Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)
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Chapter Thirty-Eight Morgan paced Lance’s guest room, her cell phone pressed to her ear as she talked to her sister. Her nerves were still frayed by what happened with the Burns brothers that night—and by the sight of Karen Mitchell chained up in that trailer. But rescuing Karen was worth every drop of clammy sweat and rush of adrenaline-induced nausea. If only Grandpa would wake up. “So there’s no change?” she asked Peyton. “No.” Behind Peyton’s low voice, a monitor beeped in a steady rhythm. “He’s stable. Please try to get some sleep.” “When do you think he’ll wake up?” “I’m a doctor, not a psychic, Jim,” Peyton said in her best Dr. McCoy voice. Morgan appreciated her sister’s attempt to lighten her mood, but she didn’t have the energy to laugh. “You’ll call me if anything happens?” “I promise.” Peyton’s tone grew sincere again. “I will watch over him all night. I’ve got this covered. Go. To. Sleep.” “OK.” “And Morgan?” “Yes?” “Grandpa is tough,” Peyton said. “Don’t give up on him ye
Chapter Thirty-Nine The bedroom was bright with daylight when Lance woke. He rolled over to find the bed next to him empty and cold. For a few seconds, he wondered if he’d dreamed making love with Morgan. But her scent on the pillow next to him assured him it had happened. The memory gave him a rush of lust, quickly doused with concern. Where was she? Why wasn’t she in bed? He stepped into his sweatpants and padded barefoot into the living room. Morgan sat on his couch, the case files spread across his coffee table. He glanced at the clock. Eight a.m. He’d slept maybe four hours. “Did you sleep at all?” he asked. He was still groggy. She’d slept even less than he had over the past few days. “I did. I’ve only been up about an hour.” Over the dark circles, her eyes were bright with interest. She wore his sweatpants and T-shirt, and her hair tumbled around her face in a tousled wave that made him want to scoop her up and take her back to bed. Even if it was just to make her sleep. But he
Chapter Forty “Have you checked on Chelsea Clark?” Morgan asked. She and Lance faced the sheriff across his desk. “I talked to Tim right after you called me.” The sheriff leaned back in his chair. “She’s doing as well as can be expected.” He and his deputies wore wrinkled uniforms and smelled like they’d been working for thirty-six hours straight. Morgan explained what they found out about Derek Pagano. “Is he on your list of Speed Net employees?” With a long-suffering sigh, the sheriff tipped his body forward. He swiveled his chair and pulled the file from a bin on his credenza. Pivoting back to his desk, he opened the file on his blotter, flipped though pages, and scanned lists. He frowned. “I don’t see his name here.” “You didn’t know he was a sex offender?” Morgan asked. “No. But we’ve found evidence that Harold and Jerry Burns have been very busy. There were photos of other women, chained, beaten.” He paused. “Dead. We found pictures of Sarah Bernard.” “So, they definitely killed
Chapter Forty-One Chelsea woke with a start. The darkness suffocated her. She drew in a gasp of air, and her heart leaped into a full panicked sprint. “Hey, Chels. It’s OK.” A light clicked on. Tim was sitting in a chair by the window, an electronic tablet on his lap. He got up and moved to the side of the bed. He put a hand on her forehead. She flinched. “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t help it. “Don’t worry about it.” He smiled to cover the hurt in his eyes. “You can’t expect to go through what you did and not be affected. We’ll get through this.” He put his hand out on the bed, palm up, and waited for her to take the initiative. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to be touched at all. Her body hurt. From her face to her feet, there wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t ache. She shifted her legs under the blanket. The burn on her buttock blazed. Agony shot from the brand, radiating like a starburst into her hip and thigh. “I don’t feel safe here.” She’d been taken from her own driveway. How w
Chapter Forty-Two Moonlight lit his way. He cruised past the Clarks’ house. No police car. The sheriff’s department thought they had Chelsea’s kidnapper and had pulled their deputy from his babysitting duty. Tim’s Toyota was parked in the driveway, but the Dodge rental car was gone. Chelsea’s parents must have left as well. This was exactly what he’d been hoping for. Perfect timing. He parked at the curb in front of a house catty-corner from the Clark residence. The neighbors had teenagers and cars coming and going at all hours. No one would notice one more vehicle. Last time he’d come here, the night he’d brought her home with him, he’d ridden his road bike and hidden it behind some bushes. Tonight, she’d be coming with him in his car. Anger rose in his throat. She’d left him to return to Tim. This time, he’d make sure Chelsea had no husband to return to. She would never choose another man over him again. Tim had to go. The kids too. Chelsea would never let go of her old family and em
