by CJ Lyons
Another abrupt stop. Helen’s gaze sought Jenna’s as if begging her to finish the thought for her.
“You knew! And still you left me there. All alone. With him.” Jenna felt like she was screaming, but her words came out in a strangled whisper.
“He promised you’d be fine. That he wouldn’t—”
So typical of Helen: not only avoiding the words that would prove her guilt, but also not offering any form of apology.
“How could you?” Jenna’s voice rose, drawing the gaze of other diners.
“He promised. He swore. A solemn vow.”
“Two years. Two years you left me there. Two years of his touching, his—” Jenna choked, unable to give a name to the torture she’d endured. In a warped way, the physical assaults were the least of it. The psychological manipulation was so much more cruel, the way he’d made her a willing participant in her own abuse… it had changed her. Forever. Jenna tried to meet her mother’s gaze, but Helen was focused on the napkin in her lap. “Your own father—”
“He made me who I am today. Strong. Because of him I have power. I have everything I ever wanted.” Helen looked up and reached a hand toward Jenna’s side of the table. But Jenna kept her distance, her arms still wrapped tight around her chest, and Helen’s palm lay there, open and empty. “He promised. I thought—I believed him. I thought he’d changed. He was so old by then. Jenna, I’m sorry.”
It was the only time in Jenna’s life that she’d ever heard those words from her mother. Yet they were meaningless.
Jenna shook her head, quick little jerks of denial. “It’s almost worse than what he did. You knew the monster he was and still—” Her vision blurred and she blinked away her tears. “My own mother. You gave him to me. Delivered me all dressed up, pretty ribbon and all.”
She scraped back her chair. Just the thought of one more moment in the presence of her mother made her nauseous. Bile burned in the back of her throat. She stood, gripping the back of her chair—otherwise she might slap the woman across from her.
“Jenna, wait.” Helen leaned forward but didn’t leave her seat. Of course not. Jenna wasn’t worth the effort—and a judge always gave their rulings while seated above the riffraff. Which obviously included her daughter.
“No. We’re done.” Jenna moved past her—it was the only way to the exit—but Helen grabbed her arm with a grip forged of steel.
“I understand. But know this. He paid. When I realized what he’d done, what he was doing—I made sure he paid.”
Jenna whipped her arm free and stood, looking down on the stranger who was her mother. “What are you saying?”
“The green pen? It was from your favorite coloring set—the one I gave you for your birthday. The ink matched your eyes. That’s why I chose it.” Helen leaned back, her face as placid as a still lake in moonlight. “I couldn’t let him get away with it. Not again. So I took care of it. I took care of everything. I took care of you.”
Chapter Seventeen
The blast was nowhere as large as the ones earlier in the day, but its power was concentrated very close to where Adam’s foster mother was standing. Not the car, it hadn’t been in the car— Morgan’s thoughts kept circling around and around as she picked herself up off the ground. One of the garden gnomes? The phone? Had he been inside the house? It would explain why Adam had joined him in his car so readily—he knew Adam already. Had cultivated a relationship.
It also explained why the bomber had targeted Adam’s foster mother—he couldn’t risk her talking to Morgan. If Morgan had come here, the woman might still be alive. Adam would still have his perfect family. If Morgan had stayed away.
She fell into the Subaru’s passenger seat. Micah had thankfully been shielded from most of the explosion. “Drive,” she told him.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” It was the truth. This time there was almost no shrapnel. At least, not that had made it past the two vehicles that stood between her and the woman who no longer had a face, a hand, or most of one shoulder. “Drive.”
He obeyed her, speeding down the lane. The silver SUV was already out of sight. A woman being blown up made for quite the diversion, Morgan thought, feeling almost giddy. Her father would have approved.
“Did you know?” Micah asked, his voice still louder than normal. “That the bomber was watching? That he was there already? Were you just using Adam as bait?”
Morgan shook her head and immediately regretted the action—her vision went fuzzy for an instant, and her ears squealed with a high-pitched tone. She popped them, cracked her jaw, and suddenly the world rushed back in at normal volume.
