Her hair hung damp and heavy on her back, soaking her blouse and turning her skin moist and clammy. Flood water turned her pants dark, collecting in the wrinkles at her hips and behind her knees. She’d tried to save Pamela and soaked herself in the process. And now, as the sun’s faint glow colored the horizon, what did she have to show for it?

  Damp clothes, empty stomach, and a chill running so deep she swore her bones ached from it. She’d curled up into a ball at some point, cradled on the roof of the SUV, body racked with tremors. But it hadn’t done much good.

  She was freezing and hungry, holding her breath for the onslaught of a caffeine-withdrawal headache sure to come.

  The light cast a pale yellow shimmer across the murky-brown expanse of water. It still covered the parking deck, the street, the whole entire city as far as she knew. She’d kept hoping as the hours ticked by for some relief. Some sign of receding water. Some hope that she would be able to walk out of there.

  But no such luck. The stinking soup lapped at the hood of the Jeep, wafting over the window trim to tease her every time she shifted and the roof flexed. She inched her feet away.

  As the sun continued its silent march, illuminating the destruction all around her, Daphne uncurled her legs and forced herself to stand, straddling the roof, bare feet inching toward the edges to keep the metal from denting any more. Water, everywhere.

  She squinted against the morning light. The building across the street, once seven or eight stories was now compressed to not much more than the parking deck. Water bobbed in the windows on the fourth floor, glass long gone thanks to the quake or the force of the tsunami. A file cabinet, contents disgorged and disintegrated like a drunk after too many beers, floated in the water, drawers open and barren.

  Was anyone else out there trapped like she was? Hungry and cold and without means of escape. She dug a fist into the hollow where her stomach growled behind her ribs. There had to be survivors. People trapped in hotels and apartment buildings that survived the quake. Penthouse prisoners.

  Maybe the water warmed overnight. Maybe it wasn’t the frigid, hypothermia inducing ocean water it had been the day before. She risked a tentative toe in the water and recoiled as the cold seeped into her skin. Daphne was a decent swimmer, but not in ocean water this temperature. She wouldn’t be able to last long. The ocean currents filtered down from the arctic, never reaching much above fifty degrees this time of year, if they reached that at all. Being this far inland did nothing to the temperature.

  She stared out at the horizon, searching for the end of the flooding, the return of city, and a chance at survival. Was it another mile? Two? Would the water recede in a day? Five?

  Daphne inhaled, long and slow, until her lungs were fit to burst. Then she screamed. The loudest, sharpest, most primal and animalistic scream she could muster. It wasn’t pretty or ladylike or anything her dead boss would approve of. But none of that mattered now.

  The last vestiges of her voice echoed through the destroyed street and she sagged back down onto the roof of the SUV. She pulled her legs toward her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins, resting her chin on her knees. She debated stripping down to her underwear and spreading her clothes out on the roof, but they probably wouldn’t dry. She might, but it wouldn’t do any good in the long run. At some point, she’d be wet again.

  Visions of Mika filled her mind again. She yearned for her daughter, desperate to hold her in her arms and cry until she was all drained out with no tears left to give. She had to have faith her daughter was alive and safe. That Clint had found her up that mountainside and taken her somewhere warm and comforting. Somewhere they could eat and sleep and forget the horror of the past day.

  She gripped the top of the roof with her toes, clenching and unclenching as she thought about Clint. Closing her eyes, she almost felt his strong arm wrapping around her shoulders, warming her damp body, comforting her. If she imagined hard enough, she could feel his lips on her forehead, kissing away her worry and doubt.

  If she ever saw him again, she’d apologize. Explain how she’d confused growing apart with falling out of love. How they were better together than miles away from each other, living separate, lonely lives. There was a reason she’d never taken the step of hiring a divorce attorney. Why she’d never pushed for more than separation. That had to count for something.

  She snuffed back a wave of emotion and listened to the eerie quiet, straining her ears to hear something—anything. Any signs of life or stirring out there. The silence was deafening. Unnerving and unnatural. Usually this part of town was filled to the brim with the sound of traffic and honking horns and thousands of people going about their lives.

  Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and she peeled it off, desperate for a sip of water. A laugh slipped out and she brought her fingers to her lips. All this water—as far as she could see—and not a drop fit to drink. Even if it weren’t salty, it was full of sludge and debris. Countless chemicals. Dead bodies.

  She pressed her dry, cracked lips together and used the discomfort to focus. Someone would come, surely. On a boat, a helicopter, something. Her mind played out two likely scenarios.

  One, she remained on the roof of the Jeep, refusing to leave, body damp and cold, exhausted from hunger and thirst. At some point, she’d give out. Fall asleep and succumb to hypothermia or dehydration. She’d simply never wake up. Her body would rot there on top of that vehicle until the water retreated and someone came to assess the damage. How long would it take? Weeks? Months. She might be bones by then, stripped clean by carrion birds and bleached by the sun.

  Option two, the distant chop-chop of helicopter blades stirred her awake and she stood, groggy from sleep and hunger to find a rescue bird hovering in the sky. She would wave her arms, frantic with anticipation and a long white rope and stretcher with railings would lift her to safety.

  She envisioned a warm blanket wrapped around her shivering, frigid body. A bottle of water hastily shoved against her palm. It was almost too much to bear. This hope. But Daphne kept it close, tugged the pretend blanket tighter around her shoulders, basked in the relief of rescue.

  After a long moment, she opened her eyes and looked around. Stared long and hard at the endless expanse surrounding her. There was no way out, and right now, no one was coming. All she could do was wait and pray.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CLINT

  Clint adjusted his sweaty palms on the steering wheel and glanced at the clock. 7:37 a.m. He’d been driving and walking and searching all night, but so far, no sign of his daughter or the rest of the Scouts. The map Duncan gave him wrinkled as he reached for it. So many crossed out Xs. So many empty campsites.

  Anyone who’d been out on the mountain when the quake barreled through appeared long gone. Trash littered a few places, as if campers left in a hurry—too shook up to take care. Apart from the truck at Hurricane Ridge, Clint encountered no more people, alive or dead. It was as if the mountain simply swallowed them up. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  There were only a few places left to search. He picked up his phone and opened the locator app, hoping this time would be different. The little wheel turned and turned and Clint let himself hope. But it timed out, just like all the other failed attempts.

  He shoved the phone back in his pocket and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. His heart still beat like a snare drum in his chest, refusing to calm down. At this rate, he’d shave a few years off his life without even trying.

  A split loomed in the road ahead and Clint slowed to a crawl. Asphalt buckled and cracked, rising like a mini mountain range in the middle of the road before collapsing on the edge into rocky bits mixed with debris. He stared out at the terrain lit by the early sun. Rivers of rock and dirt wove through the forest, burying undergrowth and uprooted trees.

  He blinked. Landslides.

  In the dark of night, he hadn’t seen them; didn’t know the state of the mountainside. A fresh wave of worry hit him and he eased the truck over to the shoulder of the road. Up ahead, the whole span of road disintegrated, impassible even with his four wheel drive.

  If the Girl Scout troop made it this far, the mountain might have swallowed them whole. He shifted into park, grabbed the map, and climbed out of the truck. According to Duncan, two campsites lay beyond the destroyed road. One two miles to the west, another three miles to the east. He would have to hike to each one, traversing unstable ground and hoping his movements didn’t trigger another slide.

  After circling his location on the map, he folded it into a manageable shape and oriented himself with the morning sun. He grabbed the pack from the Visitor Center, stuffed with the meager bit of remaining food and water, and set off, heading west.

  It was slow going, traversing loose rocks and dirt. Clumps of mud obscured buried shrubs and destroyed trees and more than once his boot punched through what appeared to be solid ground and lodged in a thicket of broken branches. As he took another step, he slipped on a hidden rock and scraped his palm. He cursed beneath his breath.

