He turned the shotgun toward Jim. “You first, son. For the betrayal.” Alex jumped. The blast was deafening.
Alex felt a searing heat across his shoulder, but he didn’t stop. He tackled George, knocking him off the porch. The shotgun flew into the grass. The old man was surprisingly strong. He fought with a desperate, wiry strength.
“Let go,” George hissed. “Let go, you brat.” Alex landed a punch. The old man groaned and his grip loosened. Alex scrambled back, standing up. Jim had already recovered and was pointing his revolver at his father. “Stay down! Don’t move!”
George sat up slowly. He looked at his son, and his expression was haunting. Not fear, not anger—just disappointment. “You chose him,” he said, “a stranger, over your own blood.” “I chose my daughter. She’s my blood. Not you.”
George shook his head. “I made you, raised you, gave you everything. And you…” He suddenly lunged for a hunting knife that had fallen from his belt. Alex didn’t have time to react, but Jim did. A single shot from the revolver.
George jerked and fell back. The knife slipped from his hand. Jim ran to him. Alex watched as he knelt over his father’s body. “Dad? Dad?” George was still breathing.
It was a serious wound. “You…” the old man wheezed. “You’re still my son. My blood. Remember that.” His eyes rolled back. He lost consciousness.
Alex pulled out his phone and dialed Jenkins. “Investigator, get the coordinates. We need an ambulance and backup. George Garrett is down. His son is in custody and ready to talk.” He gave the location and hung up. Jim sat on the ground next to his father.
He wasn’t crying. He was just staring into the dark. “Macy?” Alex said. “We need to check on Macy.” They went into the cabin. The girl was lying on an old cot, tucked under a blanket. She was breathing steadily, just asleep.
The Benadryl was still in her system. Jim knelt beside her and took her hand. “It’s okay, baby,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Daddy’s here.” Alex stepped onto the porch. His shoulder burned.
The buckshot had grazed him. Nothing fatal. He sat on the steps and looked at the sky. The stars were bright and cold. Somewhere up there, Mary was watching.
Waiting for justice. “I found him, Mary,” Alex said aloud. “I found the man who did it. He’s going to pay. And you’ll be remembered.” The wind sighed through the pines. Like an answer. The ambulance and State Police arrived ninety minutes later.
By then, George Garrett was stable enough to be moved, but too weak to fight. He was loaded onto a stretcher and taken to the county hospital under heavy guard. Ellen arrived to take Macy. The girl woke up in the car, remembering nothing. Her mother told her that her grandfather had gotten sick and had to go to the hospital. She’d learn the truth later. Much later.
Alex was treated by the paramedics. The wound was shallow. A few stitches and a bandage. By morning, he was giving his final statement to Investigator Jenkins. Jim Garrett sat in the next room and told it all. The journal, the uncle, the years of silence.
He hid nothing and expected no mercy. He knew what was coming. The case became a national sensation. A predator who had operated for thirty years in a small town. A priest who covered for him. A Sheriff who knew and stayed quiet. Journalists swarmed Oak Creek.
Cameras, microphones, endless questions. Alex refused all interviews. He had nothing to say to them. They wanted a scandal; he wanted justice. George Garrett survived…
