by CJ Lyons
But not now. Not with her family at risk. “You need to call Dad and warn him. He’ll take it seriously if it comes from you.”
“I’ll do no such thing. I’m telling you, you’re wrong. Now, really, Jenna, I’ve got to go.”
“No, wait. Mom. Please. The bomb had the green ink. The exact same handwriting. I had it in my hand, I saw it. It is the same guy. You need to get Dad, and go somewhere safe.”
Helen’s sigh reverberated through the airwaves like a tsunami gathering power, ready to swamp Jenna. “Why on earth would the bomber target someone like you, Jenna? You’re no longer a Postal Service Inspector. You have no official ties to anything remotely resembling genuine law enforcement. I think you’re mistaken.”
Jenna could feel the pressure; she knew Helen’s thumb was resting on the disconnect button, ready to hang up. She held her breath, knowing nothing she said would change her mother’s mind. Helen Galloway knew her world—nothing could surprise her, her world was that solid and unmalleable. In her world, the bomber no longer was relevant; therefore, he no longer existed.
Almost like her only child.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Helen surprised Jenna by saying. “Please tell the police not to call me direct but to arrange an interview via my clerk if they must talk with me. But there’s no use pursuing this further. It’s not the same man.”
And she hung up.
Jenna stared at the phone in her hand, the screen black, her own reflection staring back. Then Morgan appeared at her side, startling Jenna—damn, the girl moved like a cat.
“That was your mom. Is she all right?” Morgan asked, her feeble idea of small talk.
“She’s always all right.” Now Jenna allowed the full force of her emotions to flood her voice. Morgan wouldn’t mind. It was the one good thing about having her around—Jenna didn’t have to censor herself, not with Morgan.
Morgan sat down and took her coffee. She fiddled with the stirrer, something she usually never did. Then she looked up at Jenna, her expression softer than Jenna remembered it. There were new scars as well—the surgeons had done a good job of hiding them, but Jenna knew where to look, having seen Morgan after she’d almost died that cold winter night five months ago. She could still remember the fear that had burnt like acid through her veins—she’d almost lost Andre that night as well.
“I know about your grandfather.”
“Of course. He was a famous judge. His rulings—”
“No. Jenna. I know all about the Judge. About what he did to you. And,” Morgan hesitated, then laid her hand on top of Jenna’s, “I know you loved him. Despite that. It must have been horrible. Being there. When it happened.”
For a moment Jenna felt as if the earth had tipped off its axis. Then she shook herself, blaming the bomb and the residual ringing in her one ear. She yanked her hand away. “You don’t know anything.”
“It’s okay. Kids, even some adults, I guess, they love who they love, despite the pain. He was your grandfather. Of course you loved him—he was the only person in your life who ever made you feel special or important. Watching him die, even though he abused your love, your trust—that only makes it worse.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jenna snapped. “How could someone like you, a monster like you, ever know anything about love?”
Morgan blinked and leaned back. “I loved my father. Despite the fact that he was a monster.”
“And how’d it feel to kill him?” Jenna knew it was a low blow, but she couldn’t help herself. All the memories of the Judge, his death…they surged around her, threatening to pull her under. Somehow, fighting with Morgan, hurting Morgan, was a lifeline back to reality. “Face it, Morgan. We’re nothing alike. I might have had some shit go wrong when I was a little girl, but at least I’m still human. I still know what real love is. Not like you and that poor boy you’re fooling, pretending to love him, to be a normal girl.”
“Leave Micah out of this.” Morgan’s tone was sharp as a dagger.
“You’re going to hurt him. Break his heart,” Jenna continued, her words like a juggernaut, gathering speed and lethality, aiming for the only soft spot Morgan had: her heart. “He’ll end up bleeding on the ground, shattered and broken. Because of you. And you’ll do what you always do. You’ll walk away… Hell, you might even enjoy it. Just like your father.”
