by Elle Kennedy
“Sir…” Murphy’s voice held a note of uncertainty. “Don’t you want to stay longer, maybe patch things up?”
“There’s nothing to patch up,” he said stiffly. His ears perked at the sound of footsteps out in the hallway. “Look, I’ve got to go. Keep me posted about the extraction.”
“Yes, sir.” A beat of hesitation. “Say hi to Morgan for me.”
Quinn disconnected the call just as a soft knock sounded at his door. “Come in,” he barked.
The door swung open, and Morgan stepped into the room. She wore what he’d always considered her “senator’s daughter” attire: a black silk blouse tucked into the waistband of sleek, green slacks, and black high heels that added two inches to her height. A spark of irritation lit his belly. Yes, she looked sophisticated, almost regal thanks to the elegant twist she’d tied her blond hair into, but he’d never liked seeing her in those types of outfits. She looked far more beautiful in a pair of faded jeans and a snug T-shirt.
She noticed him studying her wardrobe and shrugged. “I know. Stuffy as hell, huh? It’s all I had in the closet.” She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t exactly have an overnight bag with me when I broke out of the psych ward.” Before he could comment, she changed the subject. “So what’s on the agenda for today? A visit to the woods where Layla’s body was found?”
Quinn shook his head. “We’ll save that for tonight.”
Her sensual lips curved with amusement. “Right, I forgot. You need the cover of darkness, being a man who walks in the shadows and all.”
Despite himself, he smiled. “It’s the only way I operate.”
“Okay, so what should we do?”
“I figure we’ll go into town, have some breakfast and listen to what the folks in town are saying about the fact that Layla’s body was found. Maybe we’ll overhear something worthwhile and get a lead.” He tucked his cell phone in his pocket, adding, “Murphy says hi, by the way.”
Morgan’s perfect features softened, her gaze growing wistful. “How is he doing?”
“He’s fine.”
She smiled again, and the tiny dimple at her chin popped out. “Does he still call you ‘sir’?”
“Yep.”
She averted her eyes for a moment, studying the small oil landscape hanging on the wall opposite the bed. When she looked back at him, that wistfulness still floated around on her face like a restless feather. “I miss him. Tell him I said hello, okay?”
“I will.”
A short silence fell. Morgan cleared her throat. “Uh, yeah, so maybe when we’re in town we can pay a visit to the medical examiner, too. His name is Frank Davidson, and I’m hoping he’ll let us see Layla’s remains.”
“Not if Jake Wilkinson has anything to say about it,” Quinn replied. “I’m sure the good sheriff already ordered David son not to speak to you.
She shrugged. “Then we’ll stop by Frank’s office after our foray in the woods tonight.” Mischief lit in her eyes. “Do you still have your lock-picking kit?”
Quinn shot her a stern look. “You know owning one of those is illegal, Morgan. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
A laugh—husky and melodic—slid out of her throat. “You, do something illegal? Perish the thought.” She stepped toward the door, glanced back over her shoulder and added, “Good thing I have mine with me.”
Another unwelcome grin tugged at his mouth. Fortunately Morgan’s back was turned so she didn’t witness the treacherous reaction. Damn it. He was so not allowed to enjoy being with her. They weren’t lovers any longer. Hell, they weren’t even friends. Obligation, that’s the only reason he was here. She’d said so herself—he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened to her, especially if he could have prevented it. It wasn’t because he still cared about her. Just duty and obligation. A favor to someone he’d once cared about, that’s all.
Drawing in a steadying breath, he followed Morgan out the door.
Jessie’s Restaurant was located in the heart of Autumn, across the street from the town square and the police station. It served the best breakfast in town, drawing in the crowds during the summer tourist season, and locals year-round. Morgan wasn’t surprised to find the restaurant nearly filled to capacity when she and Quinn strode through the door.
She also wasn’t surprised when most of the patrons swiveled their heads in her direction, then averted their gazes and whispered to one another. Last time she’d come home, she wound up in the bottom of the river. In a town that didn’t see much excitement, her little swim had been big news, and evidently still was.
