by Elle Kennedy
Sadness settled in her belly. What kind of man would do that to his own daughter? Morgan always knew her dad was selfish, but this went beyond selfish. He’d committed her. He’d probably just sent some goon to scare the wits out of her. Who did that?
And why?
“Why?” She voiced the troubling thought aloud. “Why does he want me home so badly? Who am I hurting by looking into Layla’s death?”
“Him, indirectly, anyway.” Quinn gently ran his fingers along her hips, his touch soothing. “Last time you came to investigate you ended up leaving in an ambulance, which of course ended up in the papers. We both know he doesn’t like any negative attention directed at him, sweetheart.”
“Well, screw him,” she mumbled. Her eyes started to sting. “I’ve spent my entire life trying to please him. I did it for my mom. I’m still doing it for her. I promised her I’d support him no matter what.” She shook her head bitterly. “Hell, I gave up the man I love for him. You’d think that would be an acceptable show of support.”
Quinn’s face hardened, making her regret the callous words. But it was true. She’d made a promise to her mother, and she’d kept the promise, no matter how many times she’d been tempted to tell her father to screw off. The senator had never even thanked her.
“I don’t think you should have ever forgiven me,” she whispered, slanting her head to look into his eyes. “I don’t deserve it. I chose him over you, when deep down I knew it was the wrong thing.” Bile nearly gagged her. “I threw you away like a piece of garbage.”
Quinn seemed a little shell-shocked. His pulse vibrated in his throat, and she could feel his fingers trembling against her pelvic bone. “It’s in the past,” he muttered. “Forget it.”
She pushed his hands off of her, tears filling her eyes. “I can’t forget it. And I can’t do this anymore, dig around in the past. I’m done investigating, Quinn. At this point, I don’t give a damn who killed Layla.”
Quinn’s face revealed that he knew she didn’t mean what she said, that she did care. “Don’t give up,” he said huskily, his green eyes imploring.
A tear slid down her cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb, his touch infinitely gentle and unbelievably warm. His lips were equally gentle as he dipped his head and kissed her. He swept his tongue into her mouth. She tasted the saltiness of her tears, mingled with the familiar flavor of Quinn, hot and masculine and utterly delicious.
They stood in the hallway for what seemed like hours, while Quinn’s mouth brushed over hers in feather-light kisses that drained the anxiety from her body and left her feeling warm and gooey and weightless.
When he finally broke the kiss, his eyes shone with tenderness and encouragement. “We’ll take one more look at the files tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed.
“Good.” He stroked her cheek for a moment, then took a step back and held out his hand. “Shall we go to bed?”
A multitude of emotions swirled inside her. She stared into his sexy green eyes, then his outstretched hand, and the emotions rippled and danced until they became one concrete thread of love that wrapped around her heart.
Never taking his eyes off him, she placed her hand in his and said, “Yes.”
As she’d promised, Morgan gave the case files another go the next morning. She and Quinn woke up early, and after a quick breakfast featuring Quinn’s mouthwatering cheese omelets, they set a pot of coffee in the middle of the kitchen table and got to work. Twenty minutes later, Morgan had officially given up. Quinn was still studying the files, but she’d read them so many times her eyes were starting to cross, and at this point, she couldn’t fathom finding anything new from the bare details she already had. She was now doing the crossword puzzle in Autumn’s daily newspaper, pleased to find the editors had decided to branch away from clues like feline for three letters, and dish out some more challenging clues.
“I need a synonym for deportation, eight letters,” she said.
“Break-ins,” Quinn mumbled.
Morgan glanced down at the puzzle and frowned. “Huh? That doesn’t make sense. I think it might be eviction, but that would mean six down is wrong because it doesn’t have a v. Are you sure—”
“I’m not talking about the puzzle,” he interrupted. “I figured out what’s bothering me.” Looking victorious, he held up the report he was reading. “The follow-up interview with Layla’s parents. It says that a few days after her disappearance, there were several break-ins on the Simmses’ street.”
