Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)

by Melinda Leigh

  “Thanks for hanging out here,” Morgan said to her sister. “Are you sure it’s OK with your boss?”

  “It’s fine. I’ve missed the girls.” Stella made a shooing gesture with her hand. “Go. Solve your case. I’ll be here until you get back.”

  “Stella and I have this covered.” Grandpa tapped his cane on the driveway.

  Grandpa had always been an excellent shot. He and Dad had taught all four of the Dane siblings how to handle a weapon. It had been a family ritual. Some families went to church on Sundays. The Danes had gone to the shooting range. But now Morgan wondered if Grandpa’s hands were steady enough to hit his target.

  And the thought broke her heart.

  Stella’s partner, Detective Brody McNamara, opened the door to his unmarked car. “I’ll head back to the station and see what I can dig up on Harold Burns.”

  “The sheriff warned us off him,” Lance said.

  “It’s a good thing the chief and the sheriff don’t get along,” Brody said over the roof of the sedan. “I’ll have no problem convincing the chief to investigate Burns in spite of the sheriff’s warning.”

  Or because of it, knowing Horner.

  “That’s making politics work for you,” Lance said.

  “For once, right? I’ll let you know what I learn.” Brody slid behind the wheel and then drove away.

  “I’ll be inside.” Grandpa wobbled as he went up the front walk. Lance went ahead of him, holding the door open as her grandfather navigated the steps and threshold.

  “He’s really unsteady,” Morgan said to her sister.

  “I know.” Stella sighed. “But at least I convinced him to use his cane outside. I have this covered for today. You’ve handled the lion’s share of his care up until now. It’s my turn.”

  “Actually, up until now, he’s taken care of me.” Morgan stared at the front of the house. “I’m having trouble with the turnabout.”

  “I know. He’s always been there for all of us.” Stella looped an arm around her sister’s shoulder. “And now we’ll be there for him.”

  “We will.” Morgan nodded. “We need to call Ian and Peyton. They should know what’s going on with him.”

  “If they wanted to know, they would call more often,” Stella said.

  “Peyton calls now and then, or at least she tries to.” Morgan’s younger sister was a forensic psychiatrist in California. “And Ian talks to Grandpa at least once a week.”

  Stella had little patience for their siblings. “Ian lives three hours away. He could visit.”

  “Ian never lived here. New York City is his home.” The Danes had moved to Scarlet Falls after their father had been killed. Ian had already been grown. He’d stayed in the city and followed in the Dane tradition, joining the NYPD. But instead of homicide, he’d chosen SWAT.

  “We’ll debate family dynamics later.” Morgan hugged her sister. “You’ll keep everyone inside?”

  Stella gave her a look. “Are you kidding me? I’m a police detective. I think I can handle keeping a house locked down for a few hours. Besides, your girls are angels. Most of the time.”

  “I know.” Morgan blinked back a tear. “But I’m not always rational when it come to my kids’ safety.”

  “Everything will be fine here.” Stella wrapped her blazer around her body, then turned and went back into the house, passing Lance on his way back to Morgan.

  Morgan and Lance got into the Jeep.

  “Are you all right?” Lance started the car.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Morgan blew out a hard breath. “Between my grandfather’s health and having Harold Burns stalk me and Sophie, I’m feeling guilty for going back to work.”

  “Stella can handle things here until you get home.” Lance had worked with Stella when he’d been on the police force. “She’s a good cop.”

  “I know she is.” Morgan’s phone buzzed. She read the screen. “It’s Sheriff King.”

  Lance backed out of the driveway.

  She pressed answer. “Morgan Dane.”

  Sheriff King didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “The dead woman is not Chelsea Clark.”

  Morgan felt the air rush from her lungs as the shock rolled through her. Even though they’d been acting as if Chelsea were still alive, she’d feared the worst. “Do you know who she is?”

  “Yes. The ME was able to identify her with dental records, but her family has a right to be notified first.”

