“Gabe’s here?” I ask, my eyes darting around the room for him.
“For the last hour. Called him because of a break-in, and he’s been making a freaking day of it. Putting us behind on orders to gather statements and shit.”
I raise an eyebrow, shifting my gaze to the floor behind me. “Behind on your two customers?”
Her lips thin, her expression flattening. “Did you come here to make me feel bad? Because you didn’t have to drag your ass all the way across town just to do that. I get plenty of that from my parents and Archer as it is.”
Sighing, I shake my head, reaching into my coat pocket and pulling out the baggie. Unlatching the ziplock top, I dump the contents and spread them out.
“Uh…” Isa leans in, squinting. “We don’t throw non-bar trash away here.”
“It’s not trash,” I snap, pushing a photograph of her and Morgan at a Christmas pageant. “You remember Paul Jensen’s little girl, right?”
Isa frowns. “Obviously. That’s me in the picture.”
Her face softens as she studies the photo; while Morgan and I may have been attached at the hip back then, she and Isa were partners in crime. When it seemed like everyone else had moved on from Mrs. Jensen and Morgan’s disappearance, Isa was the one person I could count on to share my grief with.
For a long time, she was the only one who understood what it felt like to go from being part of a completed puzzle to having one of the pieces displaced, so you’re never able to finish the picture again.
Neither one of us ever understood how someone could just be gone. No bodies, no evidence of foul play—they had just vanished, like sailors, into the foggy night air.
And for some reason, neither of us could get over the lack of closure. Probably what eventually drove us to each other’s bed, looking for a place to channel the grief we couldn’t otherwise express.
It didn’t work, though—we didn’t work, and Isa moved past her grief while mine kept me in a choke hold.
Nodding vigorously, I search the pile for Sloane’s officer bio that I printed from the Portland Police Department website earlier. Folding it so just the picture shows, I push the page toward her, pointing at Sloane’s forehead.
“Look familiar?”
Isa makes a face, peering down for a moment, then slaps her hand on the bar and laughs. “Yeah, looks like the cop who came in here a couple of weeks ago to investigate you.”
I push the two photos together, my heart racing. I’m sure my eyes look as crazed as they feel, buzzing with possibility, but I can’t make myself rein it in.
“Look closer and tell me that’s not the same girl.”
“Oh, Jesus. This again?” Isa blows out a breath, running her fingers through the ends of her black curly hair. She turns from the bar for a moment, unscrewing a bottle of whiskey and pouring some into a glass with ice from the deep freeze beneath the counter.
Walking to the tap, she fills the glass to the brim with dark soda, and comes back over, sliding the glass and a wood coaster toward me. “I think you need that.”
My hand curls around the cool glass like a reflex, even though I know she’s just trying to distract me. I take a sip, unwilling to go any further until she admits she sees something.
“She said her name is Morgan,” I say, tapping on Sloane’s picture.
“Wow, alert the press. Two girls in Maine named Morgan? I think you’ve uncovered a conspiracy there, Linc.”
“What conspiracy?” Gabe pushes through the kitchen door, running a hand through his blond hair. When he sees me, he smirks. “Your sister send you to check up on me?”
“Uh, no.”
“Oh, good.” He exhales, rubbing at a ketchup stain on his uniform. “Just can’t stand to be away from me, then? I’ve got you Porters wrapped around my pinky.”
I flip him the bird, ignoring the way his words sour something in my gut. I take another drink of my beer as he comes around the counter, moving in to see what Isa’s looking at.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?”
“Pictures of Morgan Jensen.”
“Jensen?” Gabe’s head rears back, his eyes narrowing as he glances at me. “As in, the lightkeeper’s daughter?”
“The one and only,” Isa says, grabbing a rag and wiping down the counter. “Lincoln seems to think she’s related to that detective who’s been sniffing around town.”
“Oh, jeez. Not the ‘she never really died’ schtick again.” Hands on his hips, Gabe twists, leveling me with a stern look. “How many times do we have to go over this? You’re a fucking SEAL, for Christ’s sake. People go missing all the time, and their bodies never turn up. It doesn’t make them less dead.”
Gritting my teeth, I slam my glass down, the force making the bottles lined up on the shelves behind Isa rattle. “That doesn’t change the fact that there was never any real indication that they were harmed—”
“Jensen was never formally charged with a crime, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” Gabe reaches out, sifting through my newspaper clippings until he finds one: DNA FOUND IN LIGHTHOUSE LINKED TO MISSING MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. “Maybe he was just really fucking good at covering his tracks. But they don’t find traces of blood on the walls for no reason, dude.”
Tipping my head back, I let out a groan, scrubbing my hands over my face. My mind spirals, resentment and confusion burning brightly as they wash through my veins, rushing to the organ pumping erratically in my chest.
It beats against my ribs, a caged monster intent on being set free, angry as my theories are once again ignored. Like the idea of a girl disappearing when she was a kid and then returning to town eighteen years later under a totally new identity is such a wild concept.
I blink, my jaw tensing.
Fuck. Maybe I am crazy.
Taking a deep breath, I nod, relenting as I scoop the pictures and clippings up and slide them back into their baggie.
