Garrett muttered, “Hell.” The word slipped out, sharp and low. He dragged a hand over his jaw, the tension coiling tighter.
He met Raines’ eyes. “Before she went under, Trudy said she thought she knew who took him. But she didn’t get a chance to name anyone.”
Silence dropped heavy between the three of them.
“So this,” Isla said, her voice quiet but steady, “what happened tonight, it has to be connected to Harris.”
Raines gave a resigned nod. “That’s how it looks.”
Garrett’s thoughts churned, dark and jagged. “But how? And who the hell is behind it?”
Sheriff Raines shifted his stance, his voice steady. “When Trudy came for the files, she didn’t just want copies. She asked me about the persons of interest at the time. Wanted to know if anything new had ever come up.”
Isla lowered her phone, her expression tightening. “Three names.” Her voice was sure, without hesitation. “Harris’ bio mom, Leah McCord. His bio dad, Randall Hayes. And the social worker who was in the house that day. Paula Benton.”
Garrett felt the weight of the names drop like stones in his gut. He didn’t need Isla to say them. He knew them by heart, too. Always had. Twenty-two years, and not a day went by that the list didn’t run through his mind like a litany that he couldn’t forget.
He looked at Isla. Her jaw was set, her eyes steady, but he saw it—the same grip of the past, the same refusal to let go.
It hit him hard. He wasn’t the only one still chained to that day.
Garrett leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “What made her start digging again after all this time?”
Raines let out a breath and lowered his voice. “She told me it was the anniversary. Twenty-two years. Said it was eating at her worse than usual this year. But she also said she’d gotten a text from an unknown number. The message said she should look harder at Harris’ case, that things weren’t what they seemed back then.”
The words hit Garrett like a punch. He sat back, his jaw tightening, his mind already running. A call. Someone had reached out to Trudy, nudged her back into the nightmare.
Across from him, Isla shifted in her seat, her phone going dark in her hand. He didn’t miss the flicker in her eyes. The same thought he had.
Whoever had made that call had known exactly what scab they were tearing open.
And now Trudy was in a hospital bed because of it.
Garrett turned toward her. “You ever run your skills on the persons of interest?”
Isla didn’t hesitate. “Of course.” Her thumbs flew over her phone, quick and precise. “I’ve kept tabs.” A moment later his phone buzzed, and then Raines’. “I just sent you both copies.”
She glanced up, her expression sharp as she started in. “Leah McCord. Harris’ biological mother. She was seventeen when she had him. Hooked on drugs. He was born while she was in rehab.” Isla paused, then added, “Her family had money. Old money. But they didn’t step up when the state placed Harris. Didn’t fight it when he went into foster care.”
Garrett’s jaw tightened. He remembered that piece well. The injustice of it still burned.
“Leah got out of rehab the day before Harris disappeared,” Isla continued. “She swore she didn’t take him. Swore she didn’t even try. And no one could prove otherwise.” Isla’s mouth flattened. “She’s clean now. A lawyer. Big advocate for teen moms.”
Garrett studied her face. The way her eyes stayed flat, her voice clipped. It was information she’d pulled together with skill, but he knew the cost of saying it out loud. He felt it too. Every detail was another reminder of how badly they had failed.
Isla scrolled again, then looked up. “Randall Hayes. Harris’ biological father. He was nineteen at the time, working as a gardener’s assistant on Leah’s family estate. Forbidden love and all that.” Her mouth twisted faintly. “He was also on probation, which made him ineligible to even be considered for custody.”
Garrett nodded once. He remembered Randall. Young, wiry, a chip on his shoulder.
“Randall and Leah got married when she turned eighteen,” Isla went on. “They’ve been together ever since. They have a daughter, Anais, in college now. Neither one of them has had any other run-ins with the law.
“On paper, they look stable,” Isla said. “Normal. But back then? They were at the top of the list.”
Garrett said nothing, though the knot in his chest pulled tighter. He had turned their names over in his head more times than he could count.
Isla tapped her phone again, eyes narrowing as she scrolled. “The third name. Paula Benton, the social worker assigned to Harris’ case. Age 49, no criminal record. The only reason she was ever considered a person of interest was because she’d tried to adopt a child the year before Harris disappeared. She was denied because she was still recovering from cancer and hadn’t gone into remission yet.”
Garrett’s chest tightened as Isla went on.