  If Mika was out there somewhere, she was mired in the same terrain, trapped in the remains of a mountain once lush and verdant. Would a passenger van survive a landslide? Maybe if they eased off the road and hunkered down somewhere sheltered. A rocky outcrop or a bit of valley.

  His heart ached for his daughter and he pulled out his phone again, hoping for a miracle. Still nothing.

  He pressed on, climbing in elevation step by painstaking step, hoping to clear the worst of the debris. Time dragged as the sun inched higher and higher in the sky and sweat pinned the middle of Clint’s shirt to his back.

  At last, he neared a small ridge line and crested the worst of the landslide. His feet found solid footing on a clear bit of rock and for the first time since leaving the truck, he stopped to catch his breath.

  The mountain unfurled below him, aftermath of a massive landslide on display. Where trees used to cling to the incline, a large swath of dirt and rocks lay instead like a massive brown glacier stretching down the side of the mountain, ending in a giant dirt pool below.

  Clint stared, awestruck by the magnitude of the devastation. Is that—? He frowned and put a hand up to shield his eyes from the morning sun. The outline of something blocky and large loomed a hundred feet below him, ravaged by fire and caked in black soot . It stood out in relief against the paler dirt around it.

  Could it be? Acid bathed the back of Clint’s throat as he stepped down into the loose fill around the rocks. He couldn’t tell make or model, but the burned out shell was a passenger van, of that he had no doubt. Please have it not be Mika’s.

  He kept thinking about his daughter. How he’d seen no glimpse of her anywhere in the campsites on the mountain. Was that because they’d never made it? Because they were trapped in the landslide, van tipping over as the dirt and rocks overtook them, only to crash into the forest and ignite.

  He picked up the pace, stumbling through bushes and past trees until the toe of his boot caught on a hidden root and he pitched forward, barely catching himself before his face slammed into a jagged rock. Steady, man. Don’t be stupid.

  Clint fought the urge to run, forcing himself to stay vigilant and slow down as he traversed the dangerous terrain. If he twisted an ankle or broke a leg now, he would never forgive himself. With his eyes focused on the ground in front of him, he made slow, but consistent, progress toward the wreckage.

  As he neared, heat prickled across his face like pokers of fire. His nerves tingled, fraying. It was a large van, seating twelve or fifteen, with room in the back for luggage. It had landed on its roof, melted tires oozing onto the wheels as they jutted up in the air. It smelled of spent fuel and char and as Clint stopped a foot away, the heat from the last of the fire warmed his face.

  He swallowed, hard, and steeled himself. It was a miracle the rest of the forest didn’t burn in the explosion, but thanks to the landslide, the van sat all alone on a river of dirt, stopped only by an outcropping of rock and a solitary pine tree, now a blackened toothpick pointing toward the sky.

  He took a deep breath and ducked low enough to catch a glimpse inside. The sight stole his breath. Bodies, baked and burned beyond recognition sat, upside down in their seats, fused to the warped and melted seat cushions. Clint fumbled as he eased closer and reached out to grip the crumpled metal frame of the van. It was warm to the touch.

  The wretched smell of burnt flesh and hair assaulted his nose and he staggered backward, retching. The contents of his stomach spilled out into the dirt: borrowed water and a protein bar. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  He still didn’t know if it was Mika’s van. It could have been another trip, another set of kids setting out to enjoy the long weekend. He turned around, searching the ground for any cast off debris. If the landslide hit the van, then maybe there were packs or supplies scattered about. Maybe he could eliminate the van as a possible death trap for his daughter.

  Clint followed the path of destruction, casting his gaze about the dirt and rocks, moving broken branches and bushes aside as he climbed. Fifty feet up the mountain, no more than a handful of steps from where he’d climbed down, he spotted something. He reached down between dirt-coated leaves and pulled out a tattered paperback. He turned it over in his hands. The cover was missing, but the first page stilled him.

