No wonder he couldn’t sleep.
Morgan rolled his head to the side and checked the time. It was a little after three, and at this point he knew there was no getting back to sleep. All he could do was lie here and wait for the sun to rise, then get up with a foggy head and less energy than a dead battery. But that didn’t stop him from trying; there were tricks for things like this that he’d picked up in meditation classes he’d done with Rachel a few years back. Morgan had come away knowing that if he created a safe place in his mind—in this case a jetty on a freezing, picturesque lake surrounded by mountains, and he was in a hot tub with an endless supply of red wine—he had to bat off every intrusive thought until he was entirely alone. It was supposed to help his breathing and heart rate, but this time it didn’t.
Giving up after a few minutes, he craned his neck to watch Rachel. It seemed he wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. Her endless turning and soft moaning indicated a rough dream. Morgan, feeling every bit of concern for her, pondered over waking her up or letting her nightmare run its course, but when her chest rose and fell in rapid beats he knew he had no choice—he leaned over and shook her with a soft, gentle motion.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said in a mellow tone.
Rachel swung her arm around. It hit Morgan with all the force of a twitching rabbit, but it was enough to wake her. She opened her eyes one by one and fought to sit up. “What’s going on? What time is it?”
“Nearly three thirty.”
“Why did you wake me?”
“You looked like you were having a bad dream.”
Rachel made a blowing sound through pursed lips and adjusted herself under the duvet. She said no more as she slumped onto her side, pulling the covers tighter around her body. There was no sound in the room after that, save for her heavy breathing. Morgan spent the next few minutes thinking she might be upset with him, and he wouldn’t blame her for that. He’d only done what he thought he’d needed to do, and now he had to suffer the consequences.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, there was movement.
Morgan sat up and reached for the beside lamp, flooding the room with light. He immediately saw his wife climbing out of bed, her hair a frayed mess around rosy red cheeks. She avoided eye contact with him as she opened the closet and pulled out a spare pillow.
“Are you all right?” he asked, concern overwhelming him.
“No, I’m not all right.” Rachel went for the door, stopping only when her hand was on the knob. “Like we don’t have enough going on already, now I can’t get a good night’s sleep.”
Morgan didn’t know what to say or do. He understood that maybe he shouldn’t have woken her, but she looked like she’d been struggling, so what was he supposed to have done? Guilt stole over him, but he would make no effort to apologize. To him, this was an overreaction. “I just thought you were having a bad dream.”
“I was,” Rachel snapped. “And can you blame me? We’ve got serial killers running around all over the place, we’re poorer than poor, and all you can think about is reinvigorating your private eye business. Now, on top of that, I’m not allowed to sleep?”
“Rachel, I—”
“I don’t want to talk about this now.”
“But we—”
“I said no.”
She passed through the door and slammed it shut. The walls shook, the sound echoing through the room like a pillar had collapsed. Morgan was left alone in stunned silence. He was wide awake now, there was no question about that. But what about Rachel? She’d never blown up like that before, and especially not over something so trivial. As far as he could see, this was a sign of a bigger problem, which meant he’d have to find the right time and tone to address it. Unfortunately, there was no rule book for things like this, and Morgan was clueless when it came to women; he’d only been with one in his entire life, and that one was stomping downstairs with all the wrath of the gods to sleep on the couch.
There was definitely something behind this, he realized. He just didn’t know what. She’d been the one who’d suggested he reinvested in his business, and until now she’d been fully supportive of his pursuit for Dusty’s justice. So what had caused this explosion? All he knew for sure was that he’d have to be careful from here on out, treading on eggshells and hoping she’d explain her thoughts and feelings in her own time, because the one thing he knew about women was that when they were this angry, they needed space.
He could only hope that information was accurate.
Chapter Seventeen
Morgan wasn’t used to ignoring his wife, but it was one of those painfully vital things that simply had to be done. It wasn’t out of spite or even as a part of their argument, but the way she’d look at him as she passed him in the hallway, and the way she didn’t look at him when they ate silently at the dinner table, told him something was going on in her head.
It caused a tremendous amount of strain on him too. He and Rachel had always been solid as a rock—if you omitted the short spats most couples went through—but now it’d been two days since she’d reacted to him waking her up. Morgan still didn’t understand if she’d taken that too far or if he really had been out of line. All he knew for sure was that he didn’t have time to sit and figure it out.
Not while he was looking for a killer.
As much as it pained him to place Rachel as a secondary priority, he didn’t see that he had a choice, and while he sat in the spare room that was now his office, he stared blankly at the laptop in front of him with the search engine open. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to type, but rather that he was still gathering the courage to see whatever images his results would find. He’d been here before only yesterday, only half-invested while the dust settled on his fight with Rachel. It seemed he’d never control his distractions.