Jenna saw the slap coming but didn’t block it or back away. She deserved it. Wanted it. Needed to see that even someone like Morgan could feel something, anything, almost like a human girl. Somehow, hurting Morgan eased Jenna’s own pain, giving her fear and anger and frustration and every other emotion slicing through her a target other than her own soft heart.
Morgan stood. “I’m going to make sure Andre’s okay.” Despite everything, her voice was calm and measured, only a hair shy of normal. “You deal with the cops. Spin this however you want. I’m not hanging around.”
For good? The panicked thought flitted through Jenna’s mind. Had she finally pushed Morgan too far?
But as Jenna watched Morgan stalk away, her tunic top swinging above her jeans, pausing to slide on her sunglasses—trust Morgan to have sunglasses that could withstand a bomb—and smile at a cute guy moving past her, Jenna wondered. Maybe during her time in the hospital and away from Jenna and Andre and the work they did, maybe Morgan had changed. Maybe she was more human. Vulnerable, even.
No. Impossible. Morgan was like a punching bag, strong enough to always take another blow.
A siren sounded—finally!—and Jenna stood, not bothering to brush the dust from her clothing. Sometimes it paid to appear the victim. Act the part. It was a role she’d mastered over the course of a lifetime.
Chapter Six
Morgan fled to where she’d parked her car. Her car—she hadn’t even had the chance to show it to Jenna. Her car. That she’d bought. Well, that one of her aliases had bought for cash from someone on Craigslist. But still. It wasn’t one of the luxury vehicles she usually “borrowed” from the airport; it was just a plain old boring Ford. But it was hers.
Thinking about her newfound pride of ownership helped to distract her from the pain Jenna’s words had inflicted. Probably because they were more than mere words; they were the truth. As she replayed the conversation in her mind, her face felt tight and numb, like a mask. She had to touch it with her fingers to make sure it was there.
What had she done wrong? She’d looked into Jenna’s eyes, offered empathetic understanding, touched Jenna’s hand, even shared her own feelings. In other words, exactly what a friend should do. Sure, Jenna had just almost been blown up, had seen her own life almost obliterated in the same way as when she’d watched her grandfather open his letter bomb. Sure, her mother was a cold-hearted bitch who didn’t give a shit. And sure, someone had broken into her office, trying to kill her.
But Morgan hadn’t done any of that. Morgan had been offering help, understanding, even…sympathy.
And Jenna had slapped it all away. Morgan raised her own hand, imagining it was still red from striking Jenna, but it was really just the bright August sun making it glow. Still. Lashing out like that, in anger, without thinking. That was dangerous. She didn’t do that kind of thing; not anymore.
It was a bit frightening. Stupid emotions. Jenna hadn’t meant what she said about Morgan and Micah. That was all just crazy emotions talking—it wasn’t real. Morgan needed to stick to what was real: a psycho bomber stalking Jenna. Who was still her friend, despite everything.
Jenna had the cops to protect her, so it was up to Morgan to ensure Andre’s safety. And then find the bastard who’d ruined her homecoming.
She grabbed her phone and dialed. “Andre?”
“Morgan.” His low rumble of a voice sounded rushed. “I’m with Emma, can’t talk. But welcome home.”
“There’s been a complication at the office. Jenna asked me to come tell you in person. Could you stay with Emma until I get there?” She felt his anxiety roiling th
rough the silence as she took a breath, and knew she had both told him too much and not enough. “Everyone’s all right. I’m on my way.”
She hung up before he could ask any questions. She reached the Ford—her Ford—and headed out toward Emma’s nursing home in Squirrel Hill, ignoring Andre’s calls as she drove.
As soon as she pulled into the parking lot in front of the six-story yellow brick building, she spotted Andre striding toward her from the nursing home’s entrance. From a distance, with the sun behind him and his dark skin and bulky build, he resembled a charging grizzly. “What happened?”
“Jenna’s okay,” she started, knowing that would be his primary concern. At six foot four, he towered over her, and yet seemed to shrink with relief. “She’s tied up with the cops. But nobody was hurt.”