  Written in bubbly handwriting was the name Sasha Williams. He sucked in a breath. Mika wasn’t great friends with Sasha, but they’d been in the same Girl Scout troop for years. He turned around, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Mika! Mika!” His voice slashed through the trees, carried with the breeze. He screamed her name until his throat was raw, until his vocal cords were strained to their limit.

  Maybe she’d made it out of the van. Maybe she wasn’t roasted into a charcoal skeleton inside. He turned back to the ground, searching anew for any evidence. Any sign his daughter was either there or gone. A hint of something green and smooth peeked through a gap in the dirt and Clint dove for it, fingers clawing through the dirt and rubble to pull out a nylon green stuff sack.

  He opened it and his heart nosedived into his stomach. He fell back on his heels, unable to keep his breathing steady. Inside the bag was a collection of cell phones, all with candy-colored cases. One by one, he pulled them out. An iPhone with a bubble gum pink case with a unicorn sticker. An android with a clear glitter case and a matching Pop Socket.

  As his fingers wrapped around the next phone, he recoiled as if he’d been burned. His breath hitched, hand hovering an inch above the familiar lavender case. Devastation settled low and heavy in Clint’s gut as he pulled out Mika’s phone.

  Tears blurred Clint’s vision. Disbelief and anguish wrapped itself around Clint’s heart, but he forced himself to stand. He called out again, even louder this time than last, “Mika! Mika!”

  He combed the area. Perhaps she was too weak, or too injured to call out for him. Maybe she’d been thrown from the van or escaped before it fell. Maybe she’d gotten out and decided to walk, something in her gut telling her to leave the vehicle. He kept searching, working his way out from the wreckage in a spiral all while calling her name over and over.

  When he reached a flat area where the landslide tapered off and undisturbed forest began, he sagged to his knees. Sweat covered his brow, dripped from his nose, soaked his hair. Clint had to accept the truth. If Mika were still alive, she’d never have left her phone behind. She’d never have given up and wandered down the mountain without it. He’d drilled it into her to contact him at the first sign of trouble. That’s what she would have done.

  Not run down the mountain and into the woods. Not left the scene of the accident all on her own. He stared up at the burned out shell of the van. A guttural sob rose in his throat as he exhaled his heavy grief and despair. His shoulders shook. Agony consumed him. Sagging to the ground, he crumpled like a balled up piece of paper into the dirt, hands clutched over his head to block out reality. He wailed Mika’s name.

  He had been so sure he would find her alive. So sure he was on a rescue mission. But the van, and the bodies, and bag of cell phones… The last of his hope fell to the dirt with his tears, mixing into mud. Her name rose from his throat in a tortured wail. His daughter was gone. He’d failed her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MIKA

  Mika froze, foot hovering an inch above the ground. It couldn’t be. She tilted her head, listening to the rustle of leaves. She swore she’d heard a voice, a shout. Something like her name on the wind.

  But everyone who knew her name, everyone who’d been with her on this fated trip, was gone. She shook her head to clear it and kept walking. Where, she wasn’t sure exactly. But at some point, she’d left the undisturbed forest and the trail she’d stumbled open behind and once again entered a landslide-ravaged area.

  She had no way of knowing whether she’d circled back toward the burned-out van and the hope of a nearby road, or if she’d gone in the complete opposite direction, finding another landslide all together. But at least she was moving. If she kept heading down the slope, at some point she would reach either civilization or a campsite. At least she hoped so.

  The wind picked up, this time carrying the same voice, but louder, more distinct. “Mika!”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. It wasn’t her mind playing tricks on her or her hope mutating some bird’s squawk into her name. It was her father. Calling to her.

  “Dad! Dad! Over here!” She yelled as loud as she could, raising up on her tip toes as if the extra two inches would make all the difference. “Dad!”

  She waited, out of breath, cheeks reddened from effort. No reply. It was him, she was sure of it. Mika twisted around, eyes darting from tree to rock to wave of dirt. Where was he? Where did his voice come from? She closed her eyes and thought it over, struggling to pluck the direction from her memory.