Chapter Eleven
Garrett sat in his home office, the glow of his laptop screen casting pale light across the room. Early evening pressed in through the windows, the sun fading fast over the compound. After the showdown with Anais, Randall, and Paula, he and Isla had come back here to regroup, to dig.
And that’s exactly what they were doing.
The clack of Isla’s keys matched his own, a low rhythm of frustration. They’d been at it for hours, searching for anything they could find on Marian Cole. Every database they could access. Every digital trail that might still exist. And so far, all it gave them was static.
“Over fifty,” Isla muttered, scrolling with a sharp flick of her fingers. “Fifty women in Texas with that name, and not one of them connects to Harris, his family, or Paula.”
Garrett leaned back, rubbed his sore shoulder, and stared at the useless list crowding his screen. Too many damn dead ends.
He scrolled through the useless list one more time before snapping the laptop shut. “I wonder if Anais made all of this up. Maybe pointing the finger at Paula is just her way of covering for her parents.”
Isla stopped typing and sat back, obviously giving that some thought.
“I agree. Yes, twenty-two years ago there was a woman named Marion Cole who rented a post office box, but without digging into things I shouldn’t touch, I can’t connect that person to Paula.
” Her mouth curved in that sharp way that told him she was holding back her irritation.
“So, should I go ahead and break the law?”
Garrett arched a brow at her. “Not unless you’re aiming to add orange jumpsuits to your wardrobe.”
Her eyes sparked, and for a moment some of the tension eased from her face. “Good to know you’re still the voice of reason.”
“Reason, no. Self-preservation, yes,” he countered, leaning back in his chair. “The last thing I need is explaining to Sheriff Raines why my partner in this mess got herself tossed in federal lockup for hacking.”
Garrett knew he should not be watching the way Isla’s hair slid over her forehead when she leaned toward her laptop.
Or noticing the shape of her mouth when she smirked at his comment.
Heat stirred low and sharp, the kind that had no business flaring now.
He forced his gaze back to his screen, back to the useless lists of names that blurred together.
“Anais’ accusation and info could be a dead end,” he muttered. “Or it could be the one break we need. Either way, we’ll never get there if we imagine you in an orange jumpsuit. Or I keep thinking about kissing you.”
Hell. Hell. Hell. Why had he blurted out that last part? Because he was toast, that’s why. Because he couldn’t be around Isla without thinking of this inevitable, searing heat.
Isla’s head came up, her eyes locking with his. “Then, we need a distraction from thoughts of, well, us,” she said with mock solemnity. “How about pickles and peanut butter? No one thinks about sex while eating that.”
He groaned. “You underestimate me.”
She grinned, clearly pleased with herself.
“Let me add another parameter to my search, then we’ll raid your kitchen while I let the search run in the background.
If Marion Cole ever bought property twenty-two years ago, give or take a year, it should be buried somewhere in the county databases.
We’ll just have to dig it out. Thousands of hits, most likely. ”
Garrett stood, stretching out his aching shoulders. “Thousands of hits and jars of pickles and peanut butter. Perfect evening.”
Isla carried her laptop into the kitchen and set it on the island, the search window still open and humming in the background. She rooted through his fridge like she owned the place and came up with a jar of pickles. From the pantry she snagged the peanut butter.
Garrett grabbed forks, spoons, and a pair of Cokes. What he really wanted was a beer or maybe the whiskey, but the last thing he needed was something strong dulling his edge.
She unscrewed the lid on the peanut butter, dug out a spoonful, and slid it between her lips.
Garrett’s mouth went dry. He told himself to look away, but instead he closed the space between them and slipped an arm around her waist. His body brushed hers, not a kiss, not yet, but the temptation buzzed like a live wire.
“If I kiss you,” he said, voice low, “work stops.”
She swallowed, a little smile tugging at her mouth. “Agreed. Now eat a pickle.” She shoved the jar at him.
He cracked the lid, the vinegar scent sharp in the air.
Her grin widened. “Tell me, Garrett. Do you ever regret that we never got to the… advanced placement part of teenage romance? You know, the lovers’ elective course?”
Garrett bit into the pickle, crunch sharp in the quiet kitchen. He chewed slowly, his gaze fixed on her as she twirled the spoon in the peanut butter like she had all the time in the world.
