“No. I suppose not.” Morgan rubbed a ragged edge on her fingernail. “But I’m more worried about Lance.”
Sharp nodded. “I know you are. I tried to help him as much as I could, but he learned to handle problems on his own at a very young age. That doesn’t mean it’s what’s best for him or even what he wants. It’s just what he knows.”
And when people were hurting, they retreated to the familiar.
“Thanks, Sharp,” Morgan said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She dug a bottle of ibuprofen out of her tote bag. She twisted the cap off the bottle and washed down two tablets.
Sharp frowned. “You shouldn’t take those on an empty stomach.”
Morgan found a candy bar in the bottom of her bag. “I’m not.”
From the look of horror on his face, she could have been holding nuclear waste.
“Put that down.” He opened the center console, pulled out a wrapped bar, and handed it to her. “Eat this instead.”
“What is it?” In the dark, all she could read on the wrapper was the word organic.
“It’s a protein bar. You’ll eat candy, but you’re suspicious of something healthy.” Sharp shook his head. “You’d have more energy if you didn’t eat all that sugar.”
“Probably.” She put the candy back in her bag, opened the protein bar, and took a bite. “It tastes like dust.”
Sharp sighed. “You need the protein.”
As usual, Sharp was right. By the time they reached the office, her headache had subsided. He parked and waited for her to get into her van and lock the doors before he disappeared inside the building.
Morgan drove away from the tiny business district of Scarlet Falls. A few minutes later, a pair of headlights in her rearview mirror caught her attention. The vehicle was too far away to make out the type of vehicle, especially in the dark. She made two turns. The car remained behind her, never getting close enough for her to see it clearly. She stopped at a red light and waited for the car to catch up. But it hung back instead. When the light turned green, she drove through the dark town, suspicion prickling between her shoulder blades.
It was after nine o’clock. Scarlet Falls rolled up the streets and sidewalks at eight.
The headlights were still there when she drove past the country road that led to her grandfather’s house on the Scarlet River. Morgan dug her phone from her tote. She’d call her sister, Stella, a detective with the SFPD, and ask to meet her somewhere. The car behind her was probably a coincidence. Just someone headed in the same direction. But Morgan wasn’t taking any chances.
Not with Tyler on the loose.
She was scrolling for her sister’s number when the headlights disappeared. Morgan blew out a breath.
You’re paranoid.
She turned the car around and went home. But as she climbed out of her minivan, a cold breeze wrapped around her. She shivered, the hairs on the back of her neck rising, as if someone was watching.
She scanned the grass and trees but saw no one. The front yard was lit up like the Meadowlands. There were no big shrubs to hide behind. The dogs were at the window, barking.
She jogged up the front steps and didn’t take a deep breath until she was inside the house. Other than the dogs snuffling around her legs, the house was quiet. The girls would have gone to bed hours ago. Morgan closed and locked the door.
“Hey.” Her sister, Stella, walked out of the kitchen. Stella scanned Morgan’s face. “What’s wrong?”
Morgan told her about Tyler. “I probably imagined feeling someone watching me. The news about Tyler being out of jail has me on edge.”
Snoozer, her French bulldog, begged for attention, but rescue dog Rocket brushed past Morgan’s legs and went to the front window. Her white-and-tan markings and docked tail were bulldog like, but the mutt’s lean body was some other breed altogether. A low growl rumbled from her chest, and the fur on the back of the dog’s neck rose.
“What is it, girl?” Morgan knelt beside the dog and rested a hand on her back. The dog stiffened and barked. Morgan stroked her head.
Stella pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “The dog senses something. I’m going to have a patrol unit check the neighborhood.”
Morgan rubbed the dog’s shoulder. “Good girl.”
Climbing to her feet, she dumped her coat on a chair and went into the kitchen. Both dogs followed at her heels. Her grandfather sat in his wheelchair at the table, a glass of milk and a piece of banana bread on a plate in front of him. His broken leg was encased in a plaster cast and elevated. He was trying to work an unbent wire coat hanger into the top of the cast.
