Lane didn’t have time to react to the noise or where it came from before her world rolled in front of her eyes. The sound of shattering glass and screeching metal filled her ears, muffled only slightly by her own screams until it all stopped and everything went black.

The crunch of dry leaves and twigs reverberated in her throbbing head. Lane fought to remember where she was . . . what happened? She’d been driving on Coastal Highway. An explosion—had it been her tire? More crunching.

Lane licked her lips and tasted blood. Her blood. She squeezed her fingers and toes to assess the damage. Sore spots screamed their protest, but she didn’t think anything was broken. Taking a deep breath, Lane opened her eyes.

Carefully, Lane rolled to her back. She blinked several times trying to get her eyes to focus on the deep violet hues of the sky. The sun was setting and soon it would be too dark to see. She forced herself into a sitting position and regretted it instantly. Nausea accompanied the killer headache that felt like nails were being driven into the back of her skull. Where was she? The smell of wet earth answered her. She was in the woods.

And she wasn’t alone.

“Why are you here?”

Miguel stared at her from the trunk of a fallen tree. “Miguel?” Her heart thumped at his messy appearance. He wore a T-shirt and jeans covered in dirt. His hair was matted with sweat. “What happened? Where are we?”

Miguel looked around. “Your little boy wasn’t in the car.”

“No. H-he”—Lane pushed herself off the ground and felt the world tilt around her—“he’s with my sister.”

“You have a cut. On your head.” Miguel fidgeted with a tool in his hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Lane looked around at her surroundings. They were definitely in the woods. “Miguel, how did I get here?”

“I pulled you out.” An owl hooted and Miguel’s eyes flashed in its direction. “But you need to go.”

“Miguel, I came out here to find you. Sheriff Huggins wants to ask you some questions.”

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Sydney.” He lowered his head. “I taught her how to paint.”

Lane watched Miguel shift the tool back and forth in his hands. Her stomach knotted when she recognized it. Noah had picked up one like it in Miguel’s workshop—but they were nowhere near his workshop. At least she didn’t think so. Nothing around her looked familiar.

“You need to tell the sheriff that.”

“No.” Agitation rose in Miguel’s gruff voice.

“Okay.” Lane held up her hand. “Did you see her that night?”

“She was scared. I should’ve protected her.”

“From who?” Lane’s hands grew clammy. Asking the question scared her almost as much as finding out the answers. “Do you know what happened to Sydney?”