51. Harper
HARPER
I’ve been anxious all day to talk to Dad, but I know work isn’t the place. I figure I’ll talk to him when he gets home.
He's been working late a lot lately.
I frown.
The only reason I haven’t lost it today is because of Luke. Somehow, he knew exactly how to comfort me.
I don’t know what it says about me that “comforting me” equates to “handcuffing me,” but I do know that I felt better this morning after the orgasms and the tender way he held me until I fell asleep. It’s the only way I got through the day.
And now here I am, waiting to confront my dad.
I’m still at the table, drinking from a glass of water I wish was whiskey, when I hear his cruiser pull into the driveway.
I don't move when I hear his boots on the porch.
I just sit there with my hands folded on the table in front of me, the evidence room photographs tucked into a manila folder in front of me.
He walks in and stops.
"Harper." His voice is careful. Wary. "What are you doing up?"
"Waiting for you." My finger touches the folder.
He sets his keys on the counter, his movements careful. He's still in uniform—badge, gun belt, the whole nine yards. Sheriff Tom Garrett. Pillar of the community. My father.
"You should be asleep," he says, moving toward the fridge. "It's late."
“What’s going on, Dad?” I ask openly. There’s no point in beating around the bush.
He opens the refrigerator and looks inside. “Some idiot ran his car off the bridge out the old county road. The railing’s busted up.”
I still, waiting for him to mention the explosion or anything else suspicious he found there, but he just sets a Tupperware container on the counter and keeps rummaging in the fridge. Evidence of the explosion has to be there, right? I frown. I’d think that it’d be visible even at night.
I don’t like it. All my Spidey senses tingle with warning. The only thing I know to do is to confront him head-on. "I went to the evidence room this morning."
His hand freezes on the refrigerator door handle. For a second, he doesn't move. Then he continues looking for something to eat. “Did Strickland clean it up? I told him I wanted it organized.”
“I don’t know, but it was plenty organized for me to find what I was looking for.”
Straightening, he closes the refrigerator and finally faces me.
I open the folder and take out the map I marked up. “I went through the unsolved cases from the past five years. It’s funny what you find when you start looking for patterns.”
He folds his arms across his chest, giving me his official sheriff’s scowl. "Harper—"
"Twelve properties over five years.” I keep my voice steady. Cop voice. The one I use when I'm taking statements. “Property owner gets harassed, arrested, or has an accident. They lose their land to foreclosure or estate sale, and every time, Clearwater Holdings buys it."
He doesn't say anything. Just stands there in the dim kitchen light, his face shadowed and unreadable.
Swallowing thickly, I set the photos I took of the files on the table. "And every single case, every harassment complaint, every accident report, every suspicious death, was signed off by you." My voice cracks on the last word.
He closes his eyes. "You shouldn't have gone through those files."
"Why?" I stand, my chair scraping against the linoleum. I’m not sure if I’m asking him why I shouldn’t have looked or why he did it.
Sighing, he holds his hand up, like he's trying to calm someone hysterical. "Harper, it's not what you think."
"Then tell me what it is." I'm shaking, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. "Tell me how you signed off on twelve cases that are exactly the same without questioning what’s going on. Tell me that how you couldn’t have suspicions about Clearwater Holdings and their motives for buying up all that land, when you’re sworn to serve and protect Iron Ridge. Tell me how you could ignore the evidence Bob Hayes brought you and then treat his death like it was an accident. Mr. Hayes was your friend,” I say, my voice rising.
Dad’s face reddens, and he points a finger at me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Harper. You’re going to stir up everything I’ve been trying to prevent. You’re jumping to conclusions and sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you.”
“The hell they don’t concern me,” I yell. “I’m your fucking deputy.”
“Don’t take that tone with me.” He lurches forward, his hand lifting.
I flinch, waiting for his hand to connect with my face, but it doesn’t. When his hand lowers, fisting at his side, I gape at him. He’s never hit me before—not even a swat on my butt as a kid. I don’t even know what to think or do right now.
“Jake Callahan is behind this, isn’t he?” Dad spits out.
“Uh”—I blink a couple times—“actually it’s you that’s in question here.”
“Everything was fine before Callahan came back to town,” he continues, opening a cabinet for a plate and slamming it shut.
“Everything was not fine.” I stare at him incredulously. “How can you say that? Mr. Hayes died and Emma was being threatened. She’d probably be in a grave too if Jake hadn’t come back and protected her.”
“I was—”
“You were doing nothing,” I say over him, hands on my hips. “The only thing you were doing was furthering Cole Turner’s agenda in Iron Ridge.”
“I—”
“Who’s behind Clearwater Holdings?” I press. “The Turners? It makes sense since Eli was pushing Emma to sell her property.”
“Harp—"
“I just don’t get why.” I step closer to him, studying his face. It’s familiar, but at the same time it’s like I’m staring at a stranger. “You’ve told me about people who tried to buy you off in the past. How is Turner different?”
"I didn't have a choice!" he shouts.
I freeze, shocked. The part of me that was holding out hope that I was wrong withered.
Dad rubs his hand over his head before he scrubs it over his mouth. For the first time, I see how old he looks—how tired. “I didn’t have a choice, Harper,” he repeats, more quietly. "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to look the other way while people got hurt?"
"Then why did you?"
"Because he threatened you."