“Prepare to be gawked at for the next hour,” she murmured to Quinn, who seemed completely unfazed by the unconcealed interest of Autumn’s residents.
The restaurant consisted of diner-style booths against one wall, a long chrome counter on the other and tables scattered in the middle of the room. All the tables were occupied, but Morgan spotted an empty booth in the back. She and Quinn headed for it, while she tried valiantly to ignore the stares and whispers they encountered along the way.
She managed to smile at a few people, including Kelly Peters, a girl she’d gone to high school with, and Mark Hertz, the owner of the bowling alley. Neither smiled back, but Kelly did offer a small wave of greeting.
“I hate this,” she hissed at Quinn as they slid into the booth. “They all think I drove off the bridge on purpose.”
He seemed unperturbed. “So what? You know the truth, what does it matter what they think?”
With trembling hands, she shrugged out of her coat, then reached for the menu, wishing she could be as composed and unruffled as Quinn. It was a trait of his she’d always admired, his ability to let things slide, not let anything rile him up. Sure, he was intense, prickly at times, and definitely crabbyungry, but in the two years they were together, she’d only seen him get angry—truly angry—once.
The day she’d asked to postpone their wedding.
“It bothers me,” she answered, keeping her voice low. “I grew up with these people, went to school with them, hung out at their houses. And then…”
Then her mother died and everything changed. She’d been so upset, so lonely, and she’d dealt with the pain by acting out. Her father had always been demanding and controlling, but after her mom lost the battle with cancer, he grew worse. He’d decided to run for the senate then, constantly ordering Morgan to be good, to be prim and proper in public, keep up appearances. He never spoke to her other than to criticize, yet in public he played the part of the doting father, pretending they were the best of friends.
So she’d rebelled. Died her hair black, hung out with some of the wilder boys at school, stared smoking cigarettes with them in the woods behind Autumn High. And when her dad forgot her seventeenth birthday because he was too focused on his stupid campaign, she’d gone for that joyride with Cooper Hamm—after they stole his dad’s pickup.
Her father had been livid. Sent her to a shrink. And a few days after that, he gave an interview saying his daughter was mentally troubled. He’d stuck to that story for ten years, singing the same song over and over again, until it got to the point that she almost started believing the lyrics.
And then she’d met Quinn, who made her realize she wasn’t nuts, that her rebellious teenage years were just that—rebellious teenager years. When her father raised the issue again in his reelection campaign, with his passionate vow to help other parents with troubled children, she’d come to understand precisely what she was to her dad—a pawn. A campaign tool.
Yet because of the promise she’d made to her mother, she’d been forced to stick by her father’s side.
And lost Quinn in the process.
Swallowing back the bitterness clinging to her throat, she pretended to study the menu. Breathe, she ordered herself. Ignore the stares. Forget the past.
She was repeating the mantra in her head when the waitress finally approached their booth. Morgan recognized her instantly. Beth Greenwood, another former cla
ssmate. A tall redhead with enormous breasts, Beth had been the head cheerleader and a first-class bitch. She’d married her high-school sweetheart—the star quarterback, of course—right after graduation, cranked out three children while still managing to maintain her sensational figure, and apparently cheated on her husband constantly, mostly with eligible tourists who drifted into town.
“Hello, Morgan,” Beth said, the acid in her green eyes contradicting her sugar-sweet voice.
Morgan resisted a sigh. She and Beth had never gotten along. “Hey, Beth. How are the kids?”
Beth’s fingers stiffened ever so slightly on her order pad. It was no secret she didn’t pay much attention to her children.
“They’re fine.” Beth offered a big fake smile. “And you? Recovering from your…accident, I see.”
Morgan bristled at the emphasis Beth placed on the word accident. “I’m doing great,” she replied, pasting on a fake smile of her own.