She put down the newspaper, frowning again. “Yeah, so?”
“So you didn’t find it odd that Layla’s house was broken into five days after she disappeared?”
“Of course I did,” she retorted, bristling at the implication that she hadn’t thoroughly scrutinized the matter. “I did some investigating, and couldn’t find a connection between the two. Six houses on the street were hit. Mostly jewelry and cash was tI talked to all the victims.”
“Did the burglar take anything from the Simmses’ house?”
She nodded. “Some jewelry that belonged to Wendy Simms, and a couple of rings from Layla’s room.”
Quinn leaned back in the chair and rubbed absently at his unshaven chin. “Was Layla’s house robbed first?”
“No, I think it might have been the fourth. The sheriff at the time suspected it was some misfit from my high school, taking advantage of the fact that the police were focusing on Layla’s vanishing act and thus not paying attention to the rest of the town.” She smiled faintly. “I think Grady Parker might have been brought in for questioning.”
“What if it wasn’t a burglar?” Quinn said suddenly. “What if the break-ins were nothing but a red herring? What if the killer—”
“Wanted something of Layla’s?” she interjected. She let out a sigh. “Yeah, I thought of that, too. Layla had something that might incriminate her killer, so he or she broke in to a bunch of houses, but really only cared about one house in particular. He or she searched her room, probably found the item and tied up the loose ends.”
“What if he didn’t find it?” Quinn countered. His eyes were suddenly animated. “What if Layla did have something incriminating, and it’s still in that house? Did you ever search her room?”
“No,” Morgan admitted. “By the time I’d seriously started investigating, Layla’s parents had gotten rid of most of her things and turned her bedroom into an office. There were some boxes in the attic, which I went through, but I didn’t find anything.”
“But what about the room itself?” he asked. “Did you ever search it?”
“No.” She shot him a thoughtful look. “You think we should.”
“Yeah. I have a good feeling about this. I think the break-ins are connected to this case, and my instincts are telling me Layla had something that belonged to her killer, or, in the very least, something that could lead us to him.”
“Unless he found it,” she said again.
Quinn shook his head. “I don’t think he did. Someone tried to kill you, which means there must be some piece of evidence lying around that could lead to the killer. If he’d gotten what he wanted during the robberies, he wouldn’t be worried.” He gestured to the files. “There are absolutely no clues in here, sweetheart. Whoever killed her has to know that. So there’s no reason for them to worry about getting caught.”
“Unless there’s still one clue that could expose them,” she concluded.
“I think Layla knew her killer,” Quinn said slowly. “And knew him well. Are you sure she wasn’t seeing anyone?”
“No one she told me about.”
“But she was meeting someone in the woods. And considering the turbulent emotions that must have been present in order for him to kill her in such a brutal fashion, I think she was involved with the kier.”
Morgan’s brain worked hard to keep up with the stream of information coming in. Every word Quinn said made sense, and it was all details she’d considered before. It had never ma
de sense that Layla was killed by a random stranger. Autumn wasn’t the kind of town that attracted many sadistic killers. The occasional drunk tourist, sure, but it hadn’t felt right, the notion that someone had passed through town, killed Layla and then went on their merry way.
Layla had known her killer, and like Quinn, Morgan’s instincts suddenly started to hum. She’d always suspected the break-ins were related, but it wasn’t a lead she’d pursued vigorously. Now, she felt confident that Layla’s bedroom might hold the key to solving this case.
Her chair scraped the floor as she pushed it back. “Let’s go now. Mr. Simms is probably at work, but Wendy should be home.”
Energy sizzled in the air as they drove to Layla’s house, which was about a ten-minute drive from the Kerr estate. They didn’t say much, but the silence didn’t bother her. She suddenly felt keyed up, excited even. Maybe they would only be in for another disappointment, but this was the first time in years that a clue had materialized, and Morgan prayed it wouldn’t be another dead end.
