Chapter 1
chapter
one
“This isn’t going to end the way we want.”
Rylan Cross exhaled hard, his breath fogging in the cool autumn air. He didn’t argue, though he thought he probably should. He was the team’s counselor. Their shoulder to cry on. Their rock. He was supposed to be all sunshine and fucking rainbows all the time.
But he kept his mouth shut.
Because he knew Shane was right.
This search was not going to end the way they wanted it to.
This was day four, and the October nights had been cold and damp, with temps dipping into the forties. Without proper shelter or clothing, hypothermia can kill in less than twelve hours.
They were out of time for a happy outcome.
Zak’s voice crackled over the radio. “Anything?”
“Negative.” Donovan’s voice came back. “Still no sign of him.”
“Vee?”
“No, nothing. Sorry,” Veronica said from the helicopter circling overhead. “It’s getting too dark down there. My visibility is limited.”
Even as she spoke, the last of the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the forest floor.
Rylan’s gaze flicked skyward as the helicopter roared overhead, its blades slicing through the air with a deafening whump-whump-whump that rattled his bones and thrummed through his chest. The wind kicked up around him, carrying the sharp, acrid stench of burning fuel and oil. The exhaust fumes curled into his nose, harsh and bitter, clawing their way down his throat and turning his stomach.
For a second, he was back there—dust choking the air, the sting of sweat and smoke mixing with the thick, metallic tang of blood. The rhythmic thrum of the rotor blurred into the chaotic pulse of gunfire. The rush of the blades kicked up dirt and debris, just like that day overseas when the world around him had been nothing but chaos and noise. When he lost more than just his arm. When part of his soul died, along with most of his team.
And there was the fear again—the clawing tightness in his chest followed by the incessant whisper of dark thoughts he wished he could ignore.
His prosthetic arm throbbed, phantom pains shooting up to his shoulder. He clenched his jaw, fighting back the memories that threatened to overwhelm him.
Shane’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder, grounding him back in the present. “You good, Ry?”
Rylan looked at his former commanding officer, and the line again blurred between past and present. He blinked hard, focusing on Shane’s scarred face.
Shane’s grip tightened briefly before releasing him, understanding in his eyes. He’d been there too, seen the same horrors. Lived through the same nightmare. But Shane had acted as a SEAL was supposed to act. He’d faced the danger head-on and, even engulfed in flames, had tried to save their brothers. He hadn’t frozen like Rylan had.
This wasn’t the battlefield. This was a search and rescue mission in the redwood forest.
He swallowed and nodded tightly. “Yeah. I’m good.”
But he wasn’t good.
None of this was.
What the hell was wrong with him? He shouldn’t be reacting like this. He wasn’t even part of the active search team. His job was to be there for the aftermath when the team needed to process the emotional toll. It was supposed to be his strength—helping others through their pain, guiding them back to stability.
But how could he help them when he was barely holding himself together?
He rubbed the smooth surface of his prosthetic arm, hoping it would ground him, tether him to this moment instead of letting him drift into darker memories.
Tired, he decided. He was just tired.
It had been a really long fucking year.
“Okay, Vee,” Zak responded after a pause, the fatigue clear in his voice. “You and Conn can head back to base for the night.”
“No, Vee will drop me off,” Connelly said. “I should stay. If we find him, he’ll need immediate medical help.”
Well, at least someone in their group hadn’t lost hope yet.
Shane huffed a humorless laugh and took a drink from his thermos of coffee. “How is it that the horror writer is the most optimistic of us?”
Rylan didn’t respond. The words were shards of glass stuck in his throat. Because as much as he wanted to believe they’d find thirteen-year-old Aiden Ellison alive, the odds were growing slimmer with each passing minute. But Redwood Coast Rescue didn’t give up—not until there was no hope left to cling to.
Except, tonight, hope slipped away like sand through his fingers.
Shane clapped him on the shoulder and walked over to the mess tent, where volunteers were preparing food for the searchers.
“All teams, return to camp,” Zak ordered over the radio.
Rylan’s chest constricted further as he turned to look at Zak, who stood a few yards away, his face hard and unreadable as he leaned over a map spread out on a folding camp table. His cadaver dog, Ranger, lay under the table, radar dish ears drooping. For once, the endlessly energetic Dutch Shepherd looked tired.