Beth’s catlike green eyes drifted in Quinn’s direction. She studied him like a scavenger eyeing a juicy carcass. The blatant lust in her eyes brought a rush of annoyance and unwelcome jealousy to Morgan’s gut. Beth Greenwood was a grade-A predator. It was a wonder her husband hadn’t divorced her yet.
“I can see that,” Beth drawled, her gaze never leaving Quinn’s. “I assume this is the famous Adam Quinn?”
Quinn spared the drooling redhead a glance before turning back to his menu. “That would be me.”
Beth’s lips curved. “I can see why you never brought him here. Wanted to keep him all to yourself, didn’t you, Morgan?”
Morgan set her jaw. “Can we order?”
Beth seemed unflustered by the sharp request. “Sure thing. What can I get for you?”
“Pancakes for me, and a cup of coffee, two sugars, no milk,” Morgan said.
“I’ll have the special,” Quinn said. “And coffee, black.”
Beth scribbled down their orders, then flounced off without another word. She had plenty to say at the counter, though. To Morgan’s annoyance, Beth immediately began whispering with the other waitresses, all of whom turned to stare at Quinn with admiring eyes.
“Looks like you have a fan club,” Morgan remarked, swallowing back the jealousy creeping up her throat.
Quinn leaned back against the vinyl seat, causing the material of his button-down to stretch across his broad chest. Morgan’s mouth instantly went dry as she stared at the defined ripples of his abdominal muscles, straining beneath his shirt. She’d never met anyone sexier than Quinn. No doubt about it, he was the stuff of fantasies.
Regret swarmed her body. He’d been more than a fantasy to her, her reality for two whole years. And like a fool, she’d blown it.
Maybe she truly was insane.
“Don’t look so concerned,” Quinn said, evidently believing her distress had something to do with the waitresses ogling him. “I’m not interested in the fan club or any of its members.”
“No? Don’t tell me nobody has sparked your interest these past two years.” She injected a casual note to her voice, all the while dreading the answer.
His green eyes darkened. “If you’re asking whether I’m dating anyone, then no. Relationships don’t interest me any longer.”
God, two years ago he’d been ready to marry her, and now he wasn’t interested in even dating? The knowledge that she’d caused this change of heart made her chest ache with guilt and regret.
She opened her mouth to object, to tell him he shouldn’t close himself off because of her, but he ended the discussion swiftly, asking, “How’s work going?”
“Good.” She made a self-deprecating face. “At least it was until last week. Patrick is probably going to fire me for going off the radar.”
Patrick Garrison, her editor at World at Large, had done her a huge favor when he took a chance on her. He’d hired based on her writing, choosing to ignore her negative presence in the tabloids. All he demanded in return was hard work and that she keep a low profile. Fortunately, her stay in the psych ward hadn’t made the papers, but she knew Patrick wouldn’t be pleased that she hadn’t checked in for several days.
“Speaking of Patrick, can I use your cell phone?” she asked Quinn. “I’m pretty sure my father took mine from my purse.”
Quinn reached into his pocket, pulled out the phone and slid it across the table. “It’s all yours.”
Morgan keyed in the number for her voice mail, listened to the six messages she found there, and hung up with a sigh. “Yep, Patrick is not happy. Remind me to call him later.”
Quinn nodded. “Sure thing. Now how about we do what we came here to do? Hear anything interesting?”
They spent the next ten minutes in silence, attempting to overhear the conversations in the restaurant. When Beth returned to the booth with their meals, the silence continued to drag as they ate and sipped their coffee. Fifteen minutes later, Morgan had learned that Mrs. Hertz, the florist, was in the hospital with a broken hip, Beth’s husband had gotten drunk on Friday night and picked a fight with the sheriff and Margaret Hanson was pregnant again. Nothing about Layla. It was as if nobody in town gave a damn that Layla Simms’s remains had been discovered last week. Then again, after ten years, Layla’s disappearance probably wasn’t on many people’s minds anymore.
“Let’s go,” Quinn said the moment she set down her fork on her empty plate. “These people are either self-absorbed, or they simply don’t care that one of their own was killed.”
