Chapter Fifteen
Garrett’s chest tightened the instant the door opened. For a second he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, because the face staring back at him was the perfect match to the age-progression Isla had built.
Harris.
Twenty-two years older, taller, leaner, his hair mussed from sleep, but the bone structure, the mouth, the jawline were all there.
The young man let out a jaw-cracking yawn, scratching the back of his neck as if they were nothing more than strangers disturbing his morning. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Garrett’s gaze lifted to the red light blinking on the security camera above the door. It had flickered to life when the door opened, and his stomach clenched. Recording? Alerting someone?
They’d soon find out.
Sheriff Raines stepped forward, steady and calm. “I’m Sheriff Raines. This is Garrett McCall and Isla Prescott. You’re Daniel Cole?”
The young man frowned, suspicion creeping into his sleepy voice. “Yeah. That’s me. What’s this about?”
“We should come in and talk,” Raines insisted.
Harris’s hand tightened on the edge of the door, his body angled just enough that Garrett knew he was ready to slam it shut if things went sideways. The hesitation in his eyes carried weight, a mix of distrust and the instinct to protect himself.
With reason.
To him, three strangers showing up at dawn could mean anything. A con. A robbery. Even Raines’ badge might look like nothing more than a prop.
“Why don’t you just tell me why you’re here?” Harris asked, his tone low and clipped.
Garrett stayed still, forcing his hands loose at his sides. He wanted to tell him outright. Wanted to shake him, hug him, anything but stand frozen in this limbo. But this wasn’t his call.
Raines shifted, shoulders drawing back. Garrett caught the subtle pause, the way the sheriff gathered in a long breath. He was weighing words, working through where to begin. This wasn’t a story you could unload all at once without shattering the ground beneath a man’s feet.
“We need to talk about something that happened when you were a baby,” Raines finally said. “Does the name Harris McCord mean anything to you?”
Harris blinked, his brow furrowed, but there was nothing behind his eyes except confusion. “No,” he answered flatly.
Garrett studied the young man’s expression, and he believed him. There was no flicker of recognition at the mention of Harris’s name. No buried spark of memory. Just a wall of blank truth.
“You were abducted as a newborn,” Raines added.
For a heartbeat, the silence held. Then Harris let out a short, sharp laugh. “Okay. This is a joke. And let me guess, this is Blake’s doing. He’s always pulling shit like this.”
He started to push the door closed, but his phone buzzed in his hand. He looked at the screen, his posture stiffening. Whatever name flashed there, it drained the humor from his face.
Harris lifted the phone to his ear, tension already in his voice. “What’s wrong?”
Garrett strained to catch the reply, but the words were muffled, swallowed by distance and the crackle of the line. Whatever was said, it stripped the color from Harris’s face. His grip tightened on the phone.
Then, without another word, he slammed the door in their faces.
Garrett lunged forward, hand shooting out for the handle, but the deadbolt clicked before he could push it open. The lock thudded into place, cold and final.
From the other side, hurried footsteps pounded against the hardwood. Running. Fast.
Garrett cursed under his breath. Harris was bolting. Maybe out the back. Maybe into the streets. But two questions burned hotter than the rest. Who had called Harris, and what the hell had they said to set him off like that?
“Go around back,” Raines told Isla and him. “I’ll stay at the front in case he comes out.”
Garrett nodded and tugged Isla along with him, both of them hurrying along the side of the warehouse. Isla pulled her phone from her pocket, already pressing in a number. Garrett heard the faint buzz of a call ringing out, then Isla muttering when it went to voicemail. “He’s not answering.”
The alley behind the warehouse was narrow, shadowed, littered with damp cardboard and rusting trash bins. A stray cat darted across their path, its tail bristled high, before vanishing under a dented dumpster.
Garrett’s gaze locked on the steel exit door at the end unit. A small red light glowed above the security camera aimed directly at them. Whoever had set it up knew exactly who was at the door.
He stepped close and knocked, his knuckles sharp against the metal. “Harris. Listen to me. We have things to tell you, things you need to hear.”
Silence pressed back at him. No shuffle of footsteps. No reply.
Then, from one of the upper windows of the warehouse, a man’s voice cut through the stillness. Irritated. “Cut down the fucking noise! Some of us are trying to sleep!”
