Chapter 4 - The House in Southlake
The gates of the Holloway estate in Southlake opened silently, letting Garrett’s black suburban roll down a long driveway lined with oak trees and soft landscape lighting.
The house was a massive, sprawling stone structure—six thousand square feet of beams, glass, and dark hardwood floors. But as Garrett carried Theo through the front double doors, followed by Maisie and Dean carrying the single plastic grocery bag, the mansion felt empty.
Garrett had lived here alone for eight years, ever since his wife, Eleanor, had lost her battle with leukemia. They had never been able to have children. The large rooms had slowly become galleries for Garrett’s quiet life—shelves of leather-bound books, ancient maps, and pristine leather furniture that had never seen a crayon mark or a spilled juice box.
“Dean,” Garrett whispered as he walked down the wide ground-floor hallway. “Open the guest rooms in the east wing.”
“The ones near the garden?” Dean asked quietly.
“Yes. The ones with the low beds.”
Ten minutes later, Theo was tucked under a heavy down quilt in a king-sized bed that made him look tiny. Garrett laid the faded stuffed puppy right beside the boy's cheek. Theo’s small hand instinctively reached out in his sleep, curling around the brown fur.
In the adjoining room, connected by a wide wooden pocket door, Maisie stood by the edge of a matching bed.
She had refused to change into the oversized sweatpants from her plastic bag. She still wore her yellow cardigan, her small white socks dusty from the airport floor.
Garrett sat down on the edge of the mattress, his long legs stretched out across the rug.
“It’s a big house,” Garrett acknowledged gently. “A little quiet.”
Maisie sat on the edge of the bed, her hands resting in her lap. “Is this a hotel?”
“No,” Garrett said. “It’s my home. You’re going to stay here for a few days while we figure things out.”
“Are there police outside?”
“No. Just two guys named Sam and Mark who keep the gate closed so the coyotes don't bother the cattle down the road.”
Maisie looked around the room—at the soft ivory walls, the framed watercolor paintings of Texas wildflowers, the large stone fireplace that was currently cold.
“Theo cries at night,” Maisie said suddenly. Her voice was small, but carried an intense weight. “When it gets dark, he thinks Daddy is hiding in the closet.”
Garrett felt a sharp twist in his gut. “What do you do when he cries?”
“I hold his hand,” she said simply. “And I sing the song Mommy taught us. But sometimes I forget the words.”
Garrett leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Do you want me to leave the door between your rooms wide open?”
Maisie nodded once.
“And do you want me to leave the hallway light on?”
“Yes, please.”
Garrett stood up. He walked to the wide pocket door, pushed it deep into the wall so both rooms became one large space, and turned on the soft accent lamp on the nightstand between the beds.
He walked to the doorway leading to the hallway, then paused, looking back at her.
“Maisie?”
“Yes, Mr. Garrett?”
“Nobody is going to leave you here,” Garrett said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. “Not in the dark. Not at an airport. Not anywhere. Do you understand me?”
Maisie looked at him for a long, silent moment. Then, for the first time since Garrett had seen her sitting at Gate 26 six hours ago, the corners of her mouth twitched slightly upward.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Garrett walked out into the hallway, leaving the door open six inches.
He walked down the long spiral staircase to the ground floor, where Dean was sitting at the massive kitchen island, his laptop open, three empty coffee mugs stacked beside his elbow.
“Did they get down?” Dean asked, looking up from his screen.
“Theo’s out cold. Maisie’s awake, but she’s resting,” Garrett said, walking to the leather sofa in the living room and dropping into it. He dragged both hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble on his jaw. “What did we find on the father?”
Dean tapped his keyboard. “Julian Vance. Thirty-eight when he passed. He was an independent structural engineer in Evanston. Good guy, from all accounts. Had a small firm, built custom residential frames. His first wife, Sarah, died of an aneurysm when the twins were eighteen months old.”
“And Brenda?”
“Julian married Brenda three years ago,” Dean said, reading from a private investigator’s report. “She was a junior accountant at a firm he contracted with. When Julian got sick eighteen months ago, his medical bills wiped out his business insurance. Brenda liquidated everything—the house, his tools, his savings. The bank foreclosed three weeks ago.”
Garrett stared at the cold stone fireplace. “And the uncle mentioned in the note?”
Dean hesitated, looking down at his screen. “Arthur Vance. Julian’s older brother. He lives in Abilene, Texas. Operates a small auto body repair shop.”
“Did you call him?”
“I did,” Dean said, his voice tightening with quiet anger. “An hour ago.”
“And?”
Dean looked Garrett straight in the eyes. “He told me Julian was an idiot for marrying Brenda, said he hadn't spoken to his brother in four years, and that he’s got four kids of his own and a shop that’s six months behind on lease payments. He told me to let the state take them.”
Garrett closed his eyes. The room was completely silent except for the soft ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.
“Get Arthur Vance on a plane or in a car,” Garrett ordered quietly. “Offer to pay off his shop lease for the year if he shows up at the Tarrant County Family Courthouse on Monday morning.”
May you like
Dean blinked. “You want to buy him off?”
“I want to look him in the eye,” Garrett said, opening his eyes—eyes that were dark, cold, and burning with absolute purpose. “And then I want his legal signature waiving every single parental and familial right he has to those children.”