“I vote for self-absorbed,” she murmured.
Quinn dropped a few bills on the table and stood up. He waited for her to slip into her black, knee-length pea coat, and then the two of them walked toward the exit. They reached the door just as a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair strode inside the restaurant. It was Jackson Hamm, the father of the boy she’d gone for the joyride with, and his wrinkled features hardened the moment he spotted her.
“Hi, Mr. Hamm,” she said, offering a tentative smile.
The older man did not return the greeting. “Aren’t you ashamed to show your face here, Ms. Kerr?”
The remark stung, but she forced herself to remain cordial. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’ve caused nothing but trouble for this town,” Hamm replied with a frown. “You break the law, you seek attention, you embarrass not only your father but the rest of us. Do us all a favor, Ms. Kerr, and leave now before you cause more trouble.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Quinn’s shoulders stiff en. Her own were pretty stiff, too, but again she attempted a polite smile. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Hamm. I can assure you, I didn’t come here to cause trouble. I just wanted a quiet o recover from the accident.”
Hamm snorted. “Accident? Is that what you’re calling it?” He shrugged out of his heavy wool coat and tucked it under his arm. “You’re not fooling anyone. The entire world knows you attempted to take your own life. I don’t know how Senator Kerr puts up with you.”
Tears pricked at her eyelids. It took a serious amount of willpower to blink them back. She refused to cry in front of this resentful old man. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said again, her voice trembling.
“Let’s go,” Quinn said curtly, not even acknowledging the other man’s presence.
“And stay away from my son while you’re here,” Jackson Hamm barked at their retreating backs.
The second Morgan stepped out onto the sidewalk, two fat tears slid down her cheeks. She viciously swiped at them with the sleeve of her coat, keeping her back to Quinn so he wouldn’t witness the show of weakness. Damn it. Damn them. Damn everyone in this town. The only reason she’d come back here over the past ten years was for her best friend, to preserve Layla’s memory and discover the truth of her disappearance.
She hadn’t come back for any of them, and she refused to let their hurtful words and curious eyes and smirks get to her.
“You okay?” Quinn asked quietly.
She wiped away the last
tear before turning to face him. “I’m fine,” she said. “He just blames me because his son Cooper and I took his car for a joyride ten years ago.” She suddenly smiled, a humorless curve of the lips. “I wonder if I should go back in there and tell him it had been his son’s idea.”
“Don’t exert any energy on that old bastard.” Quinn shook his head. “You know, it’s times like these that I’m almost grateful for my own upbringing. Being tossed around all over New York City seems a slight step above living in a small town where everyone knows your business.”
“And constantly judges you,” she added with a sigh. Then she paused. “What do you think he meant when he said the whole world knows the truth? My dad said he was keeping the accident out of the papers.”
Quinn’s gaze slid beyond her, and a frown creased his lips. “Looks like he lied.”
Wrinkling her brow, Morgan turned in the direction of Quinn’s gaze. She froze when she noticed the bank of news paper boxes on the sidewalk. One headline in particular caught her attention, and sent anger spiraling through her body until it knotted in her intestines like a pretzel.
Senator's Daughter Recovering from Suicide Attempt
Chapter 7
By the time they returned to the Kerr estate, Morgan’s mood had sunk from bad to dismal. The article in the Washington Post had been a blow, and the visit to the medical examiner’s office wasn’t much better. Frank Davidson made it clear he would not allow her and Quinn to view Layla’s remains. Under pressure, he admitted the sheriff had spoken to him, but he hadn’t backed down, either.
She and Quinn drove home with no leads and low morale, but hopefully tonight would change that. They planned to visit the woods where Layla’s body had been found, then the morgue, followed by a stop at Jake’s office, since she was convinced he was hiding something. It was going to be a busy night.
But first she had to get through the rest of the day, which meant spending however many hours with Quinn and forcing herself not to bring up the past, discuss the future and, the hardest thing of all, resist the urge to kiss him.
