Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense

by Emily McIntire

  “Clearly,” I scoff. “I should report all of you, have you arrested. You basically kidnapped me.”

  My dad’s mouth turns down. “Now, that’s not…”

  “How did you know my name was Morgan?” I cut in.

  My mom hiccups, wiping the tear tracks from her weathered face as she moves to the chest behind me, flipping open the top and retrieving something silver. She holds it out to me, her hands shaking as she sucks in lungfuls of air.

  I grab it from her hold, my eyes soaking in the piece of jewelry; a necklace, the name Morgan engraved on the front.

  “We—we didn’t know for sure,” she stutters out, refusing to meet my gaze.

  Disbelief courses through my veins, feeling as if my life belongs in a soap opera more than in the real world I’ve been living.

  I’m a detective, yet I never questioned any of this. Never second-guessed the way I couldn’t remember most of my childhood, assuming it was normal to lose the memories as you got older. And those I did have were told to me like a story, helping me create false images in my head.

  “You disgust me,” I whisper. “I can’t believe you—”

  “Your aunt Cammie did,” my mom interrupts. “She—”

  “Oh, fuck Aunt Cammie.” I throw my hands in the air, jumping onto my feet. “She’s lucky she’s dead, or else I’d make her regret playing God.”

  My mom gasps. “Morgan Sloane.”

  “Jensen,” I bite back, my glare cutting through her like glass. The air grows deadly silent. “I think you mean Morgan Jensen.”

  Her mouth gapes open like a fish, and my father tilts his chin high, staring off into the distance.

  I cock my head. “What’s wrong? Didn’t think I’d ever find my real home?”

  Tossing down the medical records, I grip the necklace tight, brushing by them as I leave the room, afraid that if I stay I’ll do something I regret.

  They let me by, and I stomp down the stairs, a tornado of emotions whipping through my chest, making my vision darken like a tunnel.

  My first instinct is to leave, but my body shakes so violently I’m worried I won’t be able to drive, so I head to the kitchen instead, sitting down at the table and breathing deep, trying to re-slot old memories into new positions in my brain.

  I rest my head on the cool countertop, trying to lower my blood pressure and collect myself enough to go back to Skelm. After a few minutes, footsteps sound next to me, chair legs dragging against tile. I tense my jaw, not wanting to look and see who it is.

  “I’m not gonna sit here and ask for your forgiveness.”

  I don’t speak, even though the sound of my dad’s voice sends an arrow ripping through the ragged pieces of my heart.

  “But I am gonna ask for you to listen, even though I know I don’t deserve it.”

  I clench my teeth so tight the ache radiates down my throat. But I don’t lift my head. I don’t move from my spot.

  “When I met your mom—”

  I huff out a sardonic laugh.

  “Theresa,” he corrects. “When I met Theresa, she just… lit up the room. Had this way about her. She turned me down for weeks, and when she finally agreed to go on a date, she looked me dead in the eye and said if I wasn’t interested in having a big ol’ family, then I wasn’t the man for her.”

  My chest spasms.

  “There was nothing on this earth she wanted more than to be a mother.” He clears his throat. “But sometimes life doesn’t give you the things you want most.”

  From my peripheral, I see him slide something across the counter and I lift my head, glancing over.

  It’s an ultrasound, with blue ink and loopy cursive scrawled on the bottom.

  Connor.

  “What’s this?” I finally speak, my stomach churning.

  “When we got pregnant for the first time, it felt like heaven.” His lips purse, his finger tapping the top of the ultrasound. “And when I woke up in the middle of the night to our sheets soaked in blood, it was the closest I’ve ever felt to death.”

  My heart clenches, the fractured pieces shaking.

  His hand slides another photo over.

  Annabelle.

  “A year later.” He nods at the grainy image. “This time we didn’t know until our appointment.” He sniffs. “I don’t know if I can ever explain the feeling of waiting for a heartbeat that never comes.”

  My lower lip trembles as I stare down at the pictures, my throat swelling tight.