Chapter Forty-Three “Put your hands on top of your head.” Lance stepped out of the closet in the nursery, both his gun and the beam of his flashlight pointed at Derek Pagano. Lance hadn’t liked Morgan’s plan one bit, but her instincts had been dead-on. Standing in front of the crib, wearing a blonde wig and Chelsea’s robe, Morgan pointed her own weapon at the intruder. Derek stopped, slack-jawed for a few second. “You!” Morgan pulled the wig off her head and tossed it into the crib. It landed next to the cell phone playing a recorded sound of a baby crying. Lance hadn’t liked her idea to trap Derek by pretending to be Chelsea, but he had to admit the plan had worked brilliantly. Chelsea had been upstairs when Morgan and Lance had arrived at the house. Lance’s knock on the door had scared Chelsea, and she’d been easy to convince that getting her family out of the house and letting Morgan take her place was their best chance to catch her kidnapper. Derek’s eyes darted to the door, to Lan
Chapter Forty-Four Thirty minutes later, Morgan stood in front of Chelsea and Tim’s house. She wrapped her arms around her waist. Her initial nausea after the showdown with Derek had faded. Adrenaline had deserted her, leaving her limbs shaky and weak. Derek’s revelations had not been a complete surprise. But she was too spent to fully process what he’d told them. Lance thought his story was bullshit. Morgan didn’t know what to believe. “Morgan!” Stella’s voice pierced the busy scene. Morgan braced herself for her sister’s fury. Stella weaved her way through a foursome of patrol officers and sheriff’s deputies. Both departments had responded to the 911 call. Stopping in front of Morgan, Stella propped her hands on her hips. “What the hell were you doing?” Morgan hugged her body against the night chill. She’d ditched Chelsea’s robe in the house so she could move faster. “What did you want me to do? Call you and tell you we had a hunch that Derek Pagano was Chelsea’s kidnapper, and we we
Chapter Forty-Five Monday morning dawned brightly—too brightly for someone who’d slept only a few hours. Morgan squinted through her sunglasses and clutched her extralarge coffee like a security blanket as Lance escorted her across the parking lot of the sheriff’s station. “I owe Mac’s brother a favor or ten,” Morgan said. Grant Barrett had volunteered to drive the girls to school and drop Gianna at dialysis that morning. “I’m not sure how I’ll ever repay them.” “I doubt he’s looking for repayment. Mac said they just wanted your kids to be safe.” “Well, I’m eternally grateful.” Everyone in the sheriff’s department looked ragged. The deep bags under Sheriff King’s eyes said he’d been up all night, but he’d shaved and his clothes were fresh. She probably didn’t look much better. “Come this way.” Sheriff King waved Morgan and Lance into a conference room. “Elliot Pagano was here most of the night. He gave a full confession. Do you want to watch his interview?” “Yes.” Morgan concealed her
Chapter Forty-Six “I brought ice cream.” Sharp walked into Lance’s house. “I’m sure the kids will love it,” Lance said. Sharp froze. “Wow. This is different.” Lance’s stark, minimalistic decor had been revamped. Toys littered the floor, girly backpacks were piled by the sofa, and coloring books and crayons covered his coffee table. Mia and Ava knelt on the carpet, playing a game of Candy Land. Rocket followed Sharp inside. “My house is a little tight for six people, but we’re making i
t work.” Lance closed the door. It’s only for a couple of days. The alarm company is updating the entire system.” Morgan and the girls were staying with Lance until her security rivaled that of the White House. Gianna, Mia, and Ava were sleeping in Lance’s room. Morgan and Sophie had the guest room. Until Sophie outgrew her night terrors, she couldn’t share a room with her sisters. Lance was bunking on the couch. Even without Sophie’s night terrors, Lance knew there’d be no sleeping together with the kids
Acknowledgments As always, credit goes to my agent, Jill Marsal, and to the entire team at Montlake Romance, especially my managing editor, Anh Schluep, developmental editor, Charlotte Herscher, and author herder/tech goddess Jessica Poore. Special thanks to Leanne Sparks for her patience and help with some of the procedural elements of this story. She saved me weeks of research.
