“I have a crime scene to wrap up.”
Gary spread his arms out wide to gesture the width of the house as he walked backward, until he turned and vanished through the front door, pointing at two officers and waving them over. He was in his element now, and Morgan watched him with admiration for a second before turning his attention to the captain, who was storming up the front path with a cold, hard stare that could’ve raised the dead.
“You’re in over your head, Young.”
Morgan paused, his heart pausing with him. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t hire you for this case, which means you’re interfering with police business.” Captain Bray stopped in front of him, trench coat flapping around in the cold winter wind. “I sympathize with you, but it’s time to stay out of it and let the professionals do their jobs.”
“With all due respect, I’m the one who found the link between Tom and the victims.”
“And how long is it before we find him handcuffed to a wheel?”
A flash of dread hit Morgan. He’d known all along it was a possibility, but there was all too real a chance that this awful thing could actually happen. “You’re talking as if I had a hand in getting him taken, when really I just happened to be on the scene.”
“Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“What are you saying?”
Captain Bray sighed and shifted his weight to the other leg. He stepped up to Morgan’s side and turned to look up at the house before lowering his tone. “I’m not accusing you of anything, and I know you well enough to know you had nothing to do with this, but a court might not see it that way.”
“You think I’ll be in trouble?”
“I think you’re causing it.”
“How so?”
“Every time you make a move, it has to go in a report. You’re involved, whether I allow you to be or not. You know, I dream of going home on time one evening, maybe play with my kids for a few minutes before they get too old. But I can’t, and you know why? Because you’re playing Sherlock Holmes without our consent.”
Morgan supposed he was right. He didn’t have explicit permission, after all. But did he really need it? Technically, he was only asking people questions about his late cousin. Was that not allowed? Did it really matter that the captain had to type a few extra words into his computer when a killer had a chance of being caught? “I’m sorry you have to do that, Captain, but I have to do what I have to do. It’s just the way it is.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Then where do we go from here?”
“Now? Simple: you go home before I find a reason to arrest you.”
Morgan turned to him, speechless. “You’re serious.”
Captain Bray shrugged. “It’s just the way it is,” he said.
And just like that, he was left alone on the front lawn of a man who’d been taken from right under his nose. Why, exactly, was still a mystery that needed explaining, but there was nobody left to point him in the right direction. Among all the secrets and complications, there was now only one thing left that Morgan could be sure of: things just got a lot harder.
And he was all out of luck.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Morgan had barely made it through his own front door before the cell phone chimed from his pocket. He slid the coat off his shoulders and hung it up, cherishing the warmth of his home while he fished around in his pocket for the phone. When he found it, a text message from Gary was waiting for him. It read:
What did the captain say?
There would be time to explain that to him later, but judging from how fast news traveled around the precinct, Morgan suspected everyone would know by the time the sun rose the next morning. For now, he was more focused on exploring the link between the victims.
“Dinner’s ready in an hour,” Rachel said.
Morgan cocked his head toward the sound. His wife was still cooking him a meal, even after their recent trouble? If that wasn’t love, he didn’t know what was. He considered this was her way of building a bridge, and he reciprocated by finding her in the living room and asking if he could contribute.
“It’s fine,” she said from the couch, her face buried in a romance novel. “You go do whatever you need to do. I’ll get the food started, and then I can have my husband back for the evening. Deal?”
Morgan lingered in the doorway, grinning. “Deal.”
Now there was a timer on his workload, and nothing pushed him harder than that. Without a moment to lose, he turned and bounded up the stairs to his office, which was now starting to feel a little bit more… well, him. He took a seat at the desk, already feeling comfortable with this as a workspace, and booted up the laptop. The second it was ready for use, he looked up the accident from 2009.
“Here goes,” he mumbled to himself.
This time he would have to dig deeper. The fact that Tom had been taken confirmed his suspicion of the accident being the common link. There wasn’t a chance in hell all three of the survivors would suffer within such a short time frame—two of them in car-related murders. The question of what would happen to Tom briefly entered his mind, but Morgan shifted it to one side for now. He had to focus, and thoughts like that wouldn’t help.
There were the usual articles on the first page of search results that he’d already skimmed through, but Morgan wanted more. He read everything he could, absorbing information like there was no limit. And there wasn’t—not really. The case had started to venture past revenge and was now leaning more toward fascination.
That fascination piqued when he made a discovery.
Of course, it was glaring now. It looked him dead in the eye like it’d been there the whole time. How had he only just come to realize this? Morgan typed a different name into the search, realigning his focus point as he read more about Arthur St. John: teacher, father, husband…
Driver of the other vehicle.
The more he read, the more he learned. Arthur St. John had been driving from the other direction on that fateful night, and Dusty’s car had plowed straight into it, knocking it off the road. According to the reports, Arthur had spent many weeks in hospital before finally making his recovery. His wife and daughter, who’d been passengers in that same vehicle, hadn’t been so lucky—they’d died on the scene, killed by the accident.