“Don’t feel bad,” Isa says, reaching out to cover my hand with hers. She gives me a sad little smile, lifting a shoulder. “The anniversary drives me a little batshit every year, too.”
“Doesn’t help with the serial killer on the loose, I’m sure,” Gabe offers, clapping me on the shoulder with one hand. “Trust me, dude, if that lady officer was the missing girl, the entire town would be up in arms about it. The eyes don’t lie, and hers don’t match.”
I nod, accepting his answer on the outside, even though every nerve ending in my body is screaming at me to reject the sentiment. To keep on looking into Detective Sloane’s history and find out exactly what happened on Halloween all those years ago.
Because the eyes don’t lie, and I’d recognize Morgan’s anywhere.
I shove a life jacket against Alex’s chest, trying not to revel too much in the grunt that comes from him. He reaches up, yanking it from my hands, and holds it up toward the setting sun.
“This looks small,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
“Great observational skills, there. Want to guess if it’s the same one my dog wears when he’s out on the water with me, or do you already know the answer?”
Letting the preserver fall to the dock, he crosses his arms, flipping his sunglasses up into his hair. “You’re really something else, Porter.”
“Your partner certainly seems to think so.”
Pushing a crate of bait over the edge of the boat, I haul myself on board, not stopping to check and make sure he gets on.
Frankly, I’d rather leave him at shore, but since I don’t feel like hearing Sloane bitch about me fucking up her investigation again, I figure the path of only some resistance is the better option.
Alex climbs over, and I feel his gaze on my neck as I glide my hands over the control system, ensuring everything is in correct order. “Yeah, Morgan is quite the little optimist. Not sure what she sees in you, but hey, she always did love her charity cases.”
Stifling a chuckle at his blatant attempt to tick me off, I kick on the engine, turning just in time to s
ee Gabe sprinting down the dock, Monet trotting along at his side.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
“Can’t go wrong with a third set of eyes, can you?” I say, shrugging. “I figure the two of you together might actually have a chance at spotting something.”
My dog and best friend hop on, Gabe pausing to push away from the pier with both arms, and then we’re coasting away from the cabin, tension as thick in the air as the fog colluding around us.
Gabe tosses me a Tupperware container. “Ma sends pot roast.”
I grin, stomach growling as the savory scent reaches my nostrils. Pushing it aside, I shift gears and point the nose of the boat out toward the traps I dropped yesterday, eager to get this night over and done with.
I’m not going to be stuck out here with them for three days like I was with Sloane.
“You can call me Morgan,” she’d said, and my spine tingles at the memory. The thought of uttering that name now when I’ve spent my entire life lamenting over it sends a ripple of unease along my skin, percolating like sweat and clogging my pores.
“So, why don’t we go over logistics?” Alex says after several minutes of silence pass, clearly at least attempting to find common ground here. He points at the lighthouse, then the darkening horizon. “We’re looking for a serial killer, in case you two weren’t aware.”
Gabe snorts, settling back on the plastic bench seat and crossing his ankle over one knee. “Is that what we’re doing here? I thought this was a bachelor party.”
Rolling his eyes, Alex pulls a laptop from the case slung around his shoulder, dropping to the opposite end of the bench as he flips it open.
“Anyway, what we know so far is… well, really nothing. We have bodies, but no evidence. No real suspects, and no links other than—”
“My mom’s church group.” My hands curl around the steering wheel, knuckles bleaching.
“Yeah,” Alex says, typing something on the computer. “What can you tell me about them?”
“Haven’t you already interviewed their friends and families?” Gabe asks.
“Yes. Now I’m asking you two.”
His gaze volleys from Gabe to me, and drops to where Monet sits at my feet, watching him with his wide, brown eyes. Alex shifts, clearing his throat, and I almost chuckle at how uncomfortable the lab’s presence makes him.
“Not much to say,” I clip, annoyance notching down my sternum. “I can’t give you a better insight into those ladies. They bake, they gossip, they worship every Sunday. Maybe you should interview my mother.”
“Your mother isn’t protective over the lead person of interest in the case,” Alex says, cocking a dark brow. “So, I guess the better question is, what relationship did those ladies have with Paul Jensen?”
My stomach churns, bile burning the base of my throat when Paul’s face from earlier flashes in my mind. How unperturbed he seemed by the possibility of his daughter being alive, as if he knows for a fact there’s no way she could be.
Even though I’ve been staunch in my defense of the old man, the seeds of doubt begin to sprout, roots tangling inside me when I wonder what happened the night after we dropped Morgan off. If maybe my misery led me to throw my faith behind a man who didn’t deserve it.
For the first time since all of this began a few weeks ago, for the first time since Morgan and her mother’s disappearance, I can’t stop myself from wondering if he did have a hand in their last day on Skelm Island.
And if he’s capable of murdering his wife and child… who else might he hurt?
Chapter 28
The smell of my childhood home is comforting. Like vanilla and a hint of fresh linen that my mom swears is natural, even though I know for a fact it’s from the dryer sheets she places in the vents.