Zak hadn’t spoken much since finishing his section of the grid search and returning to base, but frustration radiated off him. He manned the radio, staying in contact with Sawyer back at headquarters and updating the search grids as each team returned empty-handed.
The others began filing back, their heads bowed, their steps sluggish.
Sheriff Ash Rawlings, his expression as dark as a storm cloud, was the first to join them at the command tent. “The parents are frantic. They wanted to keep going, and I had to talk them down.”
“We’ll pick up again at first light,” Zak said, his voice gruff, but something broke behind his eyes. “This isn’t over.”
But sometimes, it was over long before they were ready to admit it. “If you need to talk…”
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll debrief the team later,” Zak muttered. “Right now, I need to think.”
Rylan nodded and watched as his friend walked toward the edge of the clearing, fists clenched at his sides, tension visible in every step.
Ash also watched Zak’s retreat, then exhaled hard, his breath clouding against the air. “He’s taking this one harder than usual. Reminds him too much of searching for Bella and Poppy, I think.” His gaze shifted back to Rylan. “You weren’t here for that, but he was in a bad place. One I spend way too much fucking time worrying he’ll return to.”
Rylan’s own demons stirred in his mind, flashes of sand and blood and searing heat. The explosion that took his arm and changed his life forever. The nightmares that still jolted him awake in a cold sweat. He rubbed at the seam where his prosthetic met scarred flesh. The high-tech myoelectric replacement was a marvel of engineering, almost as dexterous as his original arm. But it was a constant reminder of what he had lost. Of his failures.
Fuck.
He shoved the thoughts aside and studied Zak’s silhouette against the darkening sky. The set of his shoulders, the hard lines of his stance—Rylan recognized that body language. It was the way men carried themselves when the memories threatened to drag them down.
When the nightmares felt more real than reality.
But he also knew Zak. Nightmares or not, the guy was about as solid as they came now. “No, he won’t backslide. He’s not that man anymore.”
Ash regarded him with a long, uncomfortably knowing look. “When was the last time you took a break?”
Rylan’s jaw clenched. He knew what Ash was getting at. It had been non-stop for him lately— case after case, nightmare after nightmare. Always pushing himself, always trying to help one more person. To make up for those he couldn’t save before.
“I don’t need a break. I’m fine,” he gritted out.
Ash arched a brow. “Sure about that? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re white-knuckling it right now. When’s the last time you actually slept?”
Rylan stared at Ash for a long moment, struggling to come up with a response that didn’t make him sound as fucked up as he felt. But he had nothing.
Ash was right, damn him.
He was white-knuckling his grip on sanity with everything he had. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten a full night’s sleep without jerking awake in a cold sweat, haunted by visions of blood and sand and twisted metal. He scrubbed a hand over his face. His five o’clock shadow had grown past scruff a while ago and was now in full beard territory. When had he last shaved?
Finally, he looked away, gaze drifting to the darkened treeline. “I’ll sleep when this is over.”
Ash grunted. “Yeah, right.”
“No offense, Sheriff, but you tellin’ me to take a break is like a racehorse tellin’ a greyhound to slow down. You’re not exactly the poster child for self-care yourself.”
Ash’s lips twitched in a wry smile. “Touché. But this old racehorse is starting to learn when it’s time to rest in the stable. And I’m not the one who looks like he’s about to fall over. You keep going like this, you’re gonna burn out. Or worse. Take it from someone who has been there: you need to care for yourself before worrying about everyone else. You can’t pour from an empty cup, Ry.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. He opened his mouth to respond, but Ash was already walking away, heading toward the mess tent where the other searchers were gathering.
Still rubbing his prosthetic arm, Rylan stared out at the shadowed tree line. The night pressed in close and thick. He should join the others and offer what little support and counsel he was able to. It was his job, after all. The role he’d taken on after he’d left the SEALs and wrestled his demons into submission.
He watched the team gather around the fire with their meals, exhausted and quieter than usual as they ate.
Donovan Scott stared blankly into the flames, his plate of food untouched in his hands, while his border collie Spirit watched him with adoring eyes. Probably hoping he’ll give her the plate.