Now, however, Morgan was ready. He’d woken up that morning with every intention of researching the hell out of this case. Throughout the morning he’d gone over police reports that were kindly provided by Gary, studied the victims’ activities on social media, and read article after article surrounding the recent murders. It tore him apart each time he saw that same damn picture of Dusty, his freckled face still young and full of innocence despite his age.
It only made him want to work harder.
While the social media sites had nothing to offer but a flood of condolences from loved ones, Morgan did find some use out of the articles. One of them—a piece written by a young freelance journalist he’d met once upon a time—had made mention of Dusty’s car accident many years ago. Morgan had a vague recollection of that; by then they’d long been separated, but the news had passed through the distant family. Dusty had walked away with barely a scratch, but not everyone was that lucky.
That was all he knew about it until now.
Scrolling through the page, Morgan was shocked to learn that Teresa Joy—the speculated second victim from this same killer—had also been in that accident. As he continued to read, Morgan’s heart pounded at each word his eyes skimmed over. He had to read it twice more before he realized that connection didn’t seem suspicious to anybody, but to Morgan it meant everything, and that was all he needed.
The victims knew each other.
While the idea that it was a coincidence briefly flickered in his mind, Morgan was sure that such connections were highly unlikely. There were over seven million people in the city of Washington. The chances of two people having shared a car accident over ten years ago—and recently being murdered in car-related events—were nearly impossible unless there was something bigger going on. It brought a sharp pain to Morgan’s head, shooting through his skull without relent. He’d have to ignore it for now though. The police were probably on their way to figuring this out, and he wanted to get there first.
For Dusty, he thought.
A quick internet search gave him the names of Teresa Joy’s mother, and another provided the father’s address. Morgan only hesitated for a moment to
question if this was the right move; it seemed too good to be true that Dusty and Teresa knew each other, especially considering their social media accounts didn’t have them listed as friends. Was it possible the crash had driven a wedge between them, or had they simply drifted apart? How close were they to begin with? Did they know each other before that night, on a long, lonely stretch of road ten years ago? There were too many questions, but they had to be asked.
And where better to start than the family of the latest victim?
Chapter Eighteen
A quick call ahead had told Morgan that Teresa Joy’s father, Tony, would be working the early-evening shift at a downtown bar called Shooter’s. The name of that joint wasn’t appealing, but Morgan drove there on business, parking the car in the nearly full lot around back. While he stood out in the cold and locked the car door, he had a sudden recollection of Tony’s voice.
“Whatever,” he’d said, and his voice was full of as much resignation as that word had.
Wondering if the face matched the voice, Morgan headed inside and scanned the busy crowd. For six in the evening, this place was way too busy. Drinkers gathered around a pool table with a sign that said HALF PRICE DUE TO MISSING BALLS, while men in dirty baseball caps scooped forkfuls of food into their mouths at the corner tables. Morgan didn’t realize it was a bar and grill until now, but although the smell promised a decent meal, the sticky floor and decaying paint on the walls told a different story.
It was probably safer not to eat here.
Pushing through a gathering of rowdy young men and women, Morgan made his way to the bar where a petite blonde lady with a nose ring poured four shots at once. She handed them over in one smooth motion and took the customer’s money before turning her attention to Morgan with a mouthful of gum. “What can I get you, honey?”
Morgan leaned over the bar, shouting above the noise. “I’m here to see Tony Joy.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Sure is.”
The woman looked him up and down, still chewing. “All right, follow me.”
She led him past the far end of the bar, telling a customer she’d be back in a minute before taking him to a door at the back. Morgan followed without a word, anxiety stealing over him while he wondered what kind of man he was about to meet. He reminded himself that no matter how it appeared, the man would be hurting, and so he might have trouble extracting information from him. He didn’t find this surprising either—if there was one thing he’d learned over his many years doing this job, it was that most people wouldn’t do something for nothing.
They passed through a narrow hallway that stank of urine, then through another door into the kitchen. It was a long workspace with three men all wearing white, zipping around the place with such urgency that Morgan felt he could easily be knocked over. He kept his arms close to his body while he followed the woman, silent until she introduced him to a red-eyed man with a five-o’clock shadow. After making the introduction, she gave Tony a soft pat on the arm and left them alone, traces of her perfume lingering in her wake.
“I don’t have much time,” Tony said, shaking his hand. “You’re not police?”
“Technically, no, but I have the same questions they’ll have.”
“You think they’ll be in touch?”
“Probably.” Morgan had no reason to doubt the MPD would be close behind. They were usually pretty swift to piece things together, which only put more pressure on Morgan. At least he was ahead of the curve for once. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Joy. Incidentally, I also lost someone very dear to me. Not so long ago, in fact. Does the name Dylan Young mean anything to you?”
Tony mouthed the name without speaking it, as if he were seeing how it tasted. He turned and scooped a steak off the grill, slid it onto a plate where a prearranged salad sat on the side, then moved the plate and hit a bell. “You talking about Dusty?”
