Chapter Eleven #2
Garrett kept his gaze forward, jaw tight. “Maybe that’s exactly why she would. She could have bought it knowing it’d be the last place anyone would look for her and Harris. People expect rich women to hide their secrets in mansions, not rundown farmhouses.”
Isla’s brow furrowed, her fingers still hovering over the keyboard. “Good point. But Randall could have done it too. He didn’t have her money back then, but he could have mortgaged the place and paid it off once he married Leah.”
Garrett considered that, the tires hissing over wet pavement as his thoughts churned.
“Yeah. That tracks. I can’t dismiss it. But either way, whoever bought it would have needed help.
A nanny, someone. They couldn’t stay tucked away here 24/7.
They had lives in San Antonio, work, appearances to keep up. ”
Isla made a sound of agreement. “I can run a search on nannies in case this property doesn’t pan out. After all, the place could be owned by a real Marion Cole who has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Do the search on the nannies,” Garrett said. “If this is a bust, we need another angle ready.”
Isla rested her elbows on the laptop, tapping her fingers as if already sorting through search parameters in her head. “I can pull old childcare registries, licensing databases, even classifieds. Someone who worked as a nanny back then might still be around.”
His grip tightened on the wheel. He hated the idea of false trails, of chasing ghosts when Harris’ life might still be in play. But Isla was right. They couldn’t afford blind spots.
Garrett slowed to a crawl, easing the SUV onto the shoulder where the brush grew thick. The tires crackled against loose gravel before he killed the headlights, plunging them into darkness. The drizzle tapped against the windshield like fingers drumming out a warning.
Isla closed her laptop and set it on the backseat, her movements quiet, deliberate. She leaned forward, eyes locked on the narrow gravel drive cutting through the overgrowth. “This place looks like it hasn’t been touched in years,” she whispered.
Garrett lifted the binoculars, letting them adjust to the dim light ahead.
The house sagged in the shadows, the porch railing bowed and paint long since peeled away.
But the glow of a single lamp bled through the curtains in the front room.
Behind the thin fabric, he caught the faintest shadow shifting, someone moving inside.
“Got activity,” he muttered, passing the binoculars to Isla.
She pressed them to her face, holding her breath. “I see it. Someone’s definitely in there.” She shifted the angle, narrowing in on the car parked by the front steps. It was angled just enough to block both plates. “Damn. Can’t see the license plate numbers.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t find out who’s inside,” he reminded her. “Question is whether that shadow belongs to Harris… or to the person who’s been hiding him.”
Garrett’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He slid it out and checked the screen. A text from Raines.
Three minutes out.
He let Isla know, then kept his eyes trained on the house. The shadow behind the curtains was gone, though the lamplight still glowed steady and warm. Too steady. As if someone had left it on as a decoy.
By the time another vehicle rolled up, headlights killed, Garrett’s gut was already in a tight knot.
Raines climbed out, rain spotting his jacket, and joined them without a word.
Together, the three of them moved toward the gravel drive, the drizzle soaking into their hair and clothes.
The only sounds were the muted crunch of their boots and the patter of rain through the overgrowth.
“Hold up,” Garrett murmured, raising a hand.
He crouched slightly, scanning the edge of the path. His attention landed on a small black device tucked inside a tangle of shrubs. A motion sensor, its tiny light winking red. He followed the line of its coverage, then swept his gaze wider.
“There,” he pointed, low and sharp. Another sensor, positioned to overlap the first.
He lifted the binoculars again, training them on the eaves of the house. The drizzle blurred the lenses for a moment before he wiped them clean with the edge of his sleeve. Then he saw them. Security cameras, three at least, mounted in different angles, each one watching.
He lowered the binoculars, his jaw tightening. “Hell of a lot of security for an old country place.”
Raines studied the setup with a grim look. “Any way past those without lighting the place up like a Christmas tree?”
“Maybe,” Garrett answered.
He jogged back through the drizzle toward the SUV, yanked open the rear compartment, and pulled out the small black jammer box he kept in his gear kit. When he returned, he held it up for them to see.
“Not foolproof,” Garrett explained. “Depends on the system. It might block the sensors, but the cameras could still be running.”
Raines gave a nod, considering. “Then, we do it smart. I’ll do a knock on the door, badge in hand, and see who answers. You two circle around back. If someone’s thinking of bolting, you’ll be waiting.”
Garrett exchanged a look with Isla. Her hair was plastered to her cheek from the drizzle, eyes sharp and steady despite the tension. She nodded.
“Works for me,” Garrett said, clipping the jammer to his belt and powering it on. “Let’s make sure no one slips through the cracks.”
Raines adjusted his jacket, his voice low and even. “All right then. Let’s see what’s behind those curtains.”
Raines moved steadily up the gravel drive, his figure a dark silhouette against the glow of the porch light.
Garrett motioned to Isla, and together they cut into the thick brush lining the drive.
The shrubs clawed at their jackets as they pushed through, boots sinking into wet earth.
The drizzle slicked every leaf, dampening their movements but not enough to hide the crunch of branches underfoot.
They angled toward the rear of the house, keeping low. Through the shifting shadows Garrett caught a flicker of movement in the backyard. He tightened his grip on his weapon and picked up his pace, Isla matching him stride for stride.
They were within twenty yards when all hell broke loose.
A deafening roar split the air as the house ignited into a fireball, flames bursting through windows and tearing into the sky.