Ellie Summers, the newest member of their team, snuggled into her fiance’s side. Cal Holden was a lawyer, but he volunteered with RWCR when he had the time. Ellie’s Golden Retriever puppy Puzzle, still in training and not yet certified as a SAR dog, was the only dog not curled up by the fire, instead choosing to chew on a stick near the edge of camp, blissfully unaware of the heavy mood.
Pierce St. James settled down beside Rhiannon, handing her a plate of food. Raszta, a Hungarian Puli that looked like a cross between a black bear and a mop, lay between them, snoring softly. Rylan still wasn’t sure how he felt about that new relationship, but maybe it was just the big brother in him thinking no man would ever be good enough for his sister. Because Pierce was a good man. He was solid, dependable, and fiercely loyal. He’d die for Rhiannon without a second thought.
And yet…
The ex-Army engineer had layers Rylan hadn’t even begun to peel back. What other secrets was he hiding? His last secret nearly got them all killed.
But Rhiannon was deliriously happy shacking up with Pierce, so Rylan kept his doubts to himself.
For now.
Veronica and Connelly arrived a few minutes later, climbing out of the helicopter they’d landed in a nearby clearing and trudging over to join the line for food. Veronica’s face was grim, her lips pressed tight. She met Rylan’s eyes as she approached and gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. No good news.
“Thought you were going back to base,” Donovan said.
Connelly looked equally somber, his medic bag slung over one shoulder as he slid an arm around Veronica. “We’re staying,” he announced to the group.
Veronica nodded and leaned into her husband’s side. “I’ll go back before dawn and refuel, so we’ll be ready to go again at first light.”
“Suit yourselves.” Donovan waved toward the table laden with food. “Dig in. Plenty to go around.”
As Veronica and Connelly walked over to fill up plates, their dogs, Rebel and Alfie, followed behind. The two animals were a comical pair. Rebel was a beautiful, sleek, muscular Doberman, a former junkyard dog turned protection K9. Alfie was a Papillon, a certified therapy dog with an endless supply of bow ties—and, apparently, now hats. He wore a ridiculous aviator hat with his fluffy ears poking out the sides. The two dogs were as different as could be, and yet they were best friends.
Kind of like this team. All wildly different people, all broken in their own ways but somehow fitting together perfectly.
Rylan watched as his friends picked at their food around the campfire, the flickering flames casting shadows across their weary faces. The usual banter and camaraderie were absent tonight, replaced by a suffocating silence broken only by the crackle of burning logs. They all looked haunted. Wrecked, with dark circles under their eyes. They’d all been running on fumes and adrenaline for days now. Even the dogs seemed to sense the tension, sticking close to their handlers instead of playing and roughhousing like they usually did.
He didn’t blame them. Four days of fruitless searching, of clinging to fading hope, had taken its toll on everyone. They’d all been through this before—the mounting desperation, the gnawing fear, the sickening realization that maybe this time, their efforts would be in vain. But it never got easier.
He tried to think of something to say, some words of comfort or encouragement, but nothing came. What could he possibly say that would make any of this better? The odds were against them. They’d been here before, searching until their bodies ached and their hearts broke.
But he should know what to say. He was supposed to help them process the pain, the fear, the grief. He was supposed to keep them together, hold the fragile pieces of their emotional well-being in place. He was the glue.
Rylan’s gaze drifted back to Zak’s silhouette at the edge of the clearing. His friend had barely moved for the past half hour, just staring out into the shadows as if he could will Aiden into appearing through sheer determination alone. Someone had to check on Zak, and as the team’s counselor, that responsibility fell to him. Even if he was a hypocrite trying to offer support when he could barely keep his own demons at bay.
As he approached, Zak’s shoulders tensed, but the guy didn’t turn around.
“I know what you’re going to say. That we’ve done everything we can. That sometimes, no matter how hard we try, we can’t save everyone.”
Rylan stopped beside him. “Actually, I wasn’t going to say any of that.”
Zak glanced at him, surprise flitting across his face. “No?”
“No.” He was silent for a moment, taking the time to choose his words carefully. “I was going to say that I know this feels personal to you. I get that it’s bringing up memories of when Bella and Poppy were missing. And that it’s all right to have those emotions.”