“You knew him?”
“Barely, but a little. He died?”
Morgan nodded, his heart cramping.
“Sorry about that. He was a good kid.”
“I agree.” Morgan sighed, the pain of his loss hitting him all over again. “Listen, I’m curious about Dusty’s connection to your daughter. I have reason to believe they knew each other, but I’m wondering just how much.”
“They were loose friends, I think. Maybe more like acquaintances, because of the age difference.”
“You never saw them together?”
Tony shrugged and rushed aside, slapping flour onto something that Morgan thought looked like a hair braid and then throwing it into an industrial oven. “Sometimes, but that was a long time ago. It was long before that night…”
“You mean the car accident?”
“That’s the one.” Tony heaved a sigh and rubbed his eyes with his wrists. He looked exhausted, and Morgan was willing to bet he hadn’t slept since his daughter had died. “To be honest, I didn’t take much notice in Teresa’s social life until she was a bit older. She started bringing boys home—not in a romantic kind of way, but she was really welcoming. I didn’t mind too much. At least I knew she was safe where I could see her.”
Morgan watched his eyes grow red. He’d seen this many times from families of murder victims. It was self-blame and guilt festering away in their brains. It was no place for such a parasite to feed, and he tried to keep the conversation moving. “Was Dusty one of them?”
“One of the friends she’d bring home?”
Morgan nodded.
“Like I said, he came over a lot from time to time.”
“When did you stop seeing him?”
“As soon as Teresa got a place of her own, I guess.”
It made sense, Morgan realized, and he didn’t want to press on that any harder. He wondered how much he could get from this man without breaking him. His calm tone and sympathetic smile could only get him so far, and it was never easy getting information from someone when neither of them knew what to look for. All he could do was circle back around to the one thing they both knew a little about. “Tell me more about this car accident.”
“What about it?”
“How was Teresa after that night?”
Tony shrugged, double hitting a bell until a man finally came to take the steak he’d prepared a minute ago. It was obvious he was losing his patience. “She seemed no different to me. Wouldn’t get in a car for a few months afterward, but she was otherwise the same.”
“Was she living with you at the time it happened?”
“Yep.”
“And you never saw Dusty after that?”
Tony shook his head hesitantly. “If I did, I don’t remember it.”
“Do you think it affected their friendship?”
“Maybe a little. Teresa became slightly reclusive for a time. She wouldn’t talk to either of them and even ignored me for a short while.”
Fatigue had been picking at him until that moment. Morgan heard more than he should have in that last sentence, and it stuck out like a sore thumb. “Either of them?”
Tony nodded. “Either of the other survivors.”
“There were two other survivors?”
“Dusty and Tom.”
Morgan let out a noise that was half laugh, half sigh. Relief stole over him as he finally found something he could use. Until now he’d had no idea there was anyone else involved—either the online reports of that incident had neglected to mention another passenger, or he’d been reading in all the wrong places. Whatever it was, he was going to rectify it. “Mr. Joy, I’d really appreciate it if you could give me the full name of that survivor.”
For the first time, Tony gave a very slight smile. “How about I go one better and give you his address?”
Chapter Nineteen
The killer had bumped shoulders with his next victim more than once over the past couple of days. It was funny—no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t get the guy to recognize him. But what did that even mean? Was his very existence
so inconsequential that he couldn’t be picked out of a lineup? If that was true, shouldn’t this have been easy?
It wasn’t.
Everything, from the very beginning of the preparation to the striking of victim number two’s match, had taken a great deal of outlining and planning ahead. All the risks were taken into account when constructing his plan, and each time he ticked another thing off the list as he came closer to the big finale.
That was the most terrifying part of all. The final act was the cherry on the already sweet cake, and it was by far the most important piece. It was also the easiest, so at least he could bow out without the pressure and stress of being caught—he knew damn well he would get away with it, which was more than could be said for tonight’s big piece.
It was from across the street that he’d watched the guy, jogging up the steps to his front door after running for a little over twenty minutes. The killer had timed it to the very second, remaining concealed in the doorway of the social club. When the man had first left, the killer had questioned whether to seize his opportunity and break inside, but much like the rest of the plan, risk needed to be taken into account.
That was why he’d stayed.
He was glad he had too—the son of a bitch had returned so fast he would’ve barely had time to find a place to hide. At least the sun had gone down while he stayed put, the light draining out behind the tall buildings on either end of the busy street. Darkness, as he understood it, made everything easier. He could move without being seen, be seen without being recognized. But the best part of all? People relaxed in the evenings, and that made them more vulnerable. The killer had never been much of a fighter, so vulnerability suited him just fine. It helped to have a weapon too. Besides, this guy was twice his size and in pretty good shape.
At least he would be, for another few minutes.
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 68