“Don’t go any closer,” he said. “You’ll contaminate the scene.”
“But what if she’s . . .” Even as she said it, Morgan knew Tessa wasn’t alive. There was simply too much blood.
“She’s not.” Lance’s voice softened.
The flashlight shook in Morgan’s hand. She leaned forward to see Tessa’s face. Tremors spread through Morgan’s body, yet she couldn’t take her eyes off the trembling light and what it illuminated.
She went cold from the inside out, as if her heart was pumping slush through her veins.
Lance turned to face her and planted himself between her and Tessa. “Look at me, Morgan.”
But even as she stared at the center of his chest, her mind projected its own image. Tessa, dropping her keys, trying to get into her car, seeing her flat tires, running through the woods.
Something—or someone—chasing her.
Catching her near the lake.
“Morgan.” Lance’s hands settled on her biceps. His fingers squeezed gently. “Come on. Look. At. Me.”
But her muscles had frozen. Lance gave her a gentle shake. She blinked and looked up. In the moonlight, his lean face was all sharp angles and shadows, with an underlying paleness that suggested he wasn’t as calm as he wanted to be. She felt the assessing scrape of his gaze across her face.
When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with pain rather than full of conviction. “It’s going to be OK.”
But she knew it wouldn’t, couldn’t be all right.
She looked past him, her eyes pulled back to the sight of Tessa, her body slashed to fleshy ribbons and covered in dried blood. Her face was gray and her once warm brown eyes stared at the night sky.
Across her forehead, rusty red letters spelled a single word.
SORRY.
Chapter Six
“Back up.” Lance steered Morgan away from the body.
Part of him wanted to take a closer look. Another part wanted to run like hell. From the brief glimpse he’d gotten of the body, it was a particularly nasty scene.
Not that it mattered. He had no business getting near that body. He wasn’t a cop anymore, and the SFPD was en route.
Under his hands, Morgan’s body shook, and her teeth chattered. Worry for her quickly wiped out any concern for himself. This wasn’t his first death scene, but as a former assistant prosecutor, Morgan’s experience with homicides would be one step removed. Viewing photos was not the same as seeing the body in situ.
He guided her toward his Jeep. He opened the hatchback and took out a warm jacket. He helped her into it. The sleeves covered her hands, and the hem fell to her thighs.
Before he could think, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. She fit against him perfectly. As wrong as the scene behind him was, having Morgan in his arms was right, and he took as much comfort from the embrace as he gave.
Morgan stirred, talking to his chest. “What happened to her?”
Reluctantly, he stepped back and zipped the jacket to her chin. “It is way too early for theories. We’d be guessing. Let’s wait for facts.” He appealed to the lawyer in her.
“You’re right.” But her blue eyes were dark pools, and her face had gone paler than the moon.
Eyes drifting toward the trees, Morgan took a huge gulp of air. “Could he still be out there?”
“I doubt it.” But he kept scanning the surrounding trees just in case. He’d only gotten a brief look at the corpse, but the blood smeared on her skin had appeared dark and dry. “I suspect she’s been dead more than a few hours.”
Fifteen minutes later, approaching strobe lights swirled in the dark. A patrol vehicle parked next to the Jeep, and Carl got out, his face grim. They didn’t bother with greetings. Lance showed Carl the body.
“Shit.” Carl turned back toward his cruiser.
By the time the first gray of pre-dawn brightened the scene, two more patrol cars, the medical examiner, and a forensic team had arrived. The team hung back, waiting for the ME to do his thing. Kit in hand, the ME trudged across the clearing. His white coveralls looked ghostly in the gray light. Despite the number of personnel, the clearing was eerily quiet. Normally, bad jokes would bounce around a death scene. Gallows humor was a favorite coping mechanism, but not when the victim was a kid.
A dark blue unmarked police car parked at the end of the row. Two figures got out.
Detectives Brody McNamara and Stella Dane hurried down the tract.
Stella rushed to her sister. “Are you all right?”
Morgan’s stiff nod wasn’t convincing, but she’d pulled herself together.
While the forensic team suited up in their PPEs, Brody and Stella followed the ME into the cattails. The horizon shifted from gray to pink as Morgan and Lance waited. Ten minutes passed before Brody and Stella emerged from the reeds.
“You must be exhausted. We’ll take your statements, and then you can go.” Brody motioned for Morgan to follow him. He guided her ten feet away.
Stella turned to Lance. “Tell me what happened.”
Lance related the events of the evening, from Morgan’s phone call to finding the body. Stella took notes, then returned her notepad to her pocket. “You’ll look after my sister?”
“Of course.” He nodded.
But Morgan’s spine was straight and her chin high as she finished giving her statement to Brody and then returned to Lance’s side.
They walked back to the Jeep. He started the engine, turned on the heat, and drove back toward the Dane house. Morgan was silent on the drive to her neighborhood. She pinched her cheeks, smoothed her hair, and climbed out of the Jeep.
A grim-faced Art opened the door before they reached it. He shot Lance a questioning look.
Lance shook his head. “Not now.”
With a long police career behind him, Art understood. He nodded.
They left their muddy shoes by the door. High-pitched chatter drew them to the kitchen. Lance followed Morgan into the room. The sight of the three kids eating breakfast was a welcome dose of positive energy.
Her three little girls sat at the table. Ava was digging into a syrup-soaked pancake. Mia slathered butter on a short stack. Tiny Sophie, who seemed to survive on three Cheerios a day, hadn’t touched her plate. Morgan’s wild child wore purple leggings, a neon green T-shirt, and socks in two different shades of blue. Her hair looked like it had been styled with a leaf blower. Instead of eating, she smeared a glue stick on a piece of paper and shook a small container of silver glitter over it. Glitter was Sophie’s crack.
Gianna stood at the stove ladling batter onto a hot griddle.
As soon as Morgan entered the kitchen, the girls ran to her in a chorus of “Mommy!”