Zak turned away, once again staring out over the jagged tops of the pine trees. “It shouldn’t be personal. I should be able to compartmentalize. To focus on the job without getting… tangled up in old shit. Bella and Poppy are fine. Poppy is safe at home with Anna. Bella is safe at college. I know that…”
“But?”
Zak didn’t respond.
Rylan finished for him, “But sometimes the old shit comes back whether we want it to or not.”
“Yeah, well, the old shit needs to stay buried where it belongs. I can’t afford to lose it now. The team needs me to keep it together.”
Jesus. Was the guy inside his head? Rylan studied his friend’s profile, noting the tension lines around his eyes and the tight set of his mouth. “The team needs you to be human. To show them it’s okay to struggle sometimes.”
You’re a hypocrite , a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
“You don’t struggle,” Zak said.
He let out a humorless laugh. “Pal, if you think I don’t struggle, then I must be a better actor than I give myself credit for.”
Zak turned to face him fully then, his brows raised in apparent surprise. “What are you talking about? You’re the steadiest, most put-together one out of all of us. Nothing rattles you.”
“I’m a good counselor, Zak. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have demons to fight. Trust me, I’m plenty rattled. Every damn day.”
Something flickered in Zak’s eyes— a hint of relief. “You never show it.”
“Yeah, well. That’s the job, isn’t it? To be everyone else’s rock.” He glanced back toward the fire, where the rest of the team still sat in heavy silence. “But some days… some days it’s like I’m drowning right alongside them.”
Zak was quiet for a long moment. “So what do you do? When it feels like that?”
Rylan thought of his most recent coping mechanism. No, he couldn’t tell Zak that he’d fallen off the wagon repeatedly over the last few weeks, or about all the bottles of bourbon he’d burned through. That wouldn’t accomplish anything.
He took a deep breath, the cool night air filling his lungs but doing nothing to ease the burn of shame. “You remind yourself that it’s okay not to be okay. That even the strongest among us can crack sometimes. It doesn’t make us weak. And you lean on the people who care about you. You let them see the cracks, even when everything in you wants to hide them away.”
Fucking hypocrite! the voice screamed. It wasn’t wrong. He told it to shut the fuck up.
Zak’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I’m not good at that. Letting people see the broken parts.”
“I know. But you have Anna. You have your girls. And you have us—this team—this family that you built. We’re all a little broken, Zak, but we hold each other together.”
Zak nodded slowly, his eyes glistening in the moonlight with tears that he wouldn’t cry. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” He clasped Rylan’s shoulder, squeezing tight. “Thanks, man. I needed to hear that.”
Rylan returned the gesture, gripping Zak’s shoulder firmly. “Anytime. That’s what I’m here for.”
And that was when the call came in, crackling over Zak’s radio, distorted but unmistakably grim. One of the search teams had found Aiden Ellison’s body on their way back to base.
Zak’s expression darkened with every word. “Fuck,” he bit out. “We were too fucking late.” Without another word, he walked away, heading toward the fire where the others sat in silence. Grief settled over the camp like a shroud.
Rylan watched him go, his chest squeezing so tight that drawing breath became impossible.
He should say something. Offer comfort. Do the job he was here to do.
But the words wouldn’t come.
None of them wanted to stay on the mountain another night. They broke up camp as quickly as possible and Veronica ferried them all back to headquarters in the helicopter.
Rylan stared blankly out the window as the dark forest blurred beneath them. His chest was hollow, aching with a pain he didn’t care to name. The rest of the team was silent, lost in their own thoughts and grief. Even the dogs sensed the heavy mood and stayed curled up quietly at their handlers’ feet instead of their usual excited wiggling during the helicopter ride.
When they landed back at headquarters, everyone moved on autopilot, mechanically unloading gear and storing away equipment. None of the usual joking. No laughter. No one spoke beyond a few mumbled words here and there. And then everyone went home to the comfort of their significant others.
But Rylan had nobody to go home to.
Not even a dog.
He couldn’t face the emptiness of his cabin tonight. Not with his emotions so raw, his demons so hungry. So he climbed into his truck and drove the winding roads aimlessly, trying to outrun the hollow hum in the back of his mind.
By the time he parked, fog had rolled in, thick and damp. He stared at the small, dilapidated building tucked into a grove of redwoods and realized he hadn’t been driving aimlessly at all. He’d known exactly where he was going. A neon sign flickered above the door like a lighthouse beacon, but instead of guiding him to safety, it lured him to doom.
