“Still no answer from either of them,” she relayed to Colt and Harlan.
“What details do you have on the other one you haven’t been able to reach?” Harlan asked. “Wallace Kemp,” he added, reading the list again from his own phone.
“He’s the uncle of Jennifer Kemp. She was the second hostage we found at Timberline. She was thirty-two, used to teach middle school in Austin. Wallace raised her after her parents died. They were close.”
She forwarded the second address to both Colt and Harlan. “He lives in Canyon Lake,” she added. “We should head there, too, after we find Leah.”
Colt gave a short nod, eyes focused on the road.
The SUV sped steadily through the dark, headlights washing over the narrow two-lane highway that curved through low hills and scattered brush. Brenna kept her eyes on the landscape for a while, watching fences blur past and live oaks dip into shadow.
Then her gaze shifted forward and caught Colt’s in the rearview mirror.
The jolt hit her fast. Not just Timberline. Not just the blood and wreckage and failure.
She saw a different night. One filled with laughter, music, and way too much liquor. A Christmas party when they’d still been with Strike Force. Colt had found her near the back deck, under a string of flickering lights. They had talked, close and quiet, then he’d kissed her. No hesitation. No agenda.
That kiss had been heat and promise and something real. For a moment, she had let herself believe it could go somewhere.
But it hadn’t. Because two weeks later, Timberline happened. And everything had changed.
After that, Colt wasn’t just Colt. He was a reminder of the mission that went sideways. Of the lives they couldn’t save. Of what she had almost let herself want. She had no choice but to walk away. From the job. From him.
From all of it.
And now, here he was. Right back in her life again. Right back in the middle of another mess. Only this time, she was the one who had brought the nightmare to his doorstep.
They turned off the highway and wound through a quiet subdivision on the edge of Bulverde. The road narrowed and curved gently between thick clusters of oak and cedar, the kind of natural cover that gave a false sense of safety.
The houses out here sat on large lots, each one set back from the road with long driveways and wide lawns that faded into dark tree lines. The silence was heavier than it should have been, broken only by the crunch of tires over gravel and the low hum of the SUV’s engine.
“Third house on the right,” Brenna said, watching the GPS map shift.
They slowed in front of a long, sloping driveway flanked by limestone pillars. The house beyond was a single-story ranch-style, stone and wood with a wide front porch and soft amber lights glowing behind thick curtains. Clean. Quiet. Too still.
Brenna leaned forward between the seats to fill them in on some additional info about the woman.
“Leah Grayson is thirty-four. Unmarried. She’s a lawyer and works in victims’ rights advocacy. Runs a nonprofit that pushes for reform and support legislation. Mostly families of the missing or murdered.”
“Fitting, considering what happened to her brother,” Harlan said.
Brenna nodded. “She stayed loud about it. Even when nearly everyone else moved on, she didn’t.”
Colt eased the SUV to a stop along the shoulder, just off the drive. “Plenty of trees. A lot of privacy,” he said.
“Yeah,” Brenna murmured, eyes on the quiet house. “Exactly the kind of place you could disappear from without anyone noticing.”
Colt turned into the driveway, and Brenna sat forward, her eyes scanning the tree line, the side yard, the shadows between the porch columns. They were all doing it. Looking. Listening. Watching for any flicker of movement, any shape that didn’t belong.
No vehicles. No lights turning on. No sound except the soft hum of the engine and the occasional chirp of a night bird.
Colt parked near the edge of the driveway, cutting the engine. The silence that followed stretched too long.
“Let’s move,” he said.
They got out, doors shutting with quiet thuds, and approached the front porch with practiced caution. Brenna’s boots barely made a sound on the flagstone path as she climbed the steps behind Colt and Harlan. Her heart picked up pace, not from the walk but from the stillness of the place.
She reached the door and raised a fist. Knocked once just as she’d done on her earlier visit. This time though, the door creaked open.