“Regret?” he said at last, his tone dry as dust. “Every damn day. But if we’d gone that far back then, I don’t think either of us would have made it out of high school alive. Too much heat, not enough sense.”
Her eyes sparked, a challenge and an invitation all at once. The space between them tightened, his arm still at her waist, her breath mingling with his. His lips hovered close to hers, and for one reckless second, he almost let go of reason.
Then her laptop gave a sharp beep, cutting through the tension like cold water on fire.
The sharp sound had Isla jerking back, her spoon clattering against the jar. She hurried to the island, eyes locked on the glowing laptop screen.
“Damn,” she muttered, her voice a mix of shock and triumph. “I got a hit. Twenty-two years ago, a Marion Cole bought a small rural house about thirty miles from here.”
Garrett stepped in close behind her, scanning the lines of text. His pulse kicked harder, the fire from their near-kiss now feeding the edge of adrenaline. “How far is that from Paula’s place?”
“Only about twenty miles,” Isla said, her fingers flying across the keys. She pulled up another document, her expression tightening. “And according to the current land records, the property is still in Marion’s name.”
Garrett let that sink in, his gut tightening. If Marion Cole was real, and if Paula was hiding behind that alias, then they were closer than ever to the truth. “I want to check out the place now.”
Her gaze flicked up to his, steady, determined. “So do I.”
That was all it took. They snapped into motion, shutting down the laptop, gathering their gear. Garrett strapped on his sidearm and checked his backup weapon while Isla secured hers. The familiar rhythm of preparation steadied him, though the unease in his gut didn’t ease.
Once ready, Garrett pulled out his phone and tapped out a quick message to Noah and Sheriff Raines.
We might have a lead. Isla found an address that could belong to Paula. Might be worth checking out. He sent the location pin before adding, We’re en route.
The sheriff’s reply came fast. Good. I’ll meet you there. Quiet approach. We go in together.
The response didn’t surprise Garrett. He knew that Raines was just as frustrated as they were. Maybe more. He’d gotten no answers from Anais’ and Leah’s interviews, and while Paula had been more or less cooperative, she certainly wasn’t dishing out any helpful answers either.
Garrett slid the phone into his pocket, and he looked at Isla, who already had her jacket in hand. “Raines is meeting us. He wants us to move in quiet.”
“Quiet works,” she said. Her voice was calm, but the heat in her eyes told him she was keyed up the same as he was.
They didn’t waste another second before heading out the door.
The night pressed in around them, the drizzle hissing against the windshield as Garrett guided the SUV along the two-lane road.
The wipers clicked in a steady rhythm, clearing the beaded mist from the glass, but the damp chill still crept into the cabin.
He kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, his eyes on the stretch of blacktop cut through dense clusters of trees.
Beside him, Isla had her laptop open, the glow casting a soft light across her face. She tapped a few keys, then turned the screen slightly toward him. “Here’s the property.”
Garrett flicked his gaze down long enough to take in the image. A modest house, maybe twelve hundred square feet, sat at the center of a decent-sized clearing.
The land around it stretched wide, several acres of rough pasture edged by timber, with no close neighbors in sight.
A gravel drive cut back toward the house, and a weathered shed leaned on one side of the yard.
The place had the kind of isolation that reminded him of Paula’s campground property, only scaled down.
“If Marion is Paula, how the hell could she afford both this place and the campground?” he asked.
“She got an inheritance,” Isla said, her eyes still on the screen.
“Insurance money, too. Both her parents were killed in a car crash when she was twenty-six, the year before Harris was taken. From what I found, she would have come out of that inheritance with enough cash to buy outright if she wanted.”
Garrett let that sink in as the rain picked up, streaking the glass. He pictured Paula, flush with sudden money but maybe grieving for her parents. Also recovering from cancer and desperate for a child. Then, buying herself not just one isolated place but two. Places perfect for hiding secrets.
He eased his foot on the gas, pushing them closer to the answers he both wanted and dreaded.
Isla’s voice cut through the low hum of the engine. “Maybe Paula isn’t Marion Cole though. It could be Leah. But then again, I can’t see Leah buying a place like this. Not when she had unlimited funds. Why would she settle for modest when she could afford anything she wanted?”