“Good,” Trudy whispered. “Then let me go for now. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Morning,” Isla echoed, her voice breaking on the word.
“Goodbye, sweetheart,” Trudy said, and then to Garrett, “Goodbye, son.” The line clicked off, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.
Isla set the phone aside, her eyes still on him. “Morning,” she repeated. “Whether she’s ready or not, we’re going.”
Garrett gave a tight nod. He agreed completely.
The low rumble of thunder rolled outside, and Garrett caught the faint rattle of rain against the windows. Trudy had been right about the storm moving in.
He pulled open the fridge, scanning the shelves. “I can do sandwiches, pasta, or omelets. Nothing fancy.”
“Omelets,” Isla said, wringing the damp from her hair with a towel. “If you’re cooking, I’m eating.”
“Good. You’re helping,” he countered, reaching for the eggs.
They were cracking shells and chopping peppers when Garrett’s phone buzzed across the counter. Cal Granger’s name lit the screen. Garrett swiped to answer and set it on speaker. “Talk to me, Cal. You’ve got something?”
“I do,” Cal said. The faint hum of his equipment came through in the background. “We picked up Harris’s Jeep on traffic cams. Several feeds caught it heading out of downtown, then onto I-35. After that, it disappeared. No cameras caught him past the north exit.”
Garrett stilled, the whisk in his hand dripping egg back into the bowl. “I-35 north,” he repeated, a knot forming in his gut.
“North of San Antonio,” Cal confirmed. “That’s the last we’ve got.”
Isla dropped her knife onto the cutting board with a frustrated clatter. “So he’s gone. Again. He could be in Austin by now. Or Dallas. Or God knows where.”
“Yeah,” Garrett muttered, raking a hand through his damp hair. “Too many directions, too many possibilities.” He glanced at the storm rattling against the glass. “And no way to know if he’s running from us or to someone.”
The frustration sat heavy in his chest. They had been so close. Too damn close to let him slip away again.
Garrett forced down the frustration and went back to whisking, though his grip was tight enough to rattle the bowl. “So what’s next?”
“We’ve already widened the search grid,” Cal said, his voice clipped with efficiency. “Every traffic cam and drone we can get our hands on. Nothing so far. Finding Harris is a bust, at least for now.”
Garrett swore under his breath. Isla muttered something sharp and turned back to the stove, sliding vegetables into the pan with a little more force than necessary.
“But,” Cal continued, “I do have something.” Papers rustled on his end before he spoke again. “The shooter who pinned you down by that Dumpster? We got a positive ID from one of the surveillance feeds. Name’s Victor Kane. Ex-military, dishonorable discharge, bounced around as private security muscle. No steady employer. Real ghost type.”
Garrett set the whisk aside, the name hitting him like a cold splash of water. “Never heard of him.”
“Neither have I,” Isla said, shaking her head. She glanced at Garrett, her eyes tight. “But someone hired him.”
Garrett looked toward the window where the rain streaked down the glass. “Yeah. And we need to figure out who.”
“Victor Kane lived in the warehouse next to Harris’s unit,” Cal went on. “That’s why he was right there when you two showed up. He’s not just some random shooter. He’s been planted.”
Garrett felt the back of his neck tighten. “You’re telling me Harris had a watchdog.”
“Exactly,” Cal said. “I dug into Kane. He’s got a record, assault charges and weapons violations, but all of it’s old. He’s been clean for the past fifteen years. Too clean. Which makes me think he’s been on somebody’s payroll this whole time.”
Garrett exchanged a glance with Isla. She voiced the thought before he did. “So Kane’s job was to keep an eye on Harris. Step in fast if someone got too close.”
“Looks that way,” Cal said. “But here’s the kicker. Kane’s gone. Packed up fast after the shooting. Once we find him, we’ll know who he was working for.”
Garrett rubbed a hand across his jaw, eyes narrowing. “Could be Randall. He’s got the money for it.”
“Or Paula,” Isla said quietly. “She’s been tangled up in this since the beginning. She might have wanted Harris hidden, controlled.”
