ONE

      The sharp crack of gunfire split the silence.

      Tanner Brody froze, his paddle hovering a few inches above the water. A second crack came right after the first.

      He released a pent-up breath and shook off the tension. This wasn’t one of the scariest areas of Louisville, where he’d grown up. Or even the rough neighborhood there where he’d spent the past eight years as a beat cop. He was on the Nantahala River, at the edge of the Smokies. Someone was hunting—shooting at whatever happened to be in season in North Carolina in early April.

      He resumed paddling, adjusting course in time to avoid careening into a rock protruding from the center of the river. Water surged around him, gentle swells tipped in white.

      Another shot rang out, and tension spiked through him again. He rolled his shoulders. It would be a while before the pop of a rifle didn’t send him into action mode.

      Eight weeks ago, when his life in Louisville imploded, his friend Colton talked him into moving to Murphy, North Carolina. Six weeks ago, he drained his savings account and made a down payment on a house on two wooded acres. A few days ago, he stuffed everything he owned into a U-Haul and rolled into the drive at almost midnight. He had three weeks to enjoy his freedom. Then he’d start the job he’d landed with Murphy PD.

      He wasn’t regretting his spur-of-the-moment decision. If there was anyone he trusted, it was Colton. They’d been friends since age thirteen, three of them—him and Kevin and Colton. They’d all shared the same nightmare. Except Colton had gotten out sooner than he and Kevin had.

      Tanner reached a calmer section of the river and stopped paddling to take a swig of water. It was still early in the season. Other than a couple sitting at a riverside picnic table some distance back, he hadn’t seen another human being.

      But rather than feeling lonely, he found the solitude therapeutic. The river flowed around him with a steady shh that drowned out all but the calls of the loudest birds and the occasional rumble of a truck moving down the highway a short distance to his right. The firearms had even fallen silent.

      He dipped the paddle into the river with smooth, alternating strokes. A roar reached him from somewhere beyond the next bend, warning of an upcoming patch of rapids. Anticipation surged through him. He was ready for whatever the river dished out.

      The next moment, a shriek rent the air, short and shrill, as if cut off midstream. He stiffened, the sound like glass across his nerve endings. That was no bird. That was a woman’s scream. It came from somewhere to his left, deep in the woods. The internal alarms he’d silenced sounded again. A scream meant trouble, regardless of setting.

      He cut a diagonal path toward the river’s edge. Once he’d pulled the kayak onto the bank, he checked his supplies. Nothing in the way of first aid. And he’d finished his lunch. He stuffed a granola bar and napkins into his back pockets and grabbed a bottle of water. As he climbed the slope at a stumbling jog, rocks and roots threatened to trip him. Had someone lost their footing and fallen? Or was the scream related to the shots?

      He drew in a breath, ready to bellow a loud “Hello,” then snapped his mouth closed. Three years in foster care, six in a group home and eight on the force had honed his instincts to a fine point. Right now, something warned him not to give away his position.

      For several minutes, he scaled one steep slope, skidded down its opposite side and tackled the next. Briars and other thorny vines grabbed at his clothing and scraped his arms. More than once, his foot found a rock and he caught himself before landing facedown on the hard ground. If he found someone injured, carrying the person over the rugged terrain wouldn’t be easy. His best bet would be to call 911.

      He stopped and listened for any sign of movement, a moan or whimper. But there was only the whisper of the wind through the trees and the occasional call of a bird. Even the sound of the river had faded and disappeared.

      He set out again at the same hurried pace and crested another ridge. Contrast snagged his gaze—faded denim blue against the greens of early spring. He half ran, half slid down the steep grade. As he drew closer, his pulse kicked into overdrive. Trees and underbrush concealed the rest of the body, but what he’d seen were jeans-clad legs ending in well-worn hiking boots.

      He dropped to his knees and placed the water bottle on the ground. A woman lay on her right side, eyes closed, lips parted. Her black hair was woven