She sketched out what had happened with the bomb, minimizing the danger, although she knew he wasn’t fooled. But it was just easier sometimes not to say the words out loud. As she finished, a powder blue Prius pulled up beside them, and a man in his mid-forties, wiry and wearing old-fashioned horned rim glasses, hopped out of the driver’s seat.
“I’m here!” he announced. “Jenna called me—she knows I live near here—she asked me to come and help.” Andre blinked, still caught up in the saga of the near-lethal bomb, while Morgan stared at the intruder. To her surprise, the man turned to her and thrust out his hand. “You must be Morgan. I’ve heard so very much about you. I’m Tim. Tim Crane.”
He paused, as if expecting her to recognize him. She took his hand, and it finally clicked. “The new receptionist.”
“Office manager,” he corrected her. As if there was a difference? He patted the messenger bag slung over his chest. “Jenna said we need to go over the security footage from the last week, see if there’s anything suspicious.”
Andre gave a slow nod, although from the look on his face it was clear he’d rather be with Jenna. “What about her grandfather’s case? Surely it’s the same man.”
Tim frowned. “I’m not sure—”
“He’s talking to me,” Morgan interrupted. “I can get the records.” Translation: hack the US Postal Service, the FBI, or whomever she needed to hack. Often it didn’t take true computer hacking skills, although Morgan had fine-tuned and upgraded hers during her convalescence, but rather social-engineering skills, manipulating the weakest link in any security: the humans. “Let’s go inside. They have wifi here, right?”
Andre hesitated. “Maybe someplace else?”
But Tim was already heading toward the nursing home. “This is perfect. No one would ever suspect us or find us here.”
Morgan and Andre exchanged glances. “Who’s looking for us?” Morgan asked the over-eager receptionist.
He held the door for them. “The cops? The bomber? I don’t know, maybe reporters?” His voice upticked as his words rushed past faster than a puppy scrambling for a treat. “Jenna didn’t say. She just said to stay off the radar.”
Andre shook his head but got them visitor passes from the front desk and led them up to Emma’s room on the top floor. “Not a word about the bomb,” he warned them. “I’ll take her down to the dayroom for lunch, and then we can have some privacy.”
“Cool,” Tim said, practically bouncing on his toes.
Morgan went inside with Andre, ignoring his glower. He hated that Emma liked her and had invited her to visit whenever she wanted. She didn’t take it personally—Emma was Andre’s last living relative, and if their positions were reversed, she’d totally feel the same way. But as Emma’s door closed behind them, he surprised her by wrapping one arm possessively around her and squeezing her tight. There was a privacy screen just beyond the room’s entrance—Emma had draped it with colorful silk and tapestry fabric remnants, obviously chosen for their textures. Severe diabetes and hypertension had left her totally blind, but her appreciation for gracious living remained unabated.
“Some welcome home,” Andre said. He brushed bits of plaster from her hair. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.” She returned the hug; she’d forgotten how much she missed him.
He held her at arm’s length, appraising her. Then he nodded and turned to move past the screen. Emma’s room was small but tidy, with a hospital bed tucked beside a chest of drawers near the bathroom. On the far wall sat a tufted Queen Anne chair, a delicate table, and the recliner where Emma was sitting, earbuds in place, listening to something playing on her tablet. Her eyes were closed, her face serene, her white hair pulled back into an old-fashioned knot.
“Grams?” Andre said, touching his great-grandmother’s arm lightly to announce their presence. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Emma opened her eyes and raised a hand to remove an earbud. “Andre, I thought you’d left.”
“Hello, Emma,” Morgan said. She took the elderly woman’s hand into both of hers. “How are you?”
Emma popped out her remaining earbud and then used that hand to stroke Morgan’s face and hair. “Happier now that you’re back home. What a surprise! You’ve changed. Got miles and miles behind you and…” She paused, her fingers fluttering over Morgan’s lips. “Oh, that special boy – he’s back in your life, I can tell. Such a lucky boy. What’s his name again?”
“Micah.”
“Micah,” Emma said with a contented sigh. She dropped her hands to her lap, and then straightened. “Oh, that reminds me. I got something for you. For your birthday.”
