Gravel spat under the tires as Harrison cut across the service road that paralleled the river. Pines blurred past, the trunks whipping like metronome arms. He had told himself he'd let her go. He had told Brandon to clear the gate. He had stood there and watched the sedan roll into the space beyond his maps.
Then the map shifted.
“Detour," the GPS chirped at him in a reasonable voice as if reason had anything to do with this. A logging truck had overturned beyond the first bridge. Traffic was being rerouted through the East Spur checkpoint—an older gate that opened to the highway out of the county.
Harrison's hands tightened on the wheel. East Spur was closer from the service road than the main border. If he took the cut through the quarry, he could reach the gate first.
He shouldn't.
