Above all, he couldn’t allow her to find out the truth.
Opening a new window in his browser, he began a random search. He needed to learn everything he could about Morgan Dane. Her address. Her family. Her friends. Anyone she was close to could be used against her.
He would use information as ammunition. He would find her weaknesses. If you drilled enough holes in any foundation, it would crumble.
Morgan Dane was a threat, and she needed to be stopped.
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning Morgan stepped into the storage room at Sharp Investigations. Lance and Sharp were in the process of clearing the room out for her use. The closet door was open and stacked with boxes. The long table in the center of the room still held a few cartons.
“How is Sophie’s cold?” Lance shifted a box. He wore what she’d come to consider his private investigator uniform: cargo pants, a snug tee, and a short-sleeved shirt worn unbuttoned, likely added to conceal the weapon behind his right hip.
“Much better.” Morgan set a takeout tray loaded with three coffees and a Dunkin’ Donuts box on the table. “But I suspect Ava has caught it. No doubt Mia will be next.”
“You brought donuts?” Lance grinned.
“Also a couple of croissants and muffins. I didn’t know what you and Sharp liked.” Morgan took the lid off her coffee and inhaled. She loved summer, and this morning’s autumn chill had cut right through her. In her opinion, pumpkin coffee and her suede boots were the only good things about the approach of cold weather.
Sharp walked in. “You know Saturdays, and every other day, are casual here.”
“When I’m on the job, it’s important for me to look the part.” Morgan thought her appearance had become even more important while she was working Nick’s case. Without the weight of the prosecutor’s office behind her—and considering public opinion was not on her side—she would have more difficulty than usual getting cooperation. “People judge lawyers’ abilities by the cost of their clothes and vehicle. I drive a minivan. The suit is all I have.”
And she considered it her armor.
She offered Sharp the Dunkin’ box. He made a distasteful face.
“I’ll take one.” Lance grabbed a glazed donut. “Sharp doesn’t drink coffee or eat processed foods.”
“I’m sorry.” Morgan selected a Boston Kreme. “I have a wicked sweet tooth.”
“Sugar and caffeine are highly addictive,” Sharp said in his high-and-mighty tone.
“I’m going to live on the edge this morning.” Lance took a coffee from the tray.
“I’m sorry. I won’t corrupt him again. I promise.” Grinning, Morgan slid her laptop from her tote. “Thank you again for the loan of your office space.”
Sharp moved the last two boxes to the closet. “You’re welcome.”
“Our security system isn’t close to what you have here,” Morgan said.
Lance carried a box of supplies and copies from the hallway and placed them on the table. “What’s your plan for today?”
“Reviewing evidence. I started last night, but there’s a lot to get through.” Morgan’s head was fuzzy from lack of sleep.
Sharp opened her box. “There isn’t much in here.”
“Most of the discovery materials came through secure email.” She opened her laptop.
Sharp frowned. “I know I’m being an old fart, but I prefer printed copies.” He left the room and returned with a printer, which he set up on the far end of the table. “Start when you’re ready.”
Morgan began to print police reports.
“I like to work with visuals.” Sharp rubbed his hands together, as if anxious to get started. “I’ll put together a murder board.”
She glanced up at the far wall, where a huge whiteboard spanned the distance between two windows. “I’ll print multiple copies. I like to keep my files a certain way too.”
The printer hummed as it spat out pages. They divvied up reports and began reading.
Morgan started with the police reports. By lunchtime, she’d gotten through a large chunk of the materials, and her head spun with details. She saved the autopsy report for last, steeling herself for the horrible details. Reading about the sheer brutality of a violent crime was hard enough when she hadn’t personally known the victim. But this . . .
This was the stuff of nightmares.
She scanned the text first and then moved on to the photos. The first image of Tessa’s body lying in the cattails took Morgan’s breath away. The close-ups of Tessa’s face and wounds were worse. Morgan closed her eyes and pictured the girl the last time she’d seen her alive, sitting at the Danes’ kitchen table playing a game of Chutes and Ladders with the kids. Morgan’s empty stomach churned. She reached into her tote bag for a roll of antacids and chewed two.
“We should break for lunch,” Lance said, his gaze too focused on her.
“I’m going to get some air.” What she needed was to get away from those photos. She took a croissant onto the back porch.
A flash of white drew her attention to the space under the porch steps. A dog huddled in the shadows. Clearly a mixed breed, its body was white with tan patches and looked vaguely bulldogish, but leaner. Someone had docked its tail, and its ribs protruded under a short, dirty coat.
“I can’t eat this anyway.” Morgan tossed a piece of her pastry onto the porch. The dog slunk out of its hiding space and gobbled the food with the wary rush of an animal that didn’t know when or where it would get its next meal. Morgan tossed more bits of croissant, drawing the animal closer. The dog edged forward for each bite, until it was only a few feet away. “I’m out of food.”
With one apprehensive wag of her tail stub, the dog darted back under the steps.
The door behind her opened. Lance walked out and stood next to her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Morgan leaned on a post. “I just needed a minute.”
Lance put an arm around her shoulders, and she shifted her weight toward him. A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away. “Some of those pictures got to me. I’m sorry.”
“For what? Being human?”
“Being weak.” She pushed away from him. “The only thing I can do for Nick or Tessa is to solve her murder. Crying isn’t going to help anyone.”