Layla’s house was a large bungalow with pretty green shutters and an even prettier garden. Despite the fact that it was late October, Mrs. Simms’s begonias were as vibrant as ever, bringing a splash of color to the otherwise dull front lawn. The Simmses owned the only greenhouse and flower shop in town, and Wendy Simms often took on private landscaping projects when it suited her. Today, fortunately, she was at home, which Morgan deduced when she spotted the ancient beige station wagon in the driveway. Wendy had been driving that station wagon since Morgan was in diapers. It was a miracle the thing still ran.
She and Quinn walked up the narrow cobblestone path to the front door, where she rang the bell. Anticipation coiled inside her at the prospect of finally—hopefully—getting some where with this case.
The door swung open to reveal Wendy Simms, a short, dark-haired woman in her late fifties. She wore a checkered apron, had a smudge of flour on her cheeks and a smile on her face when she saw Morgan.
“Oh, honey, it’s so good to see you!” she chirped, immediately pulling Morgan in for a tight, warm hug. “How are you feeling? I was so worried when I heard about the accident.”
Wendy was the first person in town who actually said the word accident as if she meant the word accident. Morgan experienced a rush of love and gratitude. She’d always adored Layla’s mom.
“I’m doing okay,” she reassured the older woman. After an awkward beat, she gestured to Quinn. “This is Quinn, a friend of mine. Can we come in?”
“Of course.”
Wendy ushered them inside and spent a few moments fussing over Morgan like a mother hen. She decided that Morgan was too thin, too pale and shouldn’t have left the hospital so soon.
If she knew which ward of the hospital Morgan had been in, she’d probably alter that opinion.
When Wendy finally stopped to take a breath, Morgan explained why they were there. A shadow immediately fell over the other woman’s face, making Morgan feel like a total heel for coming. But Wendy didn’t seem upset about the visit, just the circumstances leading to it.
“I don’t understand what Sheriff Wilkinson is doing over there in the station,” Wendy muttered, her brown eyes flashing with resentment. “Sometimes I think you’re the only one, aside from Mort and me, who cares that my daughter was murdered.”
Morgan completely understood the anger she saw on Wendy’s face. God knew she’d felt it plenty of times during the past ten years.
“I don’t think you’ll find anything in her room,” Wendy confessed, looking disappointed, as if their search had already resulted in nothing. “But you’re welcome to go up and look.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Simms,” she said gratefully. “Would you like to come up with us?”
Layla’s mother shook her head. She averted her eyes, but not before Morgan glimpsed the spark of pain in them. “You go ahead, Morgan. I’ve got some dough waiting for me in the kitchen. I’m making biscuits for dinner tonight.”
As Mrs. Simms drifted off in the direction of the kitchen, Quinn glanced at Morgan. “She’s a sweet lady,” he said in a low voice.
“Definitely.” Her gaze darkened. “She didn’t deserve what happened to her and her family. Come on, Layla’s room is at the end of the hall.”
She led Quinn down the corridor leading toward the bedrooms. Layla had often complained about how much she hated living in a bungalow. Her room was directly across from her parents’, and the two girls had been admonished to be quiet dozens of times whenever Morgan slept over.
She opened the door, a little disoriented to see the neat office her friend’s bedroom had been transformed into. A long, cedar desk rested against one wall, right where Layla’s bed used to sit, and the two metal file cabinets had once been Layla’s bookshelves. She’d been an avid reader.
“Where do we start?” Morgan asked, looking at Quinn.
“The floor.”
She raised a brow.
“You already went through her things,” he elaborated. “Which means if she hid anything, it’s in the floor, or the walls, or the closet.”
“The floor it is,” she said cheerfully.
She felt slightly silly as she got down on her knees and began running her hands along the hardwood floor. She knocked on it, poked at it, pried it with her fingers hoping to find a loose board. Across the room, Quinn did the same. He even moved the desk aside, effortlessly, despite its obvious mass. He tapped on the floor underneath, looked at Morgan and shook his head.
“Walls?” she said with a sigh.
