Chapter Fourteen #2
Once back in the hallway, I leaned against the wall, trying to steady my breathing. I needed to call it in, to report the break-in officially. But my hands moved on autopilot, pulling my phone from my pocket and scrolling to a different number. Not the sheriff. Not dispatch.
Harlow.
I pressed the call button before I could think better of it. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Each ring stretched like an eternity.
"Dan?" His deep voice finally came through the line, immediately steadying something wild and panicked inside me. Just hearing him say my name made the hallway feel less threatening.
"Someone broke in and ransacked my apartment," I said, my voice sounding hollow and distant to my own ears. "It's completely destroyed. Threatening messages everywhere."
There was a beat of silence, followed by muffled voices on the other end—Harlow telling someone, probably Knox or Ransom, what had happened.
"We're on our way," he responded, his tone protective and certain. "Stay outside. Don't go back in there alone."
The simple command nearly broke my composure. Something about Harlow taking charge, about knowing he was coming for me, made my throat tighten painfully.
I'd spent so long handling everything alone, being the strong one, the one others relied on. Having someone step in, someone who wanted to protect me rather than just expect things from me, hit me in places I didn't know were vulnerable.
"Okay," I managed, the single word embarrassingly thick with emotion.
"Ten minutes," Harlow promised. "Maybe less. Knox is getting the truck. We're coming."
After ending the call, I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, the gym bag with the surveillance equipment clutched to my chest like a shield.
My shallow breathing echoed in the empty hallway.
I kept looking toward the stairwell, half-expecting to see the intruders returning to finish what their warning had started.
The building suddenly felt like a trap. Any noise—the distant hum of the ancient elevator, the creak of floorboards, the whisper of air through the ventilation system—made me flinch.
My training told me to secure the scene, to call it in properly, to start documenting the evidence.
But some deeper instinct kept me frozen in place, waiting for Harlow.
I wiped cold sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, noticing the tremor that hadn't subsided. The trembling wasn't just in my hands—it had worked its way deep inside me, a vibration of fear and violation that seemed to rattle my bones.
Another glance at my open apartment door, at the destruction visible from my position in the hallway, sent a fresh wave of cold reality washing over me.
These people were serious. They weren't just trying to scare me off—they were showing me exactly how vulnerable I was, how easily they could reach me.
And if they could reach me, they could reach anyone I cared about.
The thought of Harlow in danger because of me made my stomach clench painfully. But even that couldn't override the selfish relief I felt knowing he was on his way. Whatever happened next, I wouldn't be facing it alone.
The elevator felt too exposed, too trapped, so I took the stairs down to the ground floor, the gym bag clutched tightly against my chest. Each footstep echoed in the stairwell, making me flinch and look over my shoulder.
They'd been in my apartment, touching my things, leaving threats on my walls.
They could still be nearby, watching, waiting.
I burst through the exit door into the chilly night air, eyes scanning the parking lot with frantic intensity.
Nothing moved in the shadows between the parked cars.
No unusual shapes, no waiting figures. Just the ordinary nighttime stillness of a small-town apartment complex.
I moved toward my truck in a half-jog, keys already in hand, finger on the remote to unlock it from a distance.
The beep and flash of lights felt too loud, too visible.
I threw the gym bag onto the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel in one fluid motion, immediately locking the doors again with a reassuring thunk.
Only then did I reach into the glove compartment and retrieve my service weapon, checking it with practiced hands before securing it in my holster. The weight against my side was instantly comforting, a counterbalance to the fear still coursing through my system.
I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, heading in the opposite direction from the McKenzie farm.
The street lights cast pools of yellow against the asphalt, creating a rhythm of light and dark as I drove.
My mind raced faster than my truck, connecting dots I'd been too slow to see before.
The timing wasn't coincidental. The truck that had shone its high beams on Harlow and me in the driveway. The methodical destruction of my apartment. The specific threats on my walls. They knew. They knew about the McKenzies. They knew about Harlow.
A cold, sick feeling spread through my gut as the implications sank in.
By involving Harlow and his family in my investigation, I'd painted targets on their backs.
These weren't ordinary criminals—these were people who had already tried to kill me once.
People who wouldn't hesitate to hurt anyone connected to me if it meant protecting their operation.
"God damn it," I muttered, slamming my palm against the steering wheel.