  “Of course.” Morgan processed the news. “Have you let Tim know that the body isn’t his wife?”

  “I called him before I called you.” The sheriff sounded offended that she would even ask.

  “Thank you. I just wanted to make sure.” Morgan would still touch base with Tim. The fresh news would generate exposure for tonight’s press conference. “How was the woman killed?”

  “She’d been badly beaten. She had broken ribs, a broken jaw, a fractured eye socket, and had ligature marks on both wrists,” the sheriff said. “She was five months pregnant and suffered a . . .” Papers rustled on the other end of the connection. “Placental abruption.” He pronounced the words carefully, as if it was the first time. “Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes. It’s a separation of the placenta from the wall of the uterus.” Morgan let that sink in. “She bled to death.”

  “That’s right,” the sheriff continued. “The ME said it’s a rare complication that early in a pregnancy. In this case, it was likely caused by a blow to the stomach.”

  “Whoever held her didn’t take her to the hospital when she began to hemorrhage.”

  “Correct.”

  “Will the medical examiner be able to use the DNA of the baby to identify the father?” Morgan asked.

  “Maybe,” the sheriff said. “She delivered, and the baby was not present with the remains. There’s another grave somewhere. We’re going to search for it. But—” The sheriff paused.

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “She was close in age and appearance to Chelsea Clark. Blonde. Blue-eyed,” the sheriff said. “And she’s been missing for eight months.”

  “Runaway or kidnapping?”

  “In the original missing person report, her parents said she had no reason to run away. She was a college student. Doing well in all her classes.” The sheriff sighed. “Like I said, the ME found marks on her wrists consistent with long-term use of restraints.”

  “So she was kept prisoner all that time. How long has she been dead?” Morgan’s mind turned the information over and over, trying to stay detached from the details, which wasn’t easy with such a horrifying case.

  “A week to ten days. Animals had been at the body, but the intact portions were in good condition. Cold nighttime temps preserved the remains somewhat. But we don’t know that this case has anything to do with Chelsea Clark. Yet.”

  “Chelsea’s case is odd enough that I wouldn’t rule anything out at this stage,” Morgan said. “Do you have any other information for me, sheriff?”

  “Harold Burns was working in the auto shop the night Chelsea disappeared.”

  “Let me guess,” Morgan said. “His brother is his only alibi.”

  “Yes. They don’t have surveillance video in the shop. Only in the office.”

  “Convenient.” Morgan was almost surprised the sheriff had shared the information.

  “I thought so,” King agreed. “I’ll let you know if I have anything else that I can share.”

  “Thank you for the update, Sheriff.”

  He grumbled something that sounded like “you’re welcome” and the line went dead.

  “The sheriff was a regular Chatty Cathy today,” Lance said.

  “That was a lot of sharing,” Morgan agreed. “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, right on my head.”

  “Does this woman’s death have anything to do with Chelsea’s disappearance? They were approximately the same age with similar physical characteristics.”

  Morgan looked out the
window. Trees rolled past. “This woman was held captive for eight months by someone who raped, impregnated, and beat her. Then she died.”

  “Whoever was holding her might need a replacement.” Lance followed her train of thought.

  “All speculation.”

  “One hundred percent,” he agreed.

  “But a thin theory is better than no theory.” Morgan stared out the window as they drove to the Clarks’ house.

  Chelsea could still be very much alive. Where was she?

  Tim answered the door, the baby asleep, draped over his shoulder. He gestured for them to follow him back to the kitchen. The house was quiet, a countertop TV muted. He laid the baby in a bassinet. William didn’t stir.

  “He’s quiet today.” Morgan peered at the sleeping infant and felt her hormones stir. No! Down!

  “The pediatrician said the colic should start to improve between four and six months. He was right.” Tim gestured to the coffeemaker. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Can I offer you some?”

  Morgan and Lance declined.