  He passes over yet another, his tongue running over the front of his teeth. “Two years after that.”

  Samantha.

  “Made it all the way to the third trimester with this one until one day the kicks just stopped.”

  I reach out, my finger caressing the handwriting.

  “We don’t know if they were girls or boys.” His voice breaks. “But we wanted to honor them. Wanted our angels to have names to go with their wings.”

  One more time, he slips a picture over, but it’s different than the rest.

  A photo of my mother in the hospital, her brown hair a mess on top of her head, her eyes closed and swollen, face broken into a thousand lines of grief. In her arms is a tiny bundle, wrapped in a white blanket with blue and pink trim.

  “This one…” The words are shaky. “This one we did know. This one… we got to hold.”

  I look over at him then, my chest feeling as if a claw has torn through its center and ripped out everything vital.

  His eyes are glossy, his hand coming up to run over his mouth. “Anthony Sloane. It wasn’t until midway through labor that we lost him.” His composure breaks then, his anguish streaking down in rivulets and dripping off his chin.

  “Your mo—Theresa. She’s strong. Resilient,” he says through the tears. “But you don’t ever stop grieving for the children you’ve lost. And when they go, pieces of you go too, until eventually, there’s nothing left.”

  “Dad,” I whisper, my insides aching as if my heart has been pulled from my chest and tossed on the floor.

  “Cammie and I, we’d take turns watching her. Checking in.” He glances at me again, his face scrunching up as his Adam’s apple bobs. “I just knew it in my bones, I could feel that she was trying to leave me. That she longed to be with our babies in heaven.”

  He wipes his palm over his mouth again. “But I’m selfish. So when Cammie told me about a new case she was called in for, a girl in a hospital bed with no family, and no memory. Well…” He shrugs. “Maybe that makes me a bad man. But I’m still a man, and I would have done anything to give my wife a family.”

  His hand reaches out and covers mine on the tabletop. I tense beneath the touch, my mind warring with my heart, the betrayal mixing with the sadness.

  “And you, Morgan…” He blows out a breath. “You gave me back my wife. You gave us our family.”

  My breathing stutters as I inhale, and I reach up, wiping my nose with the sleeve of my arm. “That doesn’t make it okay,” I whisper. “You should have been honest from the start. I deserved to know.”

  Standing up from my seat, I glance back down at the photos, a hollow type of numbness coasting over me, settling deep into my psyche. I walk past him, my chest pulling when I hear his sobs break free.

  “I don’t hate you,” I say, pausing at the door. “I love you too much for that. But I don’t know if there’s anything that can ever bring us back from this.”

  He nods, hanging his head, not willing to look me in the eye.

  And I don’t have anything else to say.

  So I turn around and I walk out the door.

  When I make it back to Skelm Island, everything inside of me wants to run straight into Lincoln’s arms, and have him soothe my broken heart. But I’m at the precinct instead, meeting up with Alex so we can talk to Stoll.

  Personal life will have to wait. But at least now, I know that I have a solid support system at my back, regardless.

  Lincoln’s falling in love with me.

 
Is it fast? Yes.

  Do I care? Not really.

  I’m not a big believer in denying myself things that make me feel good, and Lincoln makes me happy, even when everything else is crumbling to dust.

  “I’m pretty confident Preacher Cartwright has a history of being a child abuser,” Alex says, his knuckles pressing into the oak of Captain Stoll’s desk.

  Stoll chuckles. “No kids have ever claimed that.”

  “Maybe not to your face,” Alex replies. “But the day of Sandra Wilkinson’s murder, she told us that up until a few years ago? He would take the boys into his office and she could hear the cries from outside of the door.”

  Stoll’s easygoing smile drops off his face, his chair creaking as he snaps forward. “Excuse me?”

  I attempt to calm the tossing and turning of my gut long enough to actively participate in the conversation. “It’s true,” I add. “She was worried about her safety because of it. Said every single one of the victims so far played a part in either covering it up, or turning the other way when it was going on.”

