She was just so grateful that they’d found refuge. They were beginning a new life without Beau, and for now at least, they were safe. That was all that mattered.

* * *

AFTER LOADING UP his truck with supplies from the hardware store—and a six-pack of beer to wash away the taste of his family’s annoying interference—Sean O’Dwyer pulled up to the closed gates of the Sea Pine Cottages, rolled down his window and just sat for a minute, enjoying the moonlight.

The vibrating hum of cicadas rose and fell, and in the distance, waves pounded. The Southern breeze that cooled his face felt like home, as did the looming cedar and live oak trees draped spookily with Spanish moss. Marshy salt smells reminded him of long days spent canoeing through the area’s black water rivers.

The low country would heal him. It always did.

And living here, alone, would be enough for him.

He got out of his car, keyed open the padlock and unwound the chain. He was pushing the squeaky, rusty gate open when the hair on the back of his neck rose.

Something was out of place.

His heart rate accelerated as he stepped back to his truck to retrieve his pistol, then did a deliberately slow three-sixty. His intuition for danger had been honed on the streets of Kabul and he knew better than to ignore it, even in these much-more-peaceful surroundings.

There. A flash.

He walked quietly toward it and realized there was a car parked behind the bushes that framed the gate. Decently hidden, but not to someone with his experience. A small Hyundai sedan that had seen better days. Hand on his weapon, he approached it.

Most cars held some evidence of their owners—a potato chip bag, kid toys, a spare jacket or sweater. This one was completely clean. Almost as if its owner didn’t want it to reveal anything.

It was too dinged up to be a rental, and it had Montana plates. Whoever owned the car was far from home.

He felt the hood. Cold.

He got back in his truck and let it roll silently down toward the cabin he’d been working on and living in, already mostly renovated. As he rode, he scanned the darkness.

There. A light. Bobbing up and down inside cabin 3, just two doors down from the beachfront one he’d selected for himself. Somebody must think they could get a vacation for free. Either that, or they were up to something illegal. Between Kabul and Knoxville, he’d learned to trust no one.

He coasted past, parked the truck and headed back toward the cabin with the bobbing light. He’d figured some locals would disregard the Keep Out signs, but he would’ve expected partying teenagers. A single flashlight suggested someone with more nefarious aims.

He approached the cabin slowly, watching, listening.

The light was off now; either that or it had moved to another room.

He shuffled through nettles and hackberry, glad for his work boots, looking in the windows. There was stuff that shouldn’t be there, barely visible in the moonlight. A carton of food in the kitchen, a cooler, a couple of suitcases. Someone was intending to settle in.