The words hit me like a punch. I stagger back a step.
He drops onto a seat at the kitchen table, his head bowed.
"Turner came to me five years ago," he continues, his voice hollow.
"Right after you came back from Denver. He said he had business interests in the area and needed someone who understood how things worked.
Someone who could make sure the right cases got closed quietly. "
"And you said yes."
"I said no." He looks at me, the bitterness clear in his dark gaze. "The first time, I said no. Two days later, someone broke into this house while you were at work. They didn't take anything. They just left a note on your pillow. It said, 'Next time, she’ll be home.'"
My stomach drops.
"So I made a deal," he says quietly. "One case. One signature. That's all it was supposed to be. I’d look the other way on the harassment complaint, and Turner would leave you alone."
I sink back onto the chair. "But it didn't stop there."
"No." He shakes his head. "One became two. Two became five. And by the time I realized what I was part of, it was too late. I was in too deep. He owned me."
Staring at him, I try to reconcile the man in front of me with the father who taught me what it meant to be a cop. The man who told me that the badge meant something—that justice mattered.
"You could have come to me," I say, and my voice sounds small. "You could have told me."
"And put you in more danger?" He laughs humorlessly, shaking his head.
"Harper, you don't understand what Turner is.
He owns judges. Deputies. Businesses. He's going to be governor.
If I'd told you, if I'd tried to stop him, he would have killed you.
I couldn't—" His voice breaks. "I couldn't let that happen. "
I slump against the seat. "So you let other people die instead."
The words hang in the air between us.
"I didn't know," he says, but there's no conviction in it. "I didn't know the full scope. I just signed the reports. I didn't ask questions."
"Is that how you've justified it?" I ask, and the bitterness in my voice surprises even me. "You don't ask questions, so you don't know for certain, and that way you can feel better about what you've done?"
He flinches like I've slapped him.
"Harper—"
"How many people, Dad?" My voice rises. "How many people lost everything because you were too scared to do the right thing? How many people died?"
"I was protecting you!" he shouts, his face red. He surges up from the chair and it crashes backwards, but he ignores it, focused on me. "Everything I did, I did to keep you safe. You think I wanted this? You think I'm proud of what I've become?"
"Then why didn't you stop?" Tears well in my ears, making my nose itch, and I blink hard to keep them from streaming down my face. "Why didn't you just stop?"
"Because it's too late." His voice drops to a defeated whisper. "Turner's too entrenched. He has too many people in his pocket. Even if I wanted to stop him now, I couldn't. It's useless."
"So you're just going to keep doing it." I stare at him, unable to believe the man before me is my father.
"I'm going to keep you alive." He steps closer, his eyes desperate. "Harper, listen to me. Turner knows about Blackthorn. He knows Jake Callahan and his team are operating out there. He knows they're involved in things they shouldn't be, and he wants them."
My blood runs cold. I stand up and edge away, hugging myself.
"Stay away from that ranch," he continues, his voice urgent. "Stay away from those men. They're in Turner's sights, and if you're with them when he moves, you'll get caught in the crossfire."
"You mean Luke," I say, my voice hoarse.
He nods. "I know you've been seeing him. I know you've been spending time at Blackthorn. And I'm telling you, as your father, to stay away. Turner's going to move on them soon, and when he does—"
"When he does, what?" I cut him off. "You're going to sign off on whatever happens? You're going to look the other way while Turner kills them?"
"I'm going to keep you out of it." His hands grip my shoulders. "That's all I care about. You. Keeping you safe. That's all I've ever cared about."
I look at him—really look at him—and I see it. The fear. The desperation. The years of compromise that have hollowed him out from the inside. I want to try to find a way to fix this, to resolve the situation and have things go back to normal.
Only there's nothing left to save. Dad betrayed me, going back on everything he ever told me he stood for. There’s no coming back from this.
"I can't do this," I say quietly, pulling away from him. "I can't be your daughter and pretend I don't know what you've done."
"Harper—"
"You made your choice." I pick up the folder from the table. "You chose Turner. You chose fear. You didn't choose the people you were supposed to protect. You didn't choose me, despite what you think."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" I laugh, and it sounds broken even to my own ears.
"You want to talk about fair? Tell that to the families who lost everything.
Tell that to Emma, whose father died in a single-vehicle accident that you signed off on.
Tell that to the people Turner's trafficking through this county while you look the other way. "
His face goes white. "What are you talking about?"
He knows about the trafficking. My heart drops, and I hug myself harder. "You really don't know? Or do you just not want to know?"
He doesn't answer.
I walk past him toward the door, the folder clutched in my hand.
"Where are you going?" he asks, his voice small.
"Somewhere I can still look at myself in the mirror."
"Harper, please—"
I stop at the doorway and turn back. He's standing in the middle of the kitchen, still in his uniform, looking smaller than I've ever seen him.
"I love you, Dad," I say, and my voice breaks on the words. "But I can't pretend this didn't happen, and I can't protect you from what's coming. So consider this me giving you notice. I’ll go on leave until you can process the paperwork."
"Harper—"
But I'm walking out of the kitchen, straight out the front door. I step into the night, get into my SUV, and drive. I don't know where I'm going until I'm already on the county road heading toward Blackthorn.
Toward Luke and the family they’re creating out there.
Because the one I was born into just died in that kitchen, and I can't go back.