And that spoke volumes.
“Food’s on the table!”
Morgan broke out of his research only to notice he was sweating and hunching crookedly over the laptop. He spun in his chair and called, “Coming,” before closing his laptop and heading for the door. Right now, he had to be a husband, and that was exactly where his focus needed to be. Dining with his wife was not only an enjoyable experience, but it was necessary to repair whatever had been broken in the first place.
As long as he could get out of there soon.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I’m sorry I snapped at you the other night.”
Morgan stood behind her chair, easing her into it and tucking it in. Stunned, he traipsed toward his own seat and slid into it, the apology catching him off guard. He wanted to apologize in return—to say how truly sorry he was for waking her that night—but something told him the problem went deeper than that, and before he could respond she was speaking again.
“It wasn’t fair of me to fly off the handle like that.”
“No,” Morgan said. “You never need to apologize to me. The way I see it, your outburst was the sign of a bigger problem. Whatever that problem is, we can talk through it and find a fix.”
“You don’t want to eat first?”
Morgan glared down at the spread of hot, steaming food. It wasn’t until now that he picked up on the amazing smells filling his nostrils. He wanted to believe that was because he was distracted by Rachel, but the truth was he was curious about Arthur St. John. “I can multitask.”
“Then dig in.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes—steamed vegetables, and per
fectly roasted beef. It was chased by a bottle of red wine that probably cost five dollars at the local store, but it all tasted the same to him. Wine was wine, no matter where it came from. Morgan was just glad to have a full belly provided by a loving wife.
When they were done eating, Morgan stared across the table at Rachel, who stared back with those bright, beautiful blue eyes. It looked like she was wearing makeup—it always did—but truthfully, she’d just gotten lucky with her looks. Good genes, he guessed. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
“It’s nothing we haven’t already gone over.”
“But did we fix it?”
“Not really.”
“Then talk.”
Rachel smiled, and it was unquestionably genuine. She reached for her wineglass and took a sip, her tongue smacking her lips as she set it back down and relaxed. “I suppose I just don’t feel very close to you at the moment. Not because I don’t want to be, but because of all that’s going on. You lost Dusty and I can tell that stung, but you don’t open up about it.”
“Honey, I don’t—”
“And that’s okay,” she said, holding up an open palm to keep him from interrupting. “You’ve just never been that kind of guy, and that’s all right. I’m just saying, while you don’t open up about it, I’m bound to feel slightly closed off.”
Morgan felt terrible. He knew he’d been keeping to himself through all this, especially since opening his office. But hadn’t she encouraged him to do that? Had she really meant it when she’d said it was a good idea, or had she simply been humoring him? There was no surefire way to tell unless she put her cards on the table, but she was too selfless for that. Always had been. “If you want me to drop the case, I’ll do it. No questions asked.”
“I don’t want you to do that.”
“Then what?”
Rachel leaned forward, resting her head against her hand like she had a headache. “If anything, I just want it to be over with so we can be normal again. Like right now, I bet you’re itching to go someplace or talk with someone. Am I right?”
“You’re not… completely wrong.”
“And it’s always going to be like that. When this case is done and you can put it to bed, there will be another one right after. That’s okay too—don’t get me wrong—but I need to find a way to adjust to that. I’m not holding it against you or anything. I’m just explaining my thoughts and feelings.”
Morgan felt the weight of her words like each one weighed a ton. Before he knew what he was doing, he slid the chair back and crossed the length of the table to reach her, kneeling at her side and holding her hand. “It’s not something I want to do anymore.”
“We need the money though.”
“That’s true.”
“So I want you to leave.”
Morgan reeled back as her hand slipped from his. He rose as she did, and when she started clearing the table—still smiling—he took the empty wine bottle in one hand and picked up her plate in the other. “I’m not leaving,” he said. “And you cooked, so I’m cleaning.”
“You don’t understand. I want you to leave.”
“Like… leave leave?” His heart sunk into his stomach, and all of a sudden he visualized a life without Rachel. Without this home that they’d bought together. The world took a dark turn then, even the greatest pleasures in life feeling weak and meaningless.
“No, silly.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I just want you to go do what’s on your mind. I’m off work for a couple days, so I can run this ship. You, on the other hand, need to go and make the dough. You got me?”
“This case isn’t for profit.”
“But the next one will be.”
Rachel playfully nudged him in the stomach and used the distraction to slip the wine bottle from his hand. As it vanished from his sight and he recovered from the brief moment of trauma he’d just suffered, he couldn’t help but notice the words Alcohol-Free on the label. Another thing that seemed out of place. Suspicion aroused, but he had no time to question it right now.
“Go,” she said again, heading for the door to the kitchen with plates in her hand.
