The way Diane only answered specific questions, never volunteered anything, and looked to Andre for both approval and permission with each answer, they were going to be here all day. The interview had to be completed, no doubt about that, but there was no reason for Morgan to stand here, bored to tears.
She wanted to get a move on; that way, she could convince Andre to divide and conquer. Any leads they got on Gibson’s whereabouts she would use to leave Andre safely occupied while she continued the hunt for her father.
“Maybe I should search Gibson’s room for clues?” she asked the mother, feeling stupid even using the word “clues.” But the mother nodded as if this was exactly what she’d been expecting, hiring the famous—for Pittsburgh—firm of Galloway and Stone.
“Yes, of course. He has the downstairs.”
Like there wasn’t any symbolism in that, exiling the clearly unwanted and unloved problem child to the dungeon. Morgan fled down the steps, turned at the front door foyer, and continued down the second flight of stairs to the split-level’s basement.
She turned the lights on and stood in the doorway, surveying Gibson’s kingdom of gloom. There were blackout curtains on the tiny basement windows perched high along the front wall. The only light came from an overhead fluorescent fixture, accompanied by a subliminal whine that made her teeth ache. The walls were dark, fake wood paneling and the floor linoleum in an orange and brown pattern. Along the far side was a laundry area and behind a flimsy accordion door a bathroom with a shower stained with mold. A rear door led out to the backyard—she guessed it got a lot of use, all the better to avoid mom and stepdad.
The entire space smelled of lemon-scented fabric softener overwhelmed by teenaged boy-funk. The saggy brown tweed sofa bed had sheets poking out between the cushions, but everything in the room appeared centered around a gaming chair on the floor in front of a TV with a gaming console. A stack of generic sodas stood within arm’s reach of the chair on one side with an open bag of chips on the other.
Her phone rang before she could begin to search for any more personal and pertinent details in the squalor. Micah.
“So,” he said without preamble, “as sexy as it is, these late night chats and texting sessions, I’ve decided to do the right and honorable thing and ask you out on an official date.”
She stared at the phone for a long moment, debating whether to hang up and pretend the call was dropped. Why did guys have such impeccable worst possible timing? Andre was the same way with Jenna, always trying to distract her with romantic gestures exactly when she needed to focus. Same with Nick and Lucy. She never understood why they put up with it.
Until now. Instead of ending the call, she said, “What if I’m not an honorable woman?”
Immediately she felt stupid with her pathetic attempt at banter. It wasn’t her—not the real her. If need be, she could seduce any man to his knees…it was all an act, doing what she had to to get whatever Clint wanted. But that was all behind her. Now she was free to be herself. If she only had the faintest clue who or what that really was.
“Doesn’t matter. Not to me. How’s tonight work for you? I’m thinking I pick you up at seven, we’ll go to dinner, maybe catch a movie after. Of course, that means you need to finally tell me where you live.”
“Or I could meet you there,” she countered as she opened the curtains, inviting a smudge of wan sunlight through the dirt-streaked basement windows. Micah wasn’t stupid; he knew damn well she was no ordinary teenaged girl, but still he had this chivalrous side that insisted on seeing for himself that she wasn’t caught in some dangerous living situation. Like having a depraved violent psychopath for a father…whoops, too late for that.
He didn’t bother suppressing his sigh. “What is it? If we’re never going to see each other in person, at least tell me why.”
Anyone else, Morgan would have hung up and written them off as whiney, clingy Norms she was better off without. But Micah wasn’t whining. He was asking a perfectly reasonable, mature question and expected her to answer in the same fashion. With the truth.
“I’m at work now,” she stalled. “I’ll tell you everything. Next time I see you.”
He didn’t bother asking what kind of job—they’d first met while she was working undercover. “From your tone, I’m guessing that won’t be tonight.”
“No. But soon.” Then she did something Morgan never, ever did. “I promise.”
“You know you can’t scare me off, right?” He made it sound like that was a good thing.
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” She hung up before she could become entangled in any more lies or half-truths.
She tried very hard to only tell Micah the truth, parsed out in bite-sized bits that functioned as a smoke screen—and made her feel even more guilty than flat-out lying would have. Which said a lot about her feelings about him. Morgan had killed men without feeling a fraction of the regret and remorse that the thought of lying to Micah brought.