About the Author Photo © 2016 Jared Gruenwald Photography Wall Street Journal bestselling author Melinda Leigh is a fully recovered banker. A lifelong lover of books, she started writing as a way to preserve her sanity when her youngest child entered first grade. During the next few years, she joined Romance Writers of America, learned a few things about writing a novel, and decided the process was way more fun than analyzing financial statements. Melinda’s debut novel, She Can Run, was nominated for Best First Novel by the International Thriller Writers. She’s also garnered Golden Leaf and Silver Falchion awards, along with nominations for a RITA and three Daphne du Maurier Awards. Her other novels include She Can Tell, She Can Scream, She Can Hide, She Can Kill, Midnight Exposure, Midnight Sacrifice, Midnight Betrayal, Midnight Obsession, Hour of Need, Minutes to Kill, Seconds to Live, and Say You’re Sorry. She holds a second-degree black belt in Kenpo karate; teaches women’s self-de
ALSO BY MELINDA LEIGH
MORGAN DANE NOVELS
Say You’re Sorry
SCARLET FALLS NOVELS
Hour of Need
Minutes to Kill
Seconds to Live
SHE CAN SERIES
She Can Run
She Can Tell
She Can Scream
She Can Hide
“He Can Fall” (A Short Story)
She Can Kill
MIDNIGHT NOVELS
Midnight Exposure
Midnight Sacrifice
Midnight Betrayal
Midnight Obsession
THE ROGUE SERIES NOVELLAS
Gone to Her Grave (Rogue River)
Walking on Her Grave (Rogue River)
Tracks of Her Tears (Rogue Winter)
Burned by Her Devotion (Rogue Vows)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2017 Melinda Leigh
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542047968
ISBN-10: 154204796X
Cover design by Jae Song
To Mom,
for wallpapering the entire state of NJ in bookmarks
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Digging a grave was hard work.
Moonlight gleamed on the shovel as he lifted a clump of dirt and dumped it outside the knee-deep hole. Despite the coolness of the October night, sweat dripped into his eyes. Pausing, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. With a roll of his shoulders, he plunged the shovel into the earth like a spear and let it stand upright long enough to remove his flannel shirt. He tossed the shirt outside the shallow rectangle.
The breeze that blew across his bare chest cooled his skin. The scent of wood smoke lingered in the air. A carpet of dead leaves covered the trail, leaving the trees half-bare.
He leaned on the handle of the shovel and turned his face to the sky. Above the tops of the trees, the moon glowed, so low in the sky it felt like he could reach up and touch it. He lifted a hand, the position giving him the illusion of holding the moon in his palm.
The illusion of power.
Despite the failure he was literally burying, energy surged through him. He’d been careful, as always.
No one would find out.
No one would stop him.
There was no limit to what he could do.
He took a deep breath. The scents of pine trees and dirt drifted from the forest. Crickets chirped in the thick underbrush around him, and from the nearby river that cut through the forest and ran down the mountain, the sound of water rushing over rocks carried to his ears. Prey animals feared the dark, but he was a predator by nature.
The darkness was his friend.
And if he wanted to finish before dawn, he’d better get back to work.
Yanking the shovel out of the dirt, he returned to his task. Most people would have underestimated the length of time it took to dig a hole big enough for a body.
But then, most people hadn’t done it before.
He scooped up another shovelful of dirt and threw it up onto the grass. At first, the ground was nice and soft. But the deeper he dug, the more packed the earth became. If it had been winter, the job would have been impossible. He stepped on the turned lip of the shovel, using his body weight to force the blade deeper into the ground. Time to get this done.
He had people to see. Things to do.
A replacement to choose.
He glanced back at the blanket-wrapped form on the grass next to the hole. The first rule of learning from a mistake was to accept responsibility. He’d fucked up.
He’d picked her, so this was his fault. She hadn’t been hardy enough. Had she had some defect he’d missed?
Maybe. But now it was time to put this setback behind him and move on.
He threw renewed effort into his work. By the time he finished, his shoulders, back, and legs ached, but it was the satisfying kind of muscle pain, the kind that came from hard, physical labor.
He climbed out of the hole. It would have to be deep enough. Daylight hovered just below the horizon.
Crouching next to the bundle, he dragged it into the grave. The bla
nket shifted, exposing her plastic-shrouded face. Irritation washed over him as he flipped the cloth back over her staring eyes. She shouldn’t have died.
But sometimes shit just happened.
She could be replaced.
He filled in the hole, stomping over the grave to compact the earth. Then he swept the ground with a branch, covering the freshly dug earth with dead leaves.
He stood and stretched his back, his gaze drifting over the dead leaves around his feet. The grave was practically invisible. Hikers could walk right over the body and never notice it. He returned to the narrow trail. He should have been tired from a night of hard labor. Instead, the cold night air—and his new plan—invigorated him.
He would leave his mistake behind. The opportunity existed to proceed with a clean slate. His strides quickened as he crossed the river at the wooden footbridge. The road was only a five- minute walk from there. He emerged from the state park and headed for his vehicle.
He wouldn’t let this disappointment discourage him. He wasn’t a quitter. Every failure could be turned into an opportunity.
It was time to start from scratch.
Time to pick the next victim.
Chapter Two
There wasn’t anything ominous about 77 Oak Street. White with blue shutters, the compact two-story Colonial sat in the middle of a perfectly ordinary cookie-cutter development. Basketball hoops and hockey nets lined the street. Colorful chalk drawings decorated the sidewalks.