Garrett ignored him, pressing his palm flat to the door, leaning close as if Harris could feel the urgency through the steel.
Nothing.
Not a single sound from inside.
Isla was already dialing again, her voice tight with frustration as the call went to voicemail.
“Harris, it’s Isla Prescott,” she said quickly.
“You don’t know me, but there are things you need to hear.
Dangerous secrets. Please call me back.” She ended the message and lowered the phone, her eyes flicking to Garrett.
Garrett knocked hard on the door once more, his fist echoing through the narrow alley. “Harris, open up. Now.”
The sharp blast of a gunshot cut the air. Concrete splintered just inches from his boots, bits of stone stinging his shin. The sound ricocheted off the walls, deafening in the confined space.
Garrett yanked Isla back against the wall, his hand covering her head as another echo rippled through the alley. His pulse hammered, every sense sharpened, as he searched for the shooter.
More gunfire cracked through the alley, sharp and relentless, bullets chewing into the concrete just feet from where Garrett crouched. He dragged Isla with him, both of them scrambling behind a Dumpster slick with rainwater and reeking of rot.
The rounds kept coming, hammering the wall above their heads and spitting chips of brick onto their shoulders.
The angle of the fire told him it wasn’t Harris pulling the trigger inside his unit.
The shots were coming from the back corner of the warehouse next door, the muzzle flash just visible between stacked pallets.
“Isla, stay low,” Garrett hissed, his hand pressed firm against her shoulder.
His blood was pounding, every muscle braced to return fire, but the barrage made it impossible to lean out without taking one to the skull.
“Garrett, Isla,” Raines shouted from the front, his voice cutting through the chaos. “You two all right? Do you have eyes on the shooter?”
“We’re good, no hits,” Garrett yelled back, forcing his voice steady. “No eyes.”
The sheriff’s voice came again, closer this time. “Backup’s on the way.”
Good. Because right now the alley was turning into a war zone. Neighbors were yelling from windows above, someone shrieked in panic, and the blaring of triggered burglar alarms layered over the gunfire. It was deafening, a wall of sound that rattled Garrett’s already frayed nerves.
Still, the shooter didn’t let up. Round after round hammered into the Dumpster, punching holes and ringing metal. Whoever was behind that trigger wasn’t trying to scare them off. They wanted blood.
Garrett twisted enough to shout toward the front, his voice hoarse over the racket. “Raines! Harris is on the move.”
But the Jeep didn’t roll past the sheriff’s position. Instead, Garrett caught the growl of the engine cutting down the narrow back alley, tires screeching on the wet pavement. Harris was gone, slipping out the rear before anyone could cut him off.
With his jaw tight, Garrett pressed his shoulders harder against the Dumpster. Why the hell was the kid running? Why bolt from the only people who might give him answers?
The answer to that had to be the call.
Whoever had reached him on the phone had spooked him, turned them into the enemy in his eyes. That was the only explanation. Harris hadn’t looked like a young man with secrets when they stood at his door. He hadn’t even recognized his birth name.
The memory cut through Garrett’s fury. That blank, unknowing stare when Raines had asked him if Harris McCord meant anything. No flicker of recognition. No guilt. Just confusion.
So why run?
Harris had been set up to believe Garrett, Isla, and the sheriff were the threat. And now, with bullets hammering down around them, the truth was slipping further out of reach.
The air cracked, then hissed. A canister clattered against the pavement, spewing smoke that swallowed the alley in seconds. The acrid sting clawed down Garrett’s throat, burned his eyes. He ducked low, gun ready, straining for a target he couldn’t see.
The gunfire stopped. Silence pulsed through the haze, broken only by pounding footsteps cutting away into the maze of warehouses.
Garrett surged forward, heart hammering. He broke into a sprint, chasing the sound through the gray shroud. Another canister skidded across the concrete at his feet, belching a fresh wall of choking smoke. He pressed on, coughing, teeth clenched.
Then, a third landed just yards ahead. The alley vanished, thick as fog at midnight. He dropped to one knee, chest heaving, fighting for breath he couldn’t drag in.
The footsteps faded. Gone.
Garrett slammed a fist against the ground, coughing until his lungs burned. Whoever had orchestrated this was gone, the smoke their cover, and once again the truth slipped into the dark.
Their attacker had gotten away.