I turned onto Main Street, which was nearly deserted at this hour. A single car passed going the opposite direction, its headlights momentarily blinding me. I blinked away the afterimage, checking my mirrors again.
That's when I saw them—headlights behind me, maintaining a consistent distance. They'd been there since I left my apartment building, I realized with a jolt. Not close enough to be obvious, but never turning off, never falling behind.
I made a sudden right turn onto Cedar Lane, watching my mirror intently. The headlights followed, still maintaining that careful distance. Not a coincidence. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead as I accelerated slightly, then made another turn. The headlights remained.
Someone was following me.
My hand shook slightly as I pulled out my phone, keeping one eye on the road and one on my rearview mirror. I hit redial on Harlow's number, pressing the phone to my ear.
He answered on the first ring. "Dan? We're almost to town."
"I'm coming to you," I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. "I think I'm being followed. Tell me where to meet you."
There was a brief pause, then Harlow's voice came back, calm but urgent. "Old logging road off Highway 12. There's a turnoff about three miles past the Bridger property, marked by three big pines. Follow it until it forks, then take the left path. We'll be waiting at the clearing."
I knew the spot—isolated, with multiple escape routes, surrounded by dense forest. Good choice.
"I'm on my way," I said, checking my mirror again. The headlights were still there. "But Harlow—be careful. These people know about you, about us. They were watching at your farm earlier."
"You'll be okay, Dan," he promised, his deep voice unwavering. "I'll protect you."
Those simple words squeezed my heart like a vise. That's exactly what I was afraid of—Harlow putting himself in danger to protect me. I couldn't bear the thought of those gentle hands, the ones that had touched me with such tenderness just hours ago, being harmed because of my investigation.
I ended the call and made a series of quick turns, trying to lose my tail before heading toward the meeting point.
The muscle in my jaw jumped rhythmically as I clenched my teeth, my knuckles white around the steering wheel.
The car behind me stayed consistent—not aggressive, just.. . present. Watching. Following.
As I turned onto Highway 12, heading away from town toward the outskirts where the McKenzie property began, a terrible clarity settled over me.
This was more than just an investigation now.
By allowing myself to get close to Harlow, I'd created a vulnerability that could be exploited.
I'd put him and his entire family at risk.
The memory of Harlow's face in the tack room, open and trusting as I'd shown him pleasure, made my chest ache with a physical pain.
I'd never meant for this to happen—not falling for him, and certainly not dragging him into danger.
But both had happened anyway, and now I had to face the consequences.
I checked my mirrors again. The headlights had fallen back, almost disappearing in the distance, but I knew they were still there. Still watching. Still following.
My breathing grew shallow as I approached the turnoff Harlow had described. Three tall pines stood sentinel at the entrance to the logging road, just visible in my headlights. I slowed but didn't signal—no need to telegraph my movements—before making the turn onto the unpaved road.
The truck bounced over ruts and potholes, the suspension groaning in protest. The dense forest closed in around me, branches reaching over the narrow track like grasping fingers.
In my rearview mirror, the headlights had reappeared, distant but unmistakable, now turning onto the logging road behind me.
"Damn it," I hissed, pressing harder on the accelerator. The truck lurched forward, tires struggling for purchase on the uneven ground.
As I approached the fork in the road, time seemed to slow. Left would take me to Harlow, to safety, to the man who had somehow become my anchor in this storm. But it would also lead these people directly to him.
The realization hit me with absolute certainty: I couldn't do that. I couldn't lead this danger straight to the McKenzies' doorstep.
Without signaling, I jerked the wheel to the right instead of left at the fork, my decision made in a heartbeat of clarity. The truck fishtailed slightly on the loose gravel before straightening out.
In my mirror, the following headlights momentarily slowed at the fork, then turned right as well, confirming my suspicions. I needed to lead them away from Harlow, not toward him.
Even if it meant facing them alone.
My phone buzzed with a text—Harlow, no doubt wondering why I hadn't appeared at the meeting spot. I ignored it, focusing on the winding forest road ahead. Each mile I put between myself and the McKenzie clearing was another mile of safety for Harlow.
As the headlights behind me grew closer, more aggressive now that we were isolated on this remote track, I made a silent vow that settled in my chest with the weight of absolute certainty: I would not let anyone hurt Harlow McKenzie, even if it meant walking away from the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Even if it meant facing these threats alone.
Some prices were too high to pay. Harlow's safety wasn't negotiable.