“Easy.”
Garrett stepped into the doorway. In the dim light he was mostly shadow, his black hair blending into the darkness, his black tee and jacket and camo pants making him look like part of the night itself.
Her gaze swept over him, searching for blood, for any sign he had been hit. Nothing. Relief surged through her chest, sharp and quick.
“Someone took a shot at me,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Got away.” He didn’t pause before adding, “Where’s Trudy?”
“I don’t know.” Isla lowered her weapon but kept her grip tight. She turned toward the office. “Come look at this.”
Garrett followed as she stepped inside. She swept her hand at the chaos. “Files everywhere. Laptop gone. No sign of her.”
The mess looked even worse with him standing there, his broad shoulders tense, eyes taking everything in.
“Upstairs now,” he snarled, every muscle in his jaw as steely as the rest of him.
Together they moved fast, heading for the stairs. The old steps groaned under their boots as they climbed, the air thick with dust and silence.
The second floor opened into a long hallway lined with doors. Isla’s stomach knotted. She knew these rooms. Over the years, dozens of foster girls had stayed here. Strong bonds,whispered secrets after lights out, tears muffled into pillows. Trudy had always made sure the girls had a safe space, a home.
Trudy hadn’t taken in foster kids for the past three years, but Isla knew she had kept the rooms ready. Beds made. Closets cleared. Just in case one of them ever came back to visit.
The quiet now felt wrong. Too still.
Isla lifted her gun higher and edged toward the first door.
Garrett flipped the switch, and the hallway light flickered to life. The glow spilled over the floorboards, and Isla’s stomach clenched. Drops of blood marked the wood, a dark trail leading deeper into the hall.
“Trudy?” Her voice cracked as it carried through the silence.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing. Then a sound. Low. Broken. A moan.
Isla’s pulse spiked. She and Garrett followed the blood, step by step, their guns steady, their eyes on every shadow. The trail ended at the last door. Isla’s old room.
Her chest tightened as another faint moan drifted out from behind the door.
“Trudy,” she whispered.
The knob rattled uselessly in her hand. Locked.
Before she could react, Garrett shifted forward, braced, and drove his boot into the frame. The door splintered inward with a sharp crack.
They rushed inside.
The door banged open, and the sight inside made Isla’s breath catch.
Trudy lay on the floor, her back propped against the side of the bed. A baseball bat rested in her hands, her grip weak but stubborn, as if she had fought until the very last second. Blood stained the front of her blouse, dark and spreading.
“Trudy.” Isla dropped to her knees, setting her gun aside. Her fingers found the older woman’s wrist. The pulse was there, but faint. Too faint.
Trudy’s face was pale, her skin drawn tight with pain. At seventy-three, she had always carried herself with quiet strength, her sharp eyes and kind smile unshaken by the years. Seeing her like this, fragile and bleeding, cut Isla straight to the bone.
“She’s alive,” Isla said, more to herself than to Garrett, forcing the words out as hope.
Garrett was already at the door, scanning the hallway with his weapon raised, his body a shield between them and the dark. He pulled out his phone, voice clipped and urgent as he called for an ambulance.
Isla pressed her hand against the wound, trying to slow the bleeding, willing Trudy to hold on.
Garrett ended the call for the ambulance and crouched beside them for a moment, his hand brushing over Trudy’s shoulder. “Help’s on the way,” he said, steady, though Isla caught the edge in his voice.