It’s been far too long since I’ve been here. Since I’ve seen them or taken the time to check in.
“So, you’re done with your case, then?” my mom asks while she rolls out dough on the marble island in the kitchen.
I shake my head and sip from my coffee. “No, I just wanted to come by and see you guys. I’ve missed you.”
My mom smiles, her brown hair falling across her forehead as she leans forward, pressing her knuckles into the floury bread. “You can always come back home to live.”
Laughing, I place down my coffee. “I love you, but no chance.”
Her grin widens, and she lifts one of her shoulders. “It was worth a shot.”
I twist around, my eyes coasting over the open dining area that leads into the small family room. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s out fishing with the guys. He’ll be home later tonight.” She pauses in her ministrations. “We miss you when you’re not around, you know?”
Warmth cradles my inner child, making me feel nostalgic for simpler times. Times when I was a kid and didn’t have anything serious to worry about—didn’t have the weight of three murdered women and an entire town on my shoulders.
“Hey, you think we could look at some old photos while I’m here?”
My mom’s hands slow down where they’re kneading and she stands back, wiping her floury palms off on her apron. Her head bobs up and down, her hazel gaze curious as she takes me in. “For what?”
I shrug. “It gets lonely out there, and I’ve been wanting to reminisce, I guess.”
It’s not entirely a lie. On the drive down, I was racking my brain trying to remember the last time I looked at memories from when I was a kid and couldn’t remember a single time.
“Okay,” she says. “There’s a box up in the attic, I’ll bring it down later tonight. You are staying the night, right?”
“I thought about coming down for just the day, but…” I look over at the stove’s clock. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”
The truth is that while I know I need to get back to Skelm Island, part of me doesn’t want to. The thought of spending the night completely alone in Lincoln’s cabin, where nightmares are liable to reach up and haunt my brain has me wanting to find sleep in a place of comfort.
And while Lincoln’s cabin isn’t uncomfortable, it’s still a solitary place on the edge of a wooded and watery area.
Exactly where they’d put a murder if it was happening in a movie.
But life isn’t like the movies, I guess.
Still, since I’m here, I might as well enjoy the peace. Spend some one-on-one time with my folks and grab some “evidence” to dispel this crazy theory that Lincoln has suddenly stirred up in his head.
I wonder if he sees a therapist?
I used to think therapy was only for broken people, but the longer I go with having these dreams again, the more I long for someone to talk it out with. Someone that isn’t going to judge me for what I say. And the more I think of that, the more I realize that maybe a little therapy could do everyone some good.
But instability of any sort can make me inactive for field duty, and if I don’t have my career, I don’t have anything.
The only thing I’ve ever known is murder.
“What made us move to Portland?” I ask.
My mom sighs, twisting around to wash her hands in the sink before she turns back to me, lips pursed while she chews on her inner cheek.
A spark of familiarity flows through me, knowing I got the trait from her.
“It was just time, is all,” she says. “Washington was nice, but it didn’t afford us to live the lifestyle we wanted. Staying here did.”
My brow quirks. “Lifestyle?”
My mom has always been a stay-at-home mom, and my father runs his own computer security company, neither of which seems to be a lifestyle that’s only granted in Maine.
She walks over to me, her warm fingers squeezing my shoulder before she brushes by and sits down on the stool next to me. “Yeah. It’s just different out here. Plus, Cammie was here and I was tired of being away from my sister.”
“Maybe she should have moved to us,” I grin, knowing that would never have happened.
&n
bsp; My mom chuckles. “And give up her career? No way. That stubborn ass would never.”
My smile widens. “I can relate.”
Her lips turn down in the corners. “I worry about you. That job of yours is intense.”
“It’s not just a job, mom.” Irritation sparks at my skin. “Just like Aunt Camie’s wasn’t just a job. Being a homicide detective is what I was meant to do. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t get it.”
“You don’t have to.” My shoulders lift. “You know how you always tell me that there’s nothing you’ve ever wanted in your life other than to be a mom?” I say.
She nods, her floury hand coming up to rest over her heart. “And I stand by those words. Being your mom is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given.”
“Well, I’ve never dreamed of growing up and having a family or anything like that.” I shake my head. “I’ve only ever wanted to solve crimes.”
My mom shakes her head, looking back down at the over-kneaded dough. “I’ll never understand it, but if you’re happy then I’m happy.”
I force a smile on my face, even though there’s a dark and heavy rope winding its way through my middle. “I am.”
Fog again.
Thick and muggy.
Running until I can’t breathe, my lungs burning from the strain.
It’s impossible to see, like it always is, and I wonder if I’m going to make it out of here alive.
Maybe this is it.
The end.
I don’t know how I know that someone is after me, I haven’t seen my attacker at all, haven’t felt them, or heard their words. But there’s a feeling. Something that tells me if I don’t keep running, I’ll never make it.
“Morgan.”
The voice soars through the air like a caress, hitting the center of my chest, equal parts sweet and sour.
Crashing to a halt, my feet skim the edge of a cliff. I’ve been here before. Many, many times. But it doesn’t stop the crazy beats of my heart or my panic that this time the ending will be different.
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 18