The Broken Compass.
But only the word “broken” was lit in that garish neon.
Rylan stared at the flickering sign, a humorless laugh escaping his lips.
Broken.
How fitting.
That was exactly how he felt right now. Broken. Shattered into a million jagged pieces that he had no idea how to put back together again. Despair was a relentless poison, one he couldn’t purge, no matter how hard he tried. Therapy, medication, coping strategies. They dulled the edges but never fully healed the wounds that festered in his mind.
Fuck.
This was a bad idea.
He should leave.
He knew that.
This wasn’t the answer. Alcohol never was. It only numbed the pain for a little while, and then it all came roaring back twice as fierce. The bottle was a liar, promising solace but delivering only more suffering.
His hand trembled on the ignition key.
Just turn it. Drive away. Go home.
But he didn’t leave.
Instead, Rylan found himself pushing open the heavy wooden door, the familiar smells of stale beer and cheap whiskey washing over him like a noxious wave. The bar was dimly lit and nearly empty, just a few regulars hunched over their drinks at the counter.
And he was fast becoming one of those regulars.
Classic rock played softly from an ancient jukebox in the corner, the melancholic twang of guitars a fitting soundtrack to his dark mood.
He slid onto a stool at the end of the bar, as far from the other patrons as possible.
He didn’t stop to think about why he was there or what it meant.
He knew.
The bartender, a middle-aged guy with graying hair and tired eyes, glanced up from wiping a glass. “What’ll it be?”
Rylan didn’t hesitate. “Jim Beam, neat.”
The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth, but he didn’t stop them.
“Rough night?” a man asked from the other end of the bar. “Let me guess, woman problems?”
Rylan glanced at the guy. Early forties, jet black hair that was obviously not natural slicked back from a sharp face. He wore a business suit with the tie pulled loose and collar unbuttoned. He didn’t look like he belonged in a dive bar.
“That’s why I’m here drowning my sorrows,” the guy added and lifted his drink. “My ex is trying to ruin me. The bitch.”
Rylan grunted noncommittally and turned back to the bar, hoping the guy would take the hint. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation or commiseration. He just wanted to drink until the sharp edges of his pain were sanded down to a dull, distant ache.
But apparently, the stranger didn’t pick up on social cues. He slid off his stool and ambled over, drink in hand, to perch on the seat next to Rylan. But as he opened his mouth to say something more, his phone rang. He glanced at it, set his drink down, and threw a hundred on the bar.
“Sorry, gotta take this.” He motioned to the bartender and pointed to the hundred-dollar bill. “Hey, his first two rounds are on me. The rest is for you.”
The man offered Rylan a smile and a slap on the back, then strode out, already raising the phone to his ear.
The bartender picked up the money and set a tumbler of amber liquid in front of Rylan. “You know him?”
“Nope. Never seen him before.”
“Me either. Hm. Good tipper, though. He only had this one drink.” He picked up the half-finished drink and moved away to dump it. “Let me know when you’re ready for your second.”
Finally alone, Rylan stared at the glass of bourbon for a long time, the rational part of his brain screaming at him to push it away, to get up and walk out that door. He could almost hear his sponsor’s voice in his head, stern with disappointment. You’re stronger than this, Ry. Walk away.
But tonight, he didn’t feel strong. He felt hollowed out, like all the best parts of him had been scooped away, leaving nothing but an aching void.
He picked up the glass, its smooth surface cool against his palm. The scent of bourbon curled into his nostrils, simultaneously enticing and repulsive. He imagined the burn of it sliding down his throat, the warmth blooming in his chest—the promise of oblivion, however temporary.
For years, he’d resisted this. He’d fought to stay on the right path, to hold onto the fragile threads of sobriety that had kept him grounded.
But now… now he couldn’t remember why.
And it didn’t seem to matter anymore.
The bourbon burned on the way down, a slow fire that spread through his veins, numbing everything in its wake. For a brief moment, the tightness in his chest loosened, and the whispering demons in his mind quieted.
He set the empty glass down and signaled for another.
Because tonight, he couldn’t be anyone’s rock.
Tonight, he wasn’t the strong one.
Tonight, he was just a man silently falling apart.