Again they started at opposite sides of the room, knocking away on the smooth white walls, hoping to find a hollow spot. Again, they found nothing.
Meeting in the middle of the room, the two of them sveled their heads in the direction of the small closet.
“Our last hope,” Morgan murmured, slowly heading for the plain white door.
She opened it, then stepped inside the cramped space. She checked the walls first, hoping to discover an indication that something lay behind them. Once more to no avail. But when she examined the floorboards, something caught her eye. The boards in the corner seemed uneven. She scooted over and dug her fingernail under the side of one board, gently prying it open. It lifted easily and something metallic glinted up from the gaping hole.
“I found something,” she burst out.
“What is it?”
“Hold on a sec…” She stuck her hand inside and rummaged until her fingers connected with a solid object. A box. A thrill shot through her as she extracted the box from its hiding place.
She jumped to her feet and held it up for Quinn to see. The box was the size of a paperback novel, a thin metal rectangle with a rusty lid, no lock. And it had been sitting under the floor for a decade, perhaps containing the key to Layla’s death.
“Open it,” Quinn said, looking amused by her motionless state.
Morgan’s heart pounded as she lifted the lid and peeked at the contents of the little box. A few snapshots of Layla and Jake rested at the top. She pulled them out and kept looking, finding a couple hundred dollars in small bills, most likely Layla’s tips from Jessie’s Restaurant, where she’d worked during the summers. Under the money were a couple movie ticket stubs, some birthday cards, a silly “friend of the year” pin Morgan had given her in freshman year. She moved the objects aside, lifted one of the greeting cards and noticed another item.
And then all the color drained from her face.
Shock stung her cheeks like a slap to the face, and suddenly her lungs seemed incapable of drawing in oxygen. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
Chapter 15
Quinn instantly knew something was wrong. Morgan’s face was devoid of color, and the sheer devastation lining her beautiful features told him she’d just seen something cataclysmic. The box shook in her hands, so violently that he felt compelled to take it from her.
Unable to fight the curiosity, he searched the tin until he spotted what he suspected spurred the horr
ified reaction from Morgan. It was a gorgeous ruby pendant hanging from a thin silver chain. The vivid red stone was nestled in a pear-shaped setting, surrounded by a cluster of sparkling diamonds. It looked disgustingly expensive and completely out of place with the rest of the knickknacks in the box.
“I take it you recognize this,” Quinn said softly, holding up the necklace by its clasp. The ruby and diamonds glittered in the thin patch of sunlight coming in from the open curtains.
Morgan stared at him in anguish. “It belonged to my mother.”
Oh, boy. A hundred different thoughts—most of them of the disturbing var—swamped his brain, but he forced himself not to speak any of them aloud. Instead, he focused on the one possibility that didn’t seem as appalling. “Is there any chance she could have stolen it?”
Morgan shook her head, her expression dull. “No. All of Mom’s jewelry is locked up in the safe in my dad’s study. I don’t even know the combination.”
He searched her face carefully. “Who does?”
“Only my father.”
Those three words sent an icy chill up Quinn’s back. Yep, that’s what he’d been afraid of.
“What about Tony?” he inquired.
“Only my father,” she repeated, her voice lined with dismay, and a twinge of disbelief.
A short silence fell over the room. Quinn had no clue what to say. In all honesty, he hadn’t seen this coming. Senator Kerr was a first-class ass, sure, but a killer? Quinn would have bet on Jake, or hell, even a random tourist, before placing a wager on Edward Kerr.
“He gave this to her,” Morgan whispered. “There is no other way she could have this pendant, Quinn. My…father must have given it to her.”
Her blue eyes conveyed a swarm of emotions. Horror and shock. Rage and betrayal. Confusion. Pain. He knew exactly what she was thinking—why would Senator Kerr kill Layla? Had he done it?
“Let’s get out of here,” Quinn announced. He snapped the box’s lid shut, tucked it under his arm and reached for Morgan’s hand.
