My eyes drop from one tear-stained face to another. “It’s okay, Rylee. Your mom is going to be okay. I promise.”

She accepts my guarantee with the same assurance I took Savannah’s earlier. Keifer won’t hurt her—because I won’t let him.

Ignoring the crazy beat of my heart, I dig my cell phone out of my pocket before scooping Rylee into my arms. She is so warm, the sweat slicking my skin sizzles when I draw her into my chest to calm her panicked shuddering.

The 9-1-1 dispatch officer connects my call at the same time I reach the door Savannah was just hauled through. After checking the corridor is clear of any threat, I make my way to Mrs. Daphne’s apartment. She is Ravenshoe’s collective grandmother. Nearly every child in this town has been babysat by Mrs. Daphne at some stage in his or her life.

“My name is Ryan Carter; we have a 134 in progress at an apartment block on Wren Street. Suspect is wearing black trousers, a navy blue collared shirt, and a faded baseball cap. He is armed and considered highly dangerous. . .”

My hurried words skid to a stop when my eyes lock in on a flurry of honey-colored hair. Savannah is being shoved into the passenger seat of a white sedan via the driver’s side door. Keifer’s vehicle is mounted on the curb, showcasing his desperation has reached fever-pitch. The panic burning my esophagus grows. Smart criminals are a menace to society, but unhinged ones usually only harm those closest to them.

When Keifer cranks his ignition, I increase my speed. “Suspect is driving a white Chrysler, last three digits of the number plate are 382. He is heading north on Wren. His victim is a Caucasian female wearing white denim shorts and a pink sweater.”

With one hand holding a crying Rylee to my chest and the other caressing my cell, I alert Mrs. Daphne of my presence by kicking her door. She answers not even two seconds later. One look at my face tells her everything she needs to know.

“It’s okay, baby girl, come on,” Mrs. Daphne coerces Rylee, who is clutching my neck for dear life, fighting to stay with me.

I hate her being torn from me kicking and screaming, but I know she is safe with Mrs. Daphne. Her mother’s safety isn’t as easily guaranteed.

After pressing my lips to Rylee’s flaming red face in silent promise that I will return with her mom, I charge down the corridor. My pulse is pounding my eardrums so fiercely, I can barely hear the instructions the 9-1-1 officer is giving me, but I don’t miss the most vital part of her information—Keifer’s location.

With years of training under my belt, and even more years of admiration, I dive into the driver’s seat of my patrol car, stab my key into the ignition, and floor the gas. My car rockets out of the parking lot of Savannah’s building as my cell connects to my command’s Bluetooth.

“Right on Turner,” the operator’s instructions are mixed with the sound of a helicopter hovering above my head. They’ve brought in the big guns.

“North on Taite.”

Gratitude for Regina’s love of pursuit pumps into me when I take the corner like a maniac. A handful of pedestrians ignorant of my siren can’t ignore my horn when I slam my hand down on it. They race onto the sidewalk, their eyes as wide as mine, their fists clenched just as tightly.

The features of Ravenshoe I’ve grown to adore the past decade whizz past my window in a blur. My speed is so excessive, the front tires on my patrol car struggle to hold onto the asphalt. I’m practically soaring.

“West on Mercer.”

I slam my foot on the brake and skid to a stop mere inches from Mercer Avenue. After taking a second to ensure my abrupt pause hasn’t caused an accident, I shift my foot from the brake to the gas pedal. I’m flooded with painful memories when my extreme speed along Mercer Lane doesn’t impede my notice of the many tourist signs dotted along the way. They are all for the man-made wonder I haven’t visited since a horrifying day nearly eleven years ago: Bronte’s Peak.

When the operator advises Keifer has turned east on Wesley, I realize what he is doing. He isn’t fleeing with Savannah; he’s taking her straight to hell with him. But his hell isn’t filled with fiery flames and ashes—it’s a bed of water. He’s returning Savannah to her deepest, darkest nightmare.

“Direct emergency first responders to the base of Bronte’s Peak. Instruct them to bring police divers.”

Dust hinders my vision when I drag my car off the roadside. I careen down the valley on the outskirts of Bronte’s Peak as if my mode of transport is a four-wheel drive. I can only hope my intuition isn’t hindered by the pain shredding my heart to pieces, because if it is, I didn’t just risk Savannah’s life—I took it.

“Move, move, move!” I scream at a group of tourists scaling the volatile rock surface with the hopes of capturing a superstar unaware. Noah has lived on the cliffs of Bronte’s Peak for the past six months. Not only is he living the dream; he’s living the life neither of his brothers got to live. To say I am proud of that man is an understatement. He didn’t just break the cycle of domestic violence in his family, he smashed it out of the park.

When the tourists scamper out of the way, I release my foot from the brake. I don’t need to place it on the gas pedal; the natural decline of the cliff edge guides my speed.

Blisters form on my palm as I struggle to keep control of my vehicle in the loose sand. Recognizing that my sinking tires are slowing me down, I throw open my door and continue my trek on foot. My heart rate is dangerously high, but nothing can slow my speed, not even the sirens I hear growing closer with every thump of my feet.

Why?

Because my intuition is proven spot on when a loud boom rumbles through my chest a mere nanosecond before a white sedan sails over my head like a plane soaring in the sky.

With my heart in my throat, I charge down the wooden jetty filled with tourists. They stare at Keifer’s car flying through the air with their mouths hanging open, as if they are at a stunt show in Hollywood Studios.

“I’m hijacking your boat,” I advise a fisherman at the end of the jetty.

Not giving him the chance to protest, I grab him by the scruff of his shirt and throw him away from the wheel. Keifer’s car has barely broken through the water when I’m racing toward them. Salt water splashes my cheeks as I scan the water’s edge, seeking any signs of movement. I know why I haven’t been oceanside in years. It smells as horrible as it always has.

But this is different from the last time I swam these waters. Savannah knows how to swim, so her chances of survival have drastically improved. . . right?

Right.

Then why do I have a horrible feeling twisting my stomach?