  Stoll’s lips turn down. “And what exactly was going on?”

  Alex lifts his shoulders. “According to Preacher Cartwright, nothing.”

  Stoll runs a hand over his shiny head, heaving a deep breath and leaning back in his chair. “Well, we can’t do anything on Sandra’s word. She was known to exaggerate, may she rest in peace.”

  “I think it’d be worth it to bring in some of the kids from back then,” I suggest. “I know Lincoln would be willing, and I’m sure Gabe would too.” I tilt my head. “Are there others that still live in town?”

  Stoll nods. “Most of them.”

  “Klepsky, too,” Alex adds. “We’ve been trying to talk to him for a few days now. Maybe you could convince him to be a bit more hospitable.”

  Stoll runs his tongue over his teeth before bobbing his head. “Yeah, that’s… that’s fine. Why don’t you go grab him.”

  “He’s here?” I ask, twirling around and looking through the thin windows that line the office door.

  Stoll shrugs. “He should be around here somewhere.”

  I nod. “Okay, I’ll bring him back.”

  Walking to the door, I grab the handle and twist, closing it softly behind me and then make my way down the short hallway and through the bullpen to where the officer’s desks sit.

  The blonde officer is perched on the edge of one, talking to a uniformed cop with brown hair, and I nod as I walk up to them. “Hey, it’s Kate, right?”

  Her smile drops as she looks at me. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Do you know where Officer Klepsky is?” I toss my thumb over my shoulder, pointing toward the hall. “Stoll wants him.”

  She waves her hand behind her. “He was here a second ago. But that’s his desk, so if he’s not there then I don’t know what to tell you.”

  My eyes glance to where she gestured, thanking her and then making my way over to it. It’s a light tan, the kind of color that reminds you of those tiny desks in grade school, and has a large calendar and a computer, with a few papers strewn across the top.

  I plop down in the small chair, spinning in a circle and wondering if I should wait for him to come back or leave him a note.

  There’s a notepad sitting just behind the keyboard and I grab it, deciding to head back to Stoll’s office instead. I smirk as I search for a pen, knowing it will irritate Klepsky to know that I marked his territory.

  There’s nothing to write with on his desk so I lean over, opening the first of two drawers that are on the side.

  Dozens of papers and miscellaneous items are stuffed inside.

  “Jesus, Klepsky. A clean space is a clear mind,” I mutter, shuffling through the items but coming up empty.

  Who doesn’t have a single pen at their desk?

  Closing the top drawer, I open up the bottom one, moving the stapler and two bags of rubber bands to the side before noticing a package of BIC pens in the back corner.

  Jackpot.

  I lean in farther, stretching out my arm to grab them.

  Just as my fingers grip the edge, something rattles.

  My forehead scrunches at the odd noise, a trickle of awareness shooting down my spine. I repeat the movement, hearing the same sound again.

  I suck in a breath, my eyes glancing up at my surroundings, but no one is paying me any mind.

  My stomach tightens as I move my hand back, shoving the odds and ends out of the way, surprise hitting my gut like a gunshot when I realize there’s a false bottom.

  My heart skips.

  Why the hell would he need this?

  My fingers run over the top, and then move to the edges, not really knowing where to grasp to make it come up, but after a few tries I get a good hold and it gives, making a loud snick as it does.

  There’s a few more papers underneath, and a bottle of whiskey. That explains the rattle. And the false bottom, I guess.

  Who knew Klepsky had a drinking problem.

  I go to put the wood panel back in place, but my gaze snags on something else in the corner, making me pause. Reaching back in, I grasp it and pull it out, realizing it’s a checkbook.

  Long and with damaged edges, as if someone ran it over with tires. There’s a deep stain on the front, turning the dark blue an even deeper shade. I squint my eyes.

  Is that… blood?

  My fingers skim along the top, my nose wrinkling at the texture of the dried liquid before coasting over a personalized engraving on the corner.

  Tracy Cartwright.

  A chill coasts over my entire body as I gasp, pieces of the puzzle slowly slotting together in my brain.