Morgan had never told anyone, not even Micah, when her real birthday was, but that hadn’t stopped Emma from deciding—wrongly—that she must be a Leo. The old woman searched in the drawer of the tea table beside her and finally emerged with an envelope, the size that typically held birthday cards. Morgan’s name was written across the front in Emma’s shaky scrawl. She handed it to Morgan, beaming.
“I knew I’d remember. Folks think I can’t.” She tapped her head. “My eyes might be gone, but not my mind. Let me tell you—”
Before she could continue her story, the loudspeaker blared to life. “Attention staff. Code Black. Repeat. Code Black.”
Andre started, taking one step toward the door, then spinning back to Emma.
“What’s Code Black?” Morgan asked.
Andre frowned at her, obviously reluctant to say anything, jerking his chin at Emma – as if Emma hadn’t heard the announcement as clearly as they had. Besides, just because she was old didn’t mean she needed coddling. In the short time Morgan had known her, Emma had faced down a violent street gang and survived when their rivals had shot up her home, not to mention caring for Andre after he’d nearly died in an IED blast in Afghanistan and had returned home with burns over most of his body.
Tim rushed inside the room, almost knocking over the privacy screen at the doorway. “There’s a bomb!”
Chapter Seven
Everything in the room got quiet—except for Tim’s ragged breathing. He was bent over, his hands on his thighs like he’d just run a marathon. Andre froze, his face relaxing, posture gathering. Morgan loved that about him. Instead of panicking when things went wrong, Andre was like her—he became an oasis of calm, assessing the situation, appraising the options, acting on the best one.
Except this time they had no idea what the situation really was beyond the closed door leading to the hallway.
“Wait here,” Andre said. “I’ll be right back.” He started toward the door.
Emma found Morgan’s hand and squeezed it. “Help him.”
Morgan intercepted Andre. “I’ll go; you stay with Emma.”
He glanced down at her, ready to dismiss her offer. Not because he thought she wasn’t capable or would run, but because he cared about her. Despite his scars, Andre’s emotions were almost as easy to read as Micah’s.
“Andre, if he’s targeting Jenna, then he’s here to target the people she loves—you and Emma. Find a way to get Emma out, or at least protect her. I’ll go see exactly what we’re dealing with.”
&
nbsp; He frowned even as he nodded. “Switch your cell phone to airplane mode. Take pictures if you see a device. Don’t try to do anything foolish like that stunt you pulled this morning.”
“You mean the stunt that saved Jenna’s life?”
He gave her a quick hug. “I mean the stunt that almost got you killed.”
Morgan was out the door before he could say any more. The corridor was eerily empty. The fire doors at both ends of the ward were closed, and the fire alarm was blinking. Emma’s room was two doors down from one of the doors, so she turned in that direction first.
The first room was empty, with the lights off. In the next was an elderly man with an oxygen cannula, struggling to get up from a chair and reaching for his walker.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, when he saw Morgan looking in. “No one came to get me. I’ll be late for lunch.”
“I’m not sure,” she told him. “Wait here; I’ll find someone.”
She reached the doors at the end of the ward. They had glass panels, the thick kind embedded with wire to reinforce them. Virtually unbreakable. Beyond the glass was another ward—also empty. She reached for the door handle, but then stopped. Instead she pressed her face against the glass and scanned the space below. There were no devices that she could see, but there was something extending out beyond the door handles: a piece of black metal tubing that was curved at one end.
She shifted to the opposite side of the door to look back the other way—it was a bicycle lock made of tubular steel. Crouching, she pushed the door open just far enough to press her eye to the crack. No bomb, just the lock holding the doors shut. She forced the doors open as far as she could, stretched one hand through, and tried to move the oval shaped length of steel. If she could slide or rotate it so that she could reach the lock, she could pick it and get the doors open. But it was too long, and she couldn’t maneuver it past the handles.
Then she realized. If someone had targeted Emma’s ward, and locked them in to prevent escape in this direction…then what was waiting at the other end of the hall?
