Chapter Three
Garrett sat in the stiff plastic chair, elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor. The hum of fluorescent lights pressed down on him, mixing with the faint beeps and murmurs that drifted in from the rest of the hospital.
Trudy was out of surgery. The doctor had said the bullet was removed, but she was still in recovery. Still critical. They couldn’t see her yet. That waiting gnawed at him worse than the ache in his shoulder ever had.
Beside him, Isla leaned back in her chair, thumbs tapping rapidly on her phone.
From the phone speaker came an odd honking noise, followed by a cartoonish squeal.
Garrett frowned, glancing over to see a jumble of bright colors on her screen.
She was stacking tiny digital clowns into teetering towers, the kind of ridiculous game he would never understand.
The sound clashed hard with the sterile silence of the waiting room, absurd against the faint hiss of the vending machine.
Yet it was so Isla. Quirky. Offbeat. She had always been able to find light in the middle of dark, a way to distract herself and everyone else from the shadows pressing in.
Back when they were teenagers, that spark had pulled him in before he knew better.
It had been what made him look twice, what made him want to be near her.
She was still that girl in some ways. Still his opposite. And it unsettled him, how much he felt the pull even now.
Isla caught him watching her screen and tilted the phone toward him. “Helps me settle,” she said. “Want to try? It has a zombie option.”
Garrett shook his head. “Hard pass.”
She smirked faintly, then went back to tapping, the odd honks and squeals popping out of the speaker.
“I can’t think about Trudy being hurt right now,” she said softly, eyes fixed on the game. “If I do, I’ll lose it. And if I lose it, I can’t think about the details.”
Garrett shifted in his chair, his gaze still locked on her. “What details?”
“The ones we saw in the house.” Her tone sharpened, her voice steadier now. “The office torn apart. The laptop missing. The shadowy figure who shot at you. And what Trudy said before she blacked out.”
Garrett’s jaw tightened. He heard the words again, as if Trudy were saying them now, weak but certain. I think I know who took him.
The memory set his pulse beating harder. Because if she had meant what he thought she meant, then the past they had both tried to bury was clawing its way back.
Garrett’s phone buzzed against his thigh. He pulled it out and saw Noah’s name on the screen. A short text glowed in the harsh hospital light.
Still at the ranch with the county deputies. Sheriff Deacon Raines is on his way to the hospital to talk to you both. CSIs haven’t turned up anything yet. What’s Trudy’s status?
Garrett exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around the phone. He typed back fast. No change on Trudy. Still in recovery. We’re waiting.
He hesitated a second, then added, Haven’t had a chance to ask her about what she said before she went under.
He showed Isla Noah’s texts and his reply before he locked the screen and sat back, his mind circling that one jagged phrase.
I think I know who took him.
The words refused to let go, echoing as if Trudy were still lying on the floor, blood on her blouse and her voice breaking. Garrett rubbed a hand over his jaw, the need for answers grinding against the helpless wait.
Isla let out a long sigh and tilted her phone away. “Since you won’t stack zombies or clowns, then try this.”
Garrett arched a brow. “What now?”
Her blue eyes slid toward him, a spark of mischief slipping through the exhaustion. “Remember when we were kids, and I’d take a line from a Christmas carol and swap out a word with something dumb? Like… Deck the halls with boughs of longhorns.”
The corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it. He remembered. She’d done it every December until Trudy finally banned carols in the house unless they were sung right. Isla had never cared. The quirkiness was just who she was.
He shook his head. “You were relentless with that.”
“And you secretly liked it,” she shot back, her grin faint but real.
Garrett didn’t answer, but the memory stirred something sharp in his chest. She was still that girl in flashes, the one who could turn even grief and chaos into something bearable, even if only for a breath.
The waiting room door swung open. Garrett lifted his head as a man stepped inside, tall and broad-shouldered, his tan uniform fitting him like it had been cut for him alone.
Late thirties, sharp jaw, dark hair trimmed neat, the kind of man who carried both authority and the weight of it without effort.
“Garrett. Isla.” Sheriff Deacon Raines gave them a nod, his voice low and steady. He looked tired, lines bracketing his eyes, but his focus was sharp.
He stopped in front of them, his hat tucked under his arm. “How’s Trudy?”
Isla lowered her phone, the brightness on her face fading. “Out of surgery. She’s in recovery. They won’t let us see her yet.”
Raines gave a slow nod, his mouth pressed tight. Garrett knew he and Trudy went back years. The sheriff had grown up not far from the ranch, and Trudy had been like a second mother to half the county.
“Did you finish giving your statements to my deputy?” Raines asked.
“Yeah,” Garrett said. “He wrapped up and left about an hour ago.”
Sheriff Raines shifted his hat in his hands, his gaze flicking between Garrett and Isla. “There’s something you should know. About a month ago, Trudy came to me asking for the official records on Harris’s disappearance. I gave her copies.”
Garrett straightened. “And?”
“They’re gone. My CSIs checked her office at the ranch, checked her bedroom, too, and the living areas, and the files weren’t there.”
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.
“It’s possible that right after her meeting with Trudy that night, Paula sneaked back into the house and took Harris.”
The words dropped like stones. Garrett’s gut twisted hard.
He could still see it, still feel it. He and Isla outside the nursery door, lost in each other when they should have been watching.
The truth was brutal—he wouldn’t have heard an elephant crash through that nursery, much less a social worker with quiet steps and the know-how to slip in and out without a sound.
The guilt pressed down, raw and familiar. Twenty-two years had done nothing to dull it.
He forced his jaw to unclench, but the memory burned through him all the same.
Sheriff Raines shifted his weight, his voice firm. “I plan to reach out to all three. Bring them in for interviews, see what shakes loose.”
Before Garrett could answer, Isla’s phone was already in her hand. Her thumbs moved quick, precise, and then she lifted her gaze. “Check your messages. I just sent you their contact info.”
Raines glanced down at his own phone and gave her a short nod. “Appreciate it.”
The door opened before anything more could be said. A doctor stepped in, his white coat stark under the harsh lights. His expression was serious but not grim.
“Trudy is awake,” the doctor said. “She’s asking for you.” His gaze flicked between Garrett and Isla. “Both of you.”
Garrett pushed to his feet, tension snapping through him. At last, some answers waited on the other side of that door.