  “Where are your in-laws?” Lance asked.

  “Patricia is upstairs reading to Bella. Rand is taking a nap, or so he says. He was looking pretty rough.” Tim frowned. “The call from the sheriff took a toll on all of us, which is the opposite of what you would think, right? We should be jumping for joy, yet we’re a mess.”

  Morgan empathized. John’s death had devastated her, but how would it feel to never know what had happened to her husband? To never have closure? Like Lance. “I don’t think there’s any right or wrong way to feel. This is a horrible situation no one should have to handle.”

  Tim poured himself a mug of coffee and then eased into a chair with his back to the TV. Morgan sat across from him. Lance paced the kitchen.

  “Are you ready for the news conference?” Morgan asked Tim.

  “I don’t know. I’m not good on camera. Maybe it would be better to let Rand talk.”

  “Rand’s reward offer and his heartfelt plea as Chelsea’s father will help, but the public will want to hear from you too. You are Chelsea’s husband. The father of her children. They need to hear how much you and the kids miss her and need her back. Whenever a woman disappears or is killed, the husband or boyfriend is always the primary suspect. If you and Rand present a united front, it will help shape public opinion.”

  Tim looked up. “I don’t care about public opinion. I just want my wife back.”

  “Rand is offering money for the help of the community. He wants their help. It would seem very odd if you didn’t speak.” Morgan couldn’t help but jump ahead. What if the next body that turned up was Chelsea? With or without evidence, Tim would be a suspect in the public’s eye.

  Next to her, Lance stopped. His body stiffened. Morgan followed his line of sight to the small TV. On it, a shaky camera recording, taken through a windshield, showed a blonde woman staggering on the side of the road. She wore a dirty yellow dress and had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She was barefoot. Blonde hair fell in a dirty wave to her shoulders. Her face was bruised and swollen.

  A car pulled onto the shoulder, followed by the vehicle in which the person filming the scene was riding.

  Morgan stood. “Turn on the sound.”

  But Lance was already on it.

  Tim spun in his chair. “Oh, my God.”

  The audio played on the TV. They heard traffic sounds, then a man’s voice. “It’s a woman. She appears to be hurt.”

  Yet the man continued to film rather than help her.

  The woman collapsed onto the asphalt. A man in the car ahead got out of his sedan and hurried to her side, dropping to his knees on the road. A few seconds later, he took off his jacket and wrapped it around her, then turned and gestured to the man taking the video. “Stop filming and call an ambulance!”

  The “you idiot” was implied.

  Morgan’s gaze shifted from the screen to Tim.

  He hadn’t moved. His face was frozen in shock. “It’s Chelsea.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  He paced the plywood floor of the storage container. The door was open, and daylight flooded the space. No point in closing it now.

  She was gone. No. Not gone. She’d left him.

  This was his first chance to examine the evidence. He’d tried to find her all night. And this morning he’d had other things to do.

  The distinction hit him squarely in the chest with an ache of betrayal. How could he have been so wrong about her? Why didn’t he foresee her deception?

  The mistake was his, not hers. He’d challenged a superior female, and she’d risen to the test. Overconfidence had been his error. It wouldn’t happen again. When he took her the next time, it would be final. She’d know there would be no getting away.

  And he would eliminate any reasons for her to escape, which meant he’d need to eliminate her family.

  But first he needed to know how she’d defeated him. He scanned the evidence in front of him. Squatting, he picked up the chain. The lock was opened, not broken, so she’d picked it somehow. She could have had a pin in her hair that he hadn’t seen. Next time he’d search her hair carefully.

  The cot was on its side under a hole in the roof. When he’d left her the night before, the hole had been too small for a person to squeeze through. He’d made sure of it. But Chelsea had enlarged it. Rust had weakened the structure of the ceiling. She’d seen this and taken advantage of it. Then she’d used the cot to boost herself to the roof. If she hadn’t been able to fit, she would never have managed it.

