Garrett nodded once, turned his focus back to the dark highway. He wanted to believe her. He had to. Because if someone was inside Trudy’s place, they’d both need to be at their best.
Four miles to go. The headlights carved a narrow tunnel through the dark, the road twisting tighter as they cut deeper into the Hill Country.
“When’s the last time you saw Trudy?” Isla asked quietly.
Garrett kept his eyes on the road. “Christmas.” The word landed heavy. Too damn long. Back to back ops wasn’t an excuse, and he knew it.
Isla shifted in her seat. “Same here. Christmas.”
But not at the same time.
He tightened his grip on the wheel, let the silence sit between them. Sometimes the past was a weight that made being in the same space too damn hard. That was what had happened with Isla and him.
The road narrowed, curving through stands of oak, and Garrett’s grip tightened on the wheel. He thought of the baby. Little Harris. The newborn who had gone missing from the foster home when he and Isla were sixteen.
Twenty-two years ago. A lifetime. And yet it felt like yesterday. Felt like it was still happening.
He could still hear Trudy’s voice calling from the kitchen, her laughter with the social worker, the ordinary sounds of the house. Harris had been in the nursery. He and Isla had been in the hall outside the door. Supposed to be keeping watch. Supposed to be responsible.
But they hadn’t been.
While Isla and he had been making out, someone had slipped in and stolen Harris. Gone. Vanished without a trace.
The guilt never loosened its grip. Impossible to overcome something like that. Being around Isla only drove the knifedeeper, because she was tied to the same moment. To the same failure.
So, yeah. Avoidance had become their norm.
And now, with Trudy scared and not answering her phone, all of it came rushing back, jagged and raw.
The truck roared down the last stretch of road, and Garrett swung into the drive. The ranch came into view, dark against the low sweep of clouds.
The place wasn’t fancy. Never had been. A sprawling three-story Victorian house with peeling white paint and a barn tucked off to the side. Fences that needed mending. But it was home.
No lights burned inside.
Garrett’s pulse kicked hard as he braked to a stop in front of the house. He was already reaching for his gun, sliding out of the cab before the tires stilled. Isla hit the ground beside him, weapon in hand, keeping pace as they bolted up the porch steps.
The front door gaped open. Ajar.
Not good.
Garrett moved in close, heart hammering, ready to breach. Then he caught it. Movement out back. A shadow cutting fast across the pasture, darting for the cover of the tree line.
He swore under his breath. “Go. Check on Trudy.” His voice was low, hard.
Isla didn’t argue. She swung toward the door.
Garrett jumped from the porch and sprinted into the night, boots pounding frozen ground as he tore after the runner. He cut across the yard, lungs burning as he pushed into the pasture. The night was thick and black, no moon to cut the shadows. His target stayed just ahead, a blur of movement, all in black with a hood pulled low.
He pressed harder, closing ground, but never enough to get a good look. The figure slipped through the barbed-wire break and vanished into the trees.
Garrett followed, pistol steady in his grip. Branches slapped at his arms. The woods swallowed sound, then cracked open with a gunshot.
The bullet snapped past his ear.
Garrett dropped flat, dirt cold against his chest, weapon up and ready. He scanned the dark, breath harsh in his ears.
Nothing but stillness.
