Excerpt of The Edge of Lost by Kristina McMorris

Alcatraz Island

October 1937

Fog encircled the island, a strangling grip, as search
efforts mounted. In the moonless sky, dark clouds forged
a dome over the icy currents of San Francisco Bay.

“You two check the docks,” shouted Warden Johnston, his
voice muffled by rain and howling wind. “We’ll take the
lighthouse. The rest of you spread out.”

More people traded directives, divvying up territory.
They were off-duty guards and teenage sons who called
Alcatraz their home, an odd place where a maze of fencing
and concrete kept families of the prison staff safe from
the country’s most notorious criminals.

At least in theory.

From inside the warden’s greenhouse, inmate 257 strained
to listen—that was his number. Even his coveralls bore a
stamp of his designation, branded like cattle. The beam
of a searchlight brushed past the glass-lined walls.

Over and over in the dankness of his cell he had
envisioned this very scene. Had seen it as clear as the
picture shows he grew up watching in Brooklyn. The Mark
of Zorro, he recalled. It was the first swashbuckler he’d
ever viewed on the silver screen. The film was silent,
long before talkies became all the rage, but the action
and suspense had quickened his pulse, gripped his lungs.
Same as now.

He drew a breath, let it out. Raindrops grew insistent.
They tapped the ceiling like fifty anxious fingers.
Seventy. A hundred.

“Eh! Capello!”

His heart jolted. Normally he stayed keenly aware of
sounds behind him, a survival tool in the pen, but
somehow he’d missed the creak of the door.

He tightened his hold on the garden trowel before turning
around. It was Finley, a guard with the look and nose
twitch of an oversize ferret.

“Yeah, boss?”

“You seen a little girl pass by? Ten years old, light
brown hair. About so high?”

The answer needed to sound natural, eased out like
fishing line. “No, sir. I’m afraid I haven’t.”

Atop the single entry step, Finley surveyed the room with
an air of discomfort. He wasn’t a proponent of the rare
freedoms afforded to passmen, the few trusted inmates
assigned to work at the warden’s house.

“Aren’t you about done here?” Finley asked.

“Sure am. Then I’ll be heading to the lower greenhouse to
finish up.”

Finley hesitated, an endless moment—of gauging? Of
suspicion? At last he gave a partial nod and turned to
exit.

The door swung closed.

Adrenaline rushed with the force of the pounding rain.
The risks and consequences gained new clarity. Doubt
invaded his thoughts.

It wasn’t too late to turn back. He could serve out his
time by sticking to the grind, sleeping and eating and
pissing when told, and one day walk out a free man . . .

But, no. No, it wasn’t that simple. Not anymore. He
recalled just how much lay at stake, and any chance of
reneging crumbled.

Through the fog, lightning cracked the sky. The air
brightened with an eerie blue glow, and from it came a
boost of certainty.

He could do this.

The plan could work.

So long as they didn’t find the girl.