  Maybe she was too smart.

  She’d certainly outsmarted him. He should have shored up the hole. He’d left it so she could see the passage of time and have a small amount of fresh air. Obviously, that had been a mistake. Next time he would use complete darkness and disorientation as an additional tool.

  He’d failed. And if he didn’t get Chelsea back, all his work was for nothing.

  That couldn’t happen.

  Fury built inside him, and no deep-breathing exercise was going to settle it down. It raged in his chest like an animal in a cage, grabbed his ribs, and shook them like bars. He needed to release his anger or he wouldn’t be able to think clearly.

  He went to his shed and picked up a knife. Pulling up his sleeve, he cut the skin of his forearm. Blood welled, but the slice was clean and sharp, the pain not enough to scramble his emotions. He needed the equivalent of a defibrillator to his emotions.

  He fired up his blowtorch and heated the branding iron he’d used on Chelsea. The infinity symbol, because she was going to be his forever. The reminder stoked his rage higher. If he didn’t short-circuit it, he’d go into a red zone. A category-five hurricane of fury was building in his head. It couldn’t be contained. He had to decide how to release it.

  His hand trembled with anger and anticipation as the iron began to glow. He rolled up his pant leg and pressed the orange-hot iron into his skin. The smell of burning flesh rose. Sweat poured from his pores. The pain burst, bright and beautiful and clear. It seared through his leg in a blinding explosion.

  He lifted the iron. As the pain reached a crescendo and ebbed, the anger faded. He tossed the iron into the dirt to cool. Sweat soaked his shirt, and pain throbbed in his leg.

  But his head was cool.

  With the same first aid kit he used on Chelsea, he applied ointment and bandaged the wound. The lingering pain would help keep him centered on his task.

  He pulled his pant leg down over the bandage, straightened, and walked outside. With renewed purpose, he continued his examination of Chelsea’s escape.

  Just a few barefoot prints led toward the meadow and woods. Last night he’d followed her into the forest, but she’d gotten away in the dark.

  This could all be fixed. He knew where she lived. He’d taken her from there once before. He could do it again. This time, she would be forewarned. The police would be watching her. The bar would be higher. But if he was patient, everyon
e would let down their guard eventually.

  No one could remain completely vigilant for an extended period of time. It wasn’t natural. When nothing happened, they would become complacent.

  But waiting was not one of his strengths. Maybe he should find another woman and hone his methods.

  Chelsea was still meant to be his, but there was no reason she had to be his only woman. But what if she remembered too many details about the container? What if she led the police right back to his doorstep? There had to be some way to get to her.

  He had to get her back.

  And if he couldn’t, she’d pay the ultimate price.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chelsea rested her head on the pillow. Nerves hummed through her like electrical currents. Her body refused to accept that she was safe. They’d put her across from the nurses’ station to keep her under close observation. But it was the hub of the floor, crowded and noisy. Every bang of a metal tray or slam of a drawer startled her. The doctor, a tiny Asian woman with a calm demeanor, had said she was stable. But she didn’t feel very stable.

  According to the doctor, her body was still in flight mode. They’d offered her a sedative, but she’d said no. Why would she want to be drugged and helpless again?

  She shivered, tugging the heated blanket up to her chin. Would she ever be warm again?

  Her entire body ached, from her torn-up feet to her beaten face. Her eyeballs hurt if she moved them too quickly. There wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t cut, bruised, abraded, or exhausted.

  But she was here.

  Alive.

  She’d won.

  A sound in the doorway made her jump.

  Tim.

  Her heart stuttered at the sight of him. She hadn’t thought she’d ever see him again.

  He walked into the room. As much as he tried not to stare, she felt his shock at her appearance. She hadn’t seen her face in a mirror, but she knew she looked awful. Her lip was split, both eyes blackened, her nose broken. She was dehydrated and hypothermic. Her skin felt raw and tight, as if it belonged to someone else.