“The doctor said you shouldn’t do that.” Morgan took the hanger. “You could scratch yourself and get an infection.”
“It itches.” Grandpa sulked.
She bent down and kissed his cheek. “I know. And I know you’re bored out of your mind too. Two more weeks. Then the cast comes off, and you can put some weight on that leg.”
Her heart clenched when she thought about how they’d almost lost him during surgery.
“I’ll get through it.” He reached up and patted her arm. “What was up with the dog?”
Morgan repeated her story about Tyler and the car as she opened the fridge and poured a glass of milk. “I’m glad Rocket is here. The alarm system will tell us if someone is breaking into the house, but that dog will let us know if someone is outside thinking about breaking into the house.”
Grandpa tossed the dog a piece of banana bread. She caught it in the air, her big jaws snapping like an alligator’s.
Grandpa frowned. “Damn this leg. I’m not as useful as I could be.”
Morgan smiled. A retired NYPD detective, Grandpa had broken his leg protecting her and her daughter. “You did just fine.”
“Tell me about the rest of your day.”
Morgan started with her afternoon at the courthouse with Eric and moved on to the scene at Grey Lake.
“So you trumped the new ADA, showed up Bryce Walters again, and ratted the sheriff out for coercing confessions from suspects?”
“Yes.” Morgan sipped her milk, suddenly wishing it was wine. “It’s been a full day.”
“Nice way to make friends and influence people.” Grandpa shook his head. “How is Lance?”
“I don’t know.” Morgan checked her phone. “He’s with his mother now.”
“That has to be rough.”
“Yes.”
And he hadn’t called her.
Stella appeared in the doorway. “The patrol unit didn’t find anything. They’re going to do another drive-by later tonight.”
“Thanks,” Morgan said.
“I could stay,” Stella offered.
“You were here all day. Go home to Mac. We have the alarm, the dog, and I’ll break out my handgun tonight.” But as sexist as it felt, Morgan wished Lance was there.
“OK.” Stella took her keys from her pocket. “Mac doesn’t teach any classes tomorrow. He’ll be here at eight to help Grandpa get washed and dressed.”
Morgan took the dogs out with her to walk Stella to her car. The dogs did their business while she watched her sister get into her car and drive away. A police car cruised past, and she went inside. She checked the windows and doors and set the alarm before walking back to her bedroom and opening her gun safe. She took her Glock out and set it high on her armoire.
Then she brushed her teeth, put on her pajamas, and prepared to not sleep. Once again, her family was in danger.
Chapter Six
Lance hesitated, his key an inch from the lock on his mother’s door. Once he went inside, there was no going back. No taking back the words he would need to say. No resetting his mother’s recovery train on its rails.
But he didn’t have a choice.
He unlocked and opened the door.
“Lance? Is that you?” his mother called from the back of the house.
He made his way through the tidy house back to her office. His mom
had succumbed to anxiety, depression, and hoarding after her husband’s disappearance. At one point in Lance’s youth, clutter had filled the house, leaving them narrow pathways to move from room to room.
She sat behind her L-shaped desk. A former computer science professor, she now taught online and performed freelance website design, security, and maintenance. Three monitors and a laptop stared back at her. A cat rubbed on Lance’s calves. The other feline ignored him from the windowsill.
There was something different about his mom. Her eyes looked . . . She was wearing makeup.
Lance covered his shock with a cough into his fist. He hadn’t seen his mother wear makeup in . . . never?
She waved him toward her. “Come here. I want you to meet someone.”
Online?
Lance rounded the desk, set a hand on his mother’s frail-thin shoulder, and kissed her on the cheek. The skin stretched over the bones on her hands was nearly translucent and streaked with blue veins. Years of chronic anxiety had aged her beyond chronological years. At sixty, she looked much older. But her smile had brightened over the past few months.
