Blank eyes on a bluish-green face stared up at her. Lane scrambled, digging her fingers into the mud to get away from the body. A swarm of black flies buzzed around her head. Angry. Like she had interrupted their morbid feast. Bile choked Lane’s ability to scream again.

Run. Move.

Lane clawed at the tree next to her, ignoring the way the bark cut into her palms as she yanked herself up. Finding her footing, she backed away from the lifeless body and ran. Branches slapped at her arms and face as fear chased her into the darkness.

The scream stopped Charlie Lynch in his tracks even as his pulse jackhammered in his ears. It came from his left. He dropped his bike and surged forward, ignoring the twigs catching on his skin.

That was distress. It didn’t take six weeks at the police academy or six years as a Marine MP to recognize it. It was her—the woman from the bridge. Charlie had no problem recalling the features of her face, even as she tried to hide it behind a curtain of auburn hair. Green eyes awash with emotion so deep they revealed the answer to his question that she did not answer—what had brought her to the edge of that bridge?

Sad hazel eyes and a lopsided smile flashed in Charlie’s mind. Tate Roberts. How many conversations had he shared with him in Afghanistan? And how many times had Tate stared at death as the only answer until he’d allowed it to swallow him? Was that what he saw in the woman’s gaze? Defeat? The kind that stole life? Or was he jumping to conclusions? Charlie ground his molars and raced in the direction he thought he had heard the scream come from. He had to find her. Make sure she was okay.

He wouldn’t fail. Not this time.

A movement to his left captured his attention and he instinctively reached for the weapon he no longer carried. Biting back a curse, he forced himself to take a breath. This wasn’t a war zone. It was Walton, Georgia, and about as idyllic as a Norman Rockwell painting. And the peaceful charm was exactly why Charlie had chosen the small town to call home. This was not Afghanistan.

Charlie searched the thicket of trees for the source of the movement. Could be an animal. He hadn’t even been in Walton a day before he saw his first alligator sunning near the bike trail. He’d avoided that route this time, which led him to the bridge—to her. From the corner of his eye, a branch swayed, and before he could turn a force slammed into him.

“Aghhhh!” Lane struggled to break free from—it was him. The guy from the bridge. “What are you doing? Let go.”

“Wait.” He looked down at her anxiously. “I heard you scream. What’s wrong? Are you alright?”