The sheriff glared.
Lance finished describing the events of the night. The sheriff released them with a threat of arrest if they didn’t report to his office first thing in the morning to cross t’s and dot i’s. The walk back to the Jeep was only a few hundred yards, but it seemed like miles.
“I don’t like it.” Morgan crawled into the passenger seat.
“What?”
“I can’t explain it. Something feels unfinished.”
“We still have to deal with the sheriff again tomorrow.” Lance started the engine. “I’m tired of his controlling bullshit.”
“He didn’t arrest us for trespassing.”
“But he wanted to. He wishes he was the one who found Karen Mitchell.” Lance drove out onto the road. “He’s been chomping at the bit all night, wanting to search the property but without enough evidence for a warrant.”
“The laws exist for a reason.” Morgan pressed her head to the back of the seat.
“We saved that woman’s life tonight,” Lance said. “Who knows if she would have still been alive in the morning? The Burnses could have killed her and buried her out in the woods before the sheriff accumulated enough evidence to satisfy a judge that there was probable cause. Would you rather Karen Mitchell have spent the night in that trailer? I would rather go to jail.”
“So would I,” she said. “Which is why we did what we did tonight.”
“Plus, I’ll bet forensics will find evidence that the first victim and Chelsea were both held in that trailer. Chelsea will be able to go on with her life knowing that the men who kidnapped her are behind bars. Your family can rest easy too.”
“I know.” But uneasiness stirred in Morgan’s belly. It didn’t feel over.
“Do you think they’ll get a plea deal?” Lance asked.
“I doubt it. After what happened last month, the DA needs to save some face, and he’s up for reelection next month. He’s going to promise to bring the hammer down. A high-publicity case against a previously convicted sex offender and his brother is media fodder. Plus, New York no longer has a death penalty. What can the DA offer the Burns brothers in exchange for a guilty plea? This is a particularly heinous crime. The Burns brothers kidnapped and held a woman captive for eight months, impregnated her, and then beat her to death. The beating also killed her unborn baby. They are going to prison, probably for life.”
“So what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right.”
“We’ll know more after we talk to the sheriff tomorrow. The forensics team will be in that trailer all night. Let’s see what they find and then reassess the case.” Lance drove toward town. “We’re both too tired to think straight. We need food and sleep. We’ve been running on adrenaline all night. The most useful thing we can do is get some rest and look at the facts with fresh eyes in the morning.”
“You’re right.” She was wired. Her blood was still humming even though her eyelids were as gritty as sandpaper.
There was something lurking in her exhausted brain, a connection she was too tired to make.
Were adrenaline and stress stimulating her paranoia? Or was her subconscious issuing her a warning?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Morgan paced Lance’s guest room, her cell phone pressed to her ear as she talked to her sister. Her nerves were still frayed by what happened with the Burns brothers that night—and by the sight of Karen Mitchell chained up in that trailer. But rescuing Karen was worth every drop of clammy sweat and rush of adrenaline-induced nausea.
If only Grandpa would wake up.
“So there’s no change?” she asked Peyton.
“No.” Behind Peyton’s low voice, a monitor beeped in a steady rhythm. “He’s stable. Please try to get some sleep.”
“When do you think he’ll wake up?”
“I’m a doctor, not a psychic, Jim,” Peyton said in her best Dr. McCoy voice.
Morgan appreciated her sister’s attempt to lighten her mood, but she didn’t have the energy to laugh. “You’ll call me if anything happens?”
“I promise.” Peyton’s tone grew sincere again. “I will watch over him all night. I’ve got this covered. Go. To. Sleep.”
“OK.”
“And Morgan?”
“Yes?”
“Grandpa is tough,” Peyton said. “Don’t give up on him yet. He’s not going down without a fight.”
“Thanks, Peyton. Good night.” Morgan ended the call, crossed the hall to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. She undressed as the water warmed. The instant Morgan stepped into the heat, her tightly reined emotions burst. She leaned against the tile and let herself cry. She was too damned tired to hold back any longer.
Her sister meant well, and as a doctor, Peyton was a far better judge of Grandpa’s medical condition, but Morgan was afraid to let herself hope. She’d just crawled out of a seemingly bottomless pool of grief and now felt the need to brace herself. To prepare. To gather her energy against the possibility of another devastating loss.
Hope raised the platform from which she’d fall if the worst happened.
She had children to care for.
When her husband had died, they’d been too young to understand, and John had been deployed more than he’d been home. Their world hadn’t been disrupted. But this time, they were old enough to grieve for the great grandfather who’d willingly stepped up to fill the role of a father.
Just as he had for Morgan and her siblings.
Grandpa had been her rock. Without him, she’d never have gotten through the deaths of her parents and then John. She couldn’t imagine losing him.
Who did you turn to when your source of comfort was gone?
But someday that would happen, even if it wasn’t today. No one lived forever. And when that day came, her girls would need Morgan to be strong. She would have to be their rock. She couldn’t allow herself to sink again.
She turned the water to cold and stuck her head under the spray, letting the shock of freezing water jolt her out of her heartache. Shivering, she shut off the water and dried herself.
Morgan emerged from the bathroom, her damp hair hanging down her back and soaking the borrowed T-shirt. Her eyes were raw, and her face felt tender from crying. No matter how much resolve she mustered, the despair inside her refused to back down.
She’d never felt so alone.
In the bedroom, she stepped into the sweat pants Lance had given her, tying the drawstring tight to keep them from falling down. Returning to the hall, she glanced into his room. The decor reflected him: all masculine, nothing fussy.
His furniture was modern and clean-lined. A dark-wood dresser and leather headboard. The king-size bed was covered in a solid navy-blue comforter. A single nightstand held a clock, a lamp, and a book. The entire room smelled faintly of his cedar-scented body wash. She sniffed her skin. So did she.