Today, he found her new happiness bittersweet.
“This is Kevin Munro.” His mom gestured toward her main computer monitor.
On the screen, a gray-haired man of sixty or seventy waved. “It’s nice to meet you, Lance.”
“Um. It’s nice to meet you too.” Lance had seen him before, when he’d dropped his mother at her weekly group therapy sessions. Therapy and visits to the psychiatrist were the only times his mom left her house.
Kevin flushed and adjusted the collar of his plaid button-up shirt.
The quiet in the room turned awkward, and Lance realized this was probably the equivalent of a date for his mom and Kevin.
Lance stepped back. He did not want to ruin this for her. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. I’ll be in the kitchen. I need to talk to you when you’re done.”
“Kevin, I’ll talk to you later,” she said. Kevin responded with goodbye, and his mother closed the computer window. She swiveled her chair to face Lance. Anxiety creased the corners of her eyes. “Did something happen to Morgan or Sharp?”
“No. Nothing like that.” Lance was bungling this. “It’s about Dad.”
She flinched. “What?”
Lance took a deep breath, crouched, and took both her hands in his. “The sheriff’s department pulled Dad’s car from Grey Lake.”
His mother’s face went white. But she didn’t flail or faint or throw a fit. Her expression was blank. Too emotionless. Was she even processing what he’d said? “Are you sure?”
“I saw the car myself.” He swallowed. “It’s Dad’s.”
She stared at their joined hands for a few seconds. When she looked up at him, her eyes were tentative. “Was he inside?”
Lance hesitated. How much should he tell her? “They think so.”
“So they’re not one hundred percent sure it’s Vic.” Her voice dropped to a whisper when she said his father’s name.
“No, but identifying him shouldn’t take long. Dad’s dental records are on file.” Lance rubbed her fingers with his thumbs. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“I don’t know exactly.” Her forehead wrinkled. “On one hand, it’s a surprise. After all these years, I never really expected to find out what happened. On the other, it’s not. I knew something terrible had happened to him. He wouldn’t have left us.”
“That’s what I always thought too.”
“Was it an accident?” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Did he drive off a bridge or something?”
“No. There are no bridges near where he was found. The car would have been driven or sent into the water from the bank.” Lance paused. Was she ready for this? Did he have a choice but to be honest with her? She was a very intelligent woman. If he didn’t tell her, she’d find the details on her own. “I think someone killed him.”
She pulled one hand free and covered her mouth. “You’re sure?”
“Not yet. The sheriff will investigate.” And so would Lance.
She wiped tears from her cheeks, her face frozen in a tragic smile. “I thought I was all cried out over your father. I guess not.”
“I’ll stay here tonight.” Lance kept the essentials in his old bedroom in case of an emergency. “Will you be all right by yourself for a few hours tomorrow?”
“Lance, I don’t want you to babysit me.”
“Mom . . .” he protested. “That’s not—”
“No.” Her voice was firm. “I’m sorry. I know you only want to help. But you’ve spent your whole life taking care of me.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I know you don’t.” A sad smile turned the corner of her mouth. “How much did I tell you about the new counselor who’s been running our group therapy session for the last two months?”
“You said she was pushy, and you didn’t like her.”
“At first I didn’t. I was used to the old one. He’d been running the group the same way for twelve years. Change is hard for me, and some of the things Dr. Blake is encouraging me to do are uncomfortable.” She blushed. “I’ve been meditating and doing yoga.”
Meditation? Yoga?
Is this even my mother?
“I’m not fooling myself. I’m never going to be able to grocery shop or go to the movies or run errands like other people, but I can be more independent. I don’t need to be mentally isolated even though I’m physically limited. It’s a choice, not an inevitability. I can connect with people right here in my house.”
“Like Kevin,” Lance said.
She nodded. “You have a job to do. A life to live. Seeing you with Morgan has made me realize how selfish I’ve been.”
