Isla’s chest ached with the memory of how close they’d been. Close enough to look into his face. Close enough to hear his voice. Close enough to watch him run. And then the smoke. Gunfire pinning them down, the attacker melting away before they could get a glimpse.
Maybe it had been a genuine attempt to kill them. Or maybe it had been exactly what it felt like—a smokescreen. A staged distraction so Harris could escape.
But why? Why run from the very people trying to give him answers about his life? Why leave them behind in gunfire and chaos?
Her stomach twisted as she glanced at Garrett. Who was pulling the strings, and how far did those strings reach?
They shrugged off their jackets, the heavy fabric damp but not soaked through. It had done its job, at least partly, though Isla’s hair was wet, sticking to her neck and cheeks in irritating strands. She tugged her phone from her pocket, thumb swiping over the screen with a flicker of hope that maybe she’d missed something.
Nothing.
The last update from Raines had been the most useless kind. No sign of the shooter. No sign of Harris. Nothing in the warehouse unit to suggest that Daniel Cole knew he was really Harris McCord. Everything inside bore Daniel’s name, his identity as neat and untouched as a perfectly staged life.
A groan of frustration escaped her before she could stop it. Garrett cut her a look and said, “Easy there, Prescott. You’ll be fa-la-la-la-ing and decking the halls with longhorns again in no time.”
She managed a small laugh, but it froze almost instantly when her gaze dropped to his arm. Her stomach clenched. The rain-darkened sleeve was streaked with red. The bullet graze had opened back up, blood trailing down his skin.
“My God, you’re bleeding.”
Garrett glanced down at his arm as if he were only just noticing, then gave a half-shrug. “That’s what happens when you slam a bullet graze into the side of a Dumpster.”
She scowled. “Where’s your first aid kit?”
“Bathroom.”
Without waiting for more, she caught his good arm and steered him down the hall. He let her, but she could feel theweight of his eyes on her the whole way. Once in the bathroom, she flipped on the light and tugged at his shirt.
“Off,” she said firmly.
His mouth curved into something too close to a smirk. “Bossy.” But he lifted his arms enough for her to pull the damp cotton over his head. She tried to be gentle, but his sharp inhale told her the fabric dragged against the wound. Her throat tightened with guilt and worry, but she forced her hands steady as she dug the first aid kit out from under the sink.
When she turned back, he was sitting on the edge of the tub, bare chest and shoulders gleaming faintly from the rain. The blood stood out starkly against his skin. She set her jaw, tore open a packet of antiseptic, and pressed it carefully against the wound.
He hissed, not moving away. She kept her eyes on her work, though her pulse had other ideas. Every time she leaned in, she caught his scent—soap, rain, him. Her hand brushed the heat of his chest as she steadied herself, and her breath hitched before she caught it.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he murmured, voice low.
“I’m not,” she snapped, though she very much was.
Isla taped the dressing into place on one side, her fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary. The line between worry and want blurred, and the tension that had started with frustration wound into something heavier, hotter.
She squeezed a ribbon of antiseptic cream onto her fingertips and leaned closer to spread it gently across the graze. Garrett’s muscles went tight beneath her touch, but he didn’t make a sound. She was about to tape the edges again when both their phones chimed in quick succession.
Her heart jumped. Finally.
Garrett reached for his phone and scanned the message, his expression hardening. “It’s from Raines. There’s an APB out onHarris. He convinced San Antonio PD that Harris could be in danger.”
She stilled, the tube of cream still in her hand. “In danger.” The words tasted bitter.
Garrett set the phone aside, his jaw working. “It was the only way to get the local cops to act fast.”
Isla nodded, though her chest knotted tight. She didn’t want to believe Harris—Daniel—was in danger, but deep down she knew better. Someone had called him, panicked him, driven him into a run.
She taped the fresh bandage into place and stepped back. “Whoever has him in their grip,” she said softly, “they’re not letting go without a fight. And we still don’t know what the plan is.”
Garrett’s eyes met hers, dark and unreadable, but the same determination burned in both of them.
Another chime. Garrett’s phone again. He glanced down, thumbed the screen, and let out a low sound before looking up at her. “Raines just sent another update. He’s spoken to Paula, Anais, and Randall. They all swear they know nothing about anything.”
