He knew these trees, though. An old trail wound through, a path Trudy had walked a thousand times to gather firewood. Whoever he was chasing knew it too.
Another second of silence. Then the low growl of an engine. Tires biting hard.
Garrett rose to a crouch, fury boiling in his veins as the sound of a vehicle roared away into the night.
Chapter Two
Isla caught one last glance of Garrett tearing across the pasture after the shadowy figure. No fear there. He was aJack Reacher, built for that kind of pursuit. He could handle himself.
Her focus had to be here.
She tightened her grip on the pistol and eased up the porch steps, heart hammering. “Trudy?” she called softly.
No answer.
The door creaked wider as she nudged it with her shoulder. She slipped inside, gun sweeping the corners. The living room opened up in front of her, the same space she remembered from her teenage years.
Old sofa with worn cushions. A rocking chair that had lulled more than one crying foster kid to sleep. Dozens of framed photos lined the mantel. Faces of children who had passed through Trudy’s care, smiles caught in time.
Her gaze snagged on one photo in particular. Baby Harris. Swaddled in a blue blanket. He had been there less than a week before someone had stolen him away, yet Trudy had framed his picture too.
Isla forced the emotion down and kept moving.
“Trudy?” Louder this time. Still nothing.
She cleared the living room, every nerve stretched tight, the silence pressing heavy. The house felt too still.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Isla hurried through the living room and into the kitchen. Her breath caught when she saw the back door hanging crooked on its hinges, the frame splintered where it had been forced.
A gunshot cracked outside.
Her heart dropped. She darted to the window in time to catch a glimpse of Garrett hitting the ground. Panic clawed at her chest, but then she saw him move, saw his arm come up with the gun ready to fire. He was alive. Fighting.
Every instinct screamed at her to go to him, but she shoved it down. Garrett could handle himself. Her priority had to be Trudy.
She tore through the rest of the bottom floor, voice calling out. “Trudy?”
No response.
Isla hit Trudy’s bedroom first. Bed neatly made, covers untouched. Empty. As was the nursery just across from it.
The nursery door creaked when she pushed it further open, and the sight hit her like a fist. The crib was still there, tucked against the far wall, though the paint had faded and the wood bore the scratches of time. A mobile hung above it, dusty but intact, its little stars and moons tangled on their strings. Baby blankets, folded and stacked on a shelf, carried the faint smell of cedar from the old chest nearby.
No baby had slept here in decades, but the room still breathed with ghosts.
A rush of memories slammed into her. Harris. The weight of him in her arms. The sound of his soft breaths. And the way the world had cracked open when he was taken.
She blinked hard, forcing her focus back to the present. No one here. No Trudy. Just the ache of the past pressing in.
She sprinted down the hall to the office. Her stomach knotted when she saw the mess. Papers scattered across thefloor. File drawers yanked open. The laptop gone. Someone had torn through the place in a hurry.
But no sign of Trudy.
The silence in the house pressed harder, wrapping around her chest like a vice.
Footsteps pounded in the hall. Isla pivoted fast, gun up, ready to fire.