“You’re not selfish—”
She held up a hand. “Like any patient with a chronic illness, I have to learn to manage it myself.” She straightened her frail shoulders. “I have to do it.”
She looked determined and as grounded as he’d ever seen her. Maybe she could gain some independence. But in the back of his mind, a little voice whispered if she failed, she’d lose all the progress—all the happiness—she’d gained in the past few months.
She reached up and touched his face. “Lance, I don’t want to be a burden on you. You’ve given up too much of your life for me already.”
“If you feel comfortable managing things yourself, I’m behind you all the way,” he said. “But I’m also here for you. What can I do to help?”
“Find out what really happened to your father.” His mother dropped her hand and hugged her arms, rubbing her biceps as if she were freezing. “I’d like to put this behind me. I know it’s asking a lot of you. He was your father. Maybe you don’t want to delve into his personal life.”
“I already intended to find Dad’s killer.”
“Then do it. I’ll be fine here.” His mother pressed a fist to her mouth and sniffed. Her shoulders curled forward, her posture projecting the distress her words denied. Lowering her hand, she swallowed. “We both loved him, but we need to move on. We need to put his death behind us.”
“All right,” Lance said. Tomorrow, he’d start by claiming his father’s remains.
Chapter Seven
JOHN H ROGERS
CAPT
US ARMY
IRAQ
NOV 14 1982
JUL 10 2015
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER
Morgan stared at the headstone. Half of her wanted to throw herself on John’s grave. The other half wanted to run away as fast as possible in case the sadness she’d recently shed caught up with her again.
“Where’s Daddy?” Three-year-old Sophie frowned up at Morgan. “You said he’d be here.”
Sophie’s misunderstanding added fifty pounds to Morgan’s mood.
“I’m sorry, honey.” Morgan searched for the right words. Did she tell her daughter that John was in a box six feet under the grass? Thinking of his body decaying in
a box, alone, all that time, she shuddered. Her grief turned claustrophobic.
She looked to the open sky, the brilliant and glorious blue seemed like a betrayal, as if the world should not be so beautiful without John in it. There should always be some tiny, visible sign of misery to match the kernel permanently lodged in her heart.
While she was determined to move on with her life, she would never forget. Coming here was like ripping the scab off a wound before the underlying scar tissue had formed.
“Daddy isn’t here,” Morgan said. “This is his headstone. We put it here so we can remember him.”
“Daddy’s dead.” Ava carried a white bakery box. At six, Morgan’s oldest was the only one of her children who remembered their father. Usually, she used a know-it-all tone when she corrected her younger sisters. But today, her brown eyes, so like John’s, turned up to Morgan for confirmation. Ava had the best understanding of the concept of death. At least she knew that her father was never coming home.
“Yes, honey,” Morgan said. “That’s right.”
The frigid wind blew across the open landscape. Its harshness was somehow soothing.
Morgan spotted a pink hat on the grass. She picked it up and tugged it firmly over her three-year-old’s light-brown braids.
“Mommy,” Sophie said. “We need candles.”
“It’s too windy for candles,” Ava said.
Frowning, Sophie plopped down on her knees in the cold grass. “We have to sing. You can’t eat birfday cake unless you sing.”
Five-year-old Mia tugged on Morgan’s hand. Her serious brow crunched with deep thought.
Morgan crouched and tucked a stray lock of hair under Mia’s purple hat.
Mia leaned close to her mother’s ear and whispered, “Am I s’posed to be sad?”
Morgan blinked, trying to stem the sudden, hot flood of tears in her eyes. She squinted against a morning sun that shone too brightly. The grief she’d had firmly under control stirred to fresh life, threatening to drag her down like a weighted vest.
“You’re sad,” Mia said.
“I’m a little sad,” Morgan admitted, her throat tight. “But you’re supposed to feel however you feel.”
Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3) Page 4