  My chest heaves as I stare at the name of the preacher’s wife, my hold on the book trembling slightly as I process what I’ve just uncovered.

  “Get away from my desk, Detective.”

  I slip the checkbook under my thigh as I slam the drawer closed with my foot, my eyes snapping up to meet the beady gaze of Oliver Klepsky. I cock my head to the side, swallowing over the sudden dryness in my mouth.

  “Hey, Klepsky. I was waiting for you.” I force a grin.

  “For what?”

  “I need your help remembering something, from back when we found Alta May.”

  His brows rise, his finger pointing into his chest. “You’re asking me for help?”

  “Yeah, no one else is around.” My smile is so strained it pulls the muscles in my cheek. “I just couldn’t remember,” I continue. “It was Gabe who brought in all the pictures from Lincoln’s boat right? No one else was out there until after us?”

  He nods slowly. “Yeah, Gabe took some pictures, and then I went and did a preliminary sweep before we brought everyone in for questioning.”

  My stomach shoots into my throat. “You were there before us? That wasn’t in the files.”

  “Oh?” His head tilts, his fists clenching against his sides as he takes a giant step back. “My mistake.”

  I stand up slowly from his chair, my palm pressing the checkbook into the seat as I do. He doesn’t miss the movement, and his gaze moves from my hands down to his desk drawers and back.

  “And the Latin…” I say. “It was you who couldn’t figure it out, right?”

  His jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing. “What is this?”

  I glance around, noticing for the first time that we have the attention of the room, and that Alex and Stoll have made their way out of the office and are standing in the corner of the bullpen.

  Slowly, I walk forward, reaching behind me and grasping my weapon.

  Klepsky takes another step back.

  The metal is heavy in my palms as I pull out my gun and aim it at his chest, my heartbeat whooshing in my ears. “Oliver, don’t be stupid.”

  His hands shoot up in the air. “Whoa, what the fuck is this?” His head swings around, but everyone just stares, the air so silent and thick you could cut it with a knife.

  “Alex!” I holler.

  Al
ex saunters over until he’s directly behind Oliver. “Yeah, carina?”

  My hands tremble as I hold my aim, but I don’t take my eyes off Klepsky.

  “If you look at Officer Klepsky’s chair, you’ll find a bloodied and damaged checkbook belonging to Tracy Cartwright.”

  “Bullshit,” Klepsky hisses.

  Alex’s brows shoot to his hairline, his gaze swinging to Oliver before he takes a step forward, reaching behind him and pulling out his handcuffs.

  “Oliver Klepsky,” I start, my heart beating in my throat. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Stoll’s voice soars over the air.

  Still, I don’t dare take my eyes off Oliver.

  “Not much, Cap,” Alex says, grabbing Oliver’s arms and roughly twisting them behind his back before securing them in handcuffs. “Just arresting your boy here for murder.”

  Chapter 46

  Way to just lay everything on the fucking line, Linc.

  My fingers scrub through my hair, droplets from the showerhead rinsing the shampoo from the strands.

  I can hear Gabe’s mocking tone already.

  Everything I said was true, I just hadn’t realized it until the words were breaking free from my chest.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever mentioned those three little syllables to someone who wasn’t family. First time I’ve felt them like this—deep in my soul, as if they’ve embedded themselves there for her.

  First time I’ve felt like I couldn’t breathe another second without saying them out loud.

  “There’s pain in beauty. Guts in glory. The risk reminds you that you’re alive.”

  My father’s words echo on a loop in my brain, his personal mantra acting as a balm to the part of me I’ve just ripped open.

  Panic prickles the hairs on the back of my neck, my mind already charging ahead and wondering what my admission means for us.

  My soapy hands roam down my abdomen, gripping my dick as I remember the kiss that followed.

  Her lips are a welcome distraction from the vulnerability raging like a tornado in my chest, tearing my heart to shreds, so I focus on that instead, flicking my tongue against hers and drinking the moan that comes after.