Chapter 2 - Shadows in the FarmhouseGarrison’s farmhouse smelled of old cedar, worn leather, and roasted coffee beans. It was a stark departure from the minimalist, sterile white interior of the house I had shared with Julian. Here, history lived in the walls. Framed photographs lined the hallway—not of local politicians, but of rugged mountain trails, rescue operations, and a smiling woman with kind eyes who looked at Garrison with a love that transcended time.
"My late wife, Elena," Garrison said quietly, noticing me staring at one of the photographs as he set a steaming mug of tea on the oak table. "She spent five years blaming herself for our inability to have children. The doctors said it was her. She believed them. She broke her heart trying to fix something that was never broken."
He pulled out a chair and sat down, his broad shoulders filling the room with a quiet, grounding presence.
"And?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"And when she passed away, I found her personal medical journal," Garrison’s voice hardened slightly, his silver eyes flashing with a dangerous glint. "She had kept records of every test, every consultation. I took them to independent specialists in Boston. The original clinic had doctored her files. The real diagnosis pointed entirely to a congenital condition I carried. I trusted the medical establishment. I trusted the doctors. I never should have."
I gripped my mug, the heat radiating into my cold fingers. "You investigated them."
"I spent twenty-eight years in law enforcement, Chloe. People lie with words all the time. But files, money trails, and medical records? They tell the truth if you know how to read them," Garrison said. He tapped a finger against the envelope containing the Boston fertility specialist’s contact information. "When I saw Julian standing on your porch today, flashing that smug corporate smile while you were drowning in manufactured guilt, I recognized the pattern. Men like Julian don't build empires; they build alibis."
"He thinks I have nothing," I murmured, staring down into the dark tea. "He took the car, the accounts, the insurance. I make twenty-eight thousand dollars a year at the library."
"Money is just paper, Chloe. Truth is leverage," Garrison replied evenly. "That envelope contains an open-ended voucher to the reproductive endocrinology clinic in Boston run by Dr. Aaron Vance—one of the top three specialists in the world. He owes me a favor from an old case. If you want a family, if you want a future, you don't do it with a broken foundation. You build it right."
I looked up, meeting his steady, unwavering gaze. There was no pity in his eyes—only profound respect and a cold, strategic calculation.
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"Why are you doing this, Garrison?" I asked, needing to know. "You barely know me."
"I know what it’s like to watch a good person get hollowed out by a liar," he said simply. "Besides... Cedar Hollow is a small town. People think I’m just an old dog sitting on a porch. They forget that a sheriff doesn't stop being a sheriff just because he hands in his badge."
