” Ford’s voice cracked. “Any sign?”

Carson lowered his radio, his weathered face grim. “Last confirmed sighting was at lunch. Security cameras show both girls heading toward the cafeteria, but not coming back. Their backpacks aren’t in their lockers or anywhere else we’ve found. We’ve tried pinging their phones, but they’re either dead or turned off.” He shook his head, the gesture heavy with the weight of too many similar conversations.

“What about—” Ford started.

“We’re checking everywhere, son. Got teams combing the whole island. Coast Guard’s got boats in the water. But this storm has damned shit timing.” Carson glanced at the darkeningsky, where angry clouds were gathering like bruises. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low warning of what was coming.

I stepped closer to Ford, needing the contact as much as wanting to offer support. My fingers brushed against his arm, feeling the tension thrumming through his muscles. The same hollow feeling I’d had twelve years ago opened up in my chest, that mix of dread and helplessness threatening to overwhelm me. But this time had to be different. We had to find them. We wouldn’t let more teenagers vanish into thin air on this island, not again.

“Ford!”

We spun toward the voice to find Sawyer hustling up to the command center, Willa right behind. His face was ashen.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve—Well, I don’t know what I should have done. Maybe kept her home from school entirely. But she seemed fine this morning. I thought…” His voice trailed off, thick with regret.

Ford shook his head. “This isn’t on you, brother.” But I could hear what he wasn’t saying. That it was his fault. He was Peyton’s father. She was his responsibility. The weight of that settled visibly on his broad shoulders, making him look older than his years.

By that token, it was on me, too. Because Ford had been taking care of me instead of her, spending precious hours helping me deal with my own issues when he should have been focused on his daughter. None of which was productive thinking under the circumstances. We needed clear heads, not guilt.

“Mama Flo and Mimi are out as part of the first wave of searchers,” Willa said.

“Where are the dogs?” I asked.

“We thought it was best to leave them back at the house. Just in case.”

Probably sensible. Neither Roy nor Keeley were trained to search, and they’d probably just get in the way.

Carson began describing where they’d started the search and how it had fanned out from the school, his weathered face set in grim determination as he gestured toward a map spread across the hood of his cruiser.

Willa wrapped her arms around herself, her voice barely above a whisper. “What if this is like Gwen? Roland O’Shea’s office was broken into last month. We know he wasn’t working alone. What if it’s starting again?”

Her words sent a chill down my spine, voicing the fear we’d all been trying to suppress.

The blood drained from Ford’s face. I grabbed his arm to steady him, feeling the tremor that ran through his muscled frame. My fingers tightened instinctively, offering what little comfort I could.

Carson cut her off, his weathered face hardening. “Now hold on. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Two teenagers skipping class is a far cry from what happened with Gwen Busby.” He tapped the map with thick fingers, as if trying to physically ground us in reality.

But I saw the fear flash in Ford’s eyes. The same terror that had gripped the island thirteen years ago when Gwen vanished without a trace. That collective nightmare still haunted us all, lurking beneath the surface of every missing person report, every delayed return home.

“Chief.” Ford’s voice was rough, like he had to drag the words past a barrier in his throat. “The guys I told you about, from Northwest Global?—”

“We don’t have any evidence connecting them to this,” Carson interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “No proof they’re on-island. Right now, we treat this like what it likely is—two kids who decided to play hooky and lost track of time.”

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