But Morgan wasn’t quite ready to go. Something felt unfinished, and he hated to leave with bows untied. “Are we okay?”
“Yes.” Her voice muffled as the kitchen door swung shut. It was the same tone she used whenever she was confirming she was happy to go out for a movie or when they’d made a joint decision on how to decorate a room. To the outsider it would sound blunt and dismissive, but Morgan knew her better than that—he knew they’d be just fine.
The only thing he didn’t understand was the feeling of incompletion, like something was hanging over him and left unfinished. Even as he went for his coat to make his next move in this long, gut-wrenching case, he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.
But he’d find out sooner or later.
Of that he was sure.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Morgan arrived at the home of Arthur St. John after acquiring the address from Gary, who was holding off on reporting to his superiors for no longer than an hour. This, as he’d explained over the phone, was just long enough to let Morgan in and out before the police could swoop in to make their enquiries, thus sealing off his access indefinitely. It was a dumb move on Gary’s part, but a generous one nonetheless.
The house itself didn’t promise much—it was a hideous terraced house with yellow paint peeling off the brick. The windows were covered in grime, and the door didn’t look much better. It left Morgan to ponder whether the man’s late wife had been the cleaner, and more so, whether Arthur himself had neglected all forms of self-care since her departure.
But hadn’t that been ten years ago?
Morgan banged hard on the door, wondering what kind of man to expect. He could picture a long beard on a pale, unwashed face. There would be stains on his filthy clothes and body odor that would take a lifetime to forget. All the while, he waited in the cold of this dark, quiet street to meet nothing but silence after his knock.
He tried again, and a longer wait told him nobody was home. It only added credibility to his theory that Arthur St. John had something to do with all this. He was certain the police would point the finger there too, but it would take a great deal of evidence to prove that, and Morgan wasn’t prepared to take a blind leap into something like that.
But he was prepared to find such evidence, even if just for the satisfaction.
Against his better judgment, Morgan glanced up each end of the street before sliding off his coat. His heart pounding against his ribs, he wrapped that coat around his fist and took a moment to collect himself. What he was about to do would void any evidence he found, but for the quick confirmation of his suspicions he was prepared to accept that.
Wasting no more time, he thrust his fist through the door’s glass and then knocked out the hanging shards. He then reached inside and found a grip on the doorknob, which he used to enter the pitch-black, silent house. It was funny—only a few weeks ago he’d scorned Gary for breaking and entering, but now here he was, doing it himself for his own reasons.
He’d remember to apologize later.
Right now, he had some searching to do.
Morgan started on the ground floor, turning on the lights one at a time in case Arthur decided to return home. What would he do then? Say he found the door like that and wanted to check on him, he guessed. What else was there to say? That he wanted to incriminate him using his own personal belongings, so he’d decided to break in? Not a smart move.
But he wasn’t wrong.
Although the downstairs rooms offered nothing, the room at the top of the stairs had much more to give. Morgan entered it in the same way he’d entered the others, and that kept him from being ready for what he found. The moment he laid eyes on the table in the center of the room, he flinched like it was going to fly at him. It was a brief hesitation mixed with the sudden feeling that he had to leave immediately. Only he c
ouldn’t leave—not when the truth about Dusty’s fate could be right in front of him.
Mouth dry, heart pumping, he stepped toward the table.
What he saw drove icy spikes into his skin.
Photographs of Dusty covered the table. There were pictures of Tom too, along with photos of a woman he could only assume was Teresa Joy. Pinned to each of these were handwritten notes. Morgan pulled his shirtsleeve over his hands, keeping his prints off the notes while he held them to the light. It detailed their habits: working hours, when they entered and left their home addresses, and the worst parts, one single word beside each name:
Dylan: Drown
Teresa: Burn
Tom: Crush
Morgan read them and reread them, a sudden, sharp headache causing unbearable pain. It wasn’t just the anger that flowed through his veins, but a brand-new panic for Tom. No matter how hard he tried, his eyes kept returning to the word crush, until he dropped the notes and stumbled back, his spine hitting the wall while a part of him died inside.
Arthur St. John had killed those people, and that made perfect sense. After Dusty had been killed, Morgan himself had wanted to seek revenge and stop the guy, so that brand of justice was totally relatable. The only difference was that Morgan wasn’t ready to kill a man.
But Arthur had.
Oh yes, Arthur had killed twice already.
And he was going to do it again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Arthur St. John pumped his foot on the car jack, raising the stolen vehicle high into the air while he ground his teeth. There was nothing he wanted more urgently than to drag Tom’s smug face under it and let it go, crushing it like a grape.
Crushing it like his daughter’s skull had been.
And Tom had been driving—he’d confessed as much. Sure, it was under duress, but Arthur knew damn well it hadn’t been the other two. They’d been tortured too and had even endured it for longer, but they’d still not confessed to driving. It must have been Tom.
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