The shrill cries of seabirds pulled Foster from the haze, followed by the steady, hollow crash of waves breaking against the shore. Sunlight burned behind his eyelids, too bright, too sharp. His head pounded. His ribs ached. Sand clung to his skin, damp and warm.

He groaned, trying to sit up. Pain flared in his leg, dull but deep, and his stomach turned with the memory slamming back into him like the surf: the storm, the chaos, the impact…then nothing.

Blurry eyes scanned the shoreline. Pieces of wreckage dotted the beach like driftwood, and across the narrow bay, the shattered hull of their boat…ship…was half-buried against the black rocks. Whether it was a private charter, a tour cruiser, or something in between didn’t matter now.

They were down. Hard. And alone.

Or maybe not.

Foster’s chest tightened. He turned his head, ignoring the pain, searching the treeline, the sand, the surf—for movement, for bodies, for her. Someone had to have made it. He wasn’t supposed to be the only one breathing.

The wind whispered through the palms. The island around him was beautiful, but indifferent. He needed answers. He needed to move.