“I thought the bomber might be watching us, but I wasn’t using Adam as bait.” Actually, now that she thought on it, she had almost accidentally used Micah as bait—sending him on ahead in the car while she tried to out-stalk her stalker. But what choice had she had?
“Still, you shot at them. What if you’d hit Adam? What if that was why the bomber triggered the bomb? Because of you, Adam’s mother is dead.” His words were rushed and breathless, totally unlike Micah’s usual measured cadence. Adrenaline was spiking through his system, Morgan diagnosed. Jenna got the same way after there was any action.
Not Andre, though. Not because he was like Morgan, immune to most effects of high emotion, needing more and more intensity to even trigger a adrenaline release; rather because of his training. He’d learned how to stay calm and in control despite his emotions.
“We lost them,” Micah said as their route brought them full circle back to the highway. “What now?”
She needed to get ahead of the bomber, to learn more about who he was—and maybe most importantly, why he was. Morgan slid her supposed birthday card from her pocket. “Emma. I need to know what she remembers about whoever gave her this card.”
“We can’t risk the bomber trailing us—what if we end up taking him to Emma by accident?”
“She’s safe. Head back to the city, and I’ll make sure no one is following us.”
“Maybe we should split up? He can’t follow us both.”
“No, it’s better this way—you drive while I’m free to look behind us for a tail.”
Micah nodded, accepting her superior experience without question, saving her from the truth: no way in hell was she letting Micah out of her sight, not after already losing Adam. The only saving grace was that the bomber obviously wanted to use Adam as leverage against Morgan—which meant he wouldn’t kill him. Not yet.
She directed Micah onto several back roads, using the narrow rural routes to scout for anyone following them. Once she was certain no one was there, they made their way to the turnpike and headed west, back to Pittsburgh.
As they drove, Morgan used her phone to search for victims’ families and survivors of her father’s crimes. From his note, the bomber seemed to blame her as much as Clint for whomever he’d lost, so she started with those victims. There were a lot—even more when she went back further to when Clint had operated alone. Still, she didn’t turn up anyone she could easily connect to the Pittsburgh area or who had a history of any bomb-making skills. Although anyone could fairly easily master that, thanks to the Internet.
In the end, she had twenty-six names, way too many to track on her own. She could only hope that Emma could help narrow them down.
Chapter Eighteen
The strain of her mother’s confessions must have shown because when Jenna walked back to the bar, Andre said nothing, simply wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her out. On the way to the hotel he drove, following the car’s navigation prompts since Jenna was too drained to help.
“Morgan called,” Andre said, as he steered them through the crimson hues of an LA sunset. “The bomber isn’t after you. He’s after her—something to do with her father.”
Of course. Jenna’s family wasn’t the only one with monsters hiding in plain sight.
“I checked,” Andre continued. “I can fly back on the red
-eye tonight, and be there by morning to help her out.”
“No.” Somehow it took all of Jenna’s energy to get that single syllable out. She slumped in her seat. “We’ll both go.”
“Don’t you want to stay? Seems like time with your family, to work things out—”
“No.” She took his hand in hers, intertwining her fingers with his as if forging an unbreakable bond. “You’re the only family I have or want. Just you.”
He considered that, and nodded. “Then we’ll go home together.”
Jenna curled her knees up, hugging herself, and tugged against the seatbelt that seemed determined to choke the life from her. “My mother—”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Jenna.” His words offered her an escape from the burden of the truth, but his tone offered something even more precious: solace. She didn’t have to explain—but he would listen to anything she wanted to share.
“My mother,” she tried again. “When she was young, her father—my grandfather, the Judge, he—he abused her.” Andre’s posture grew rigid, but he squeezed their still-joined hands.
“But your parents…they sent you to live with him and your grandmother. That’s why you were there when the letter bomb arrived. Surely she wouldn’t have risked—”
“She did. She knew he was a monster, but still she sent me there. To get me out of her way, to have her freedom without the burden of a kid dragging her down—” She covered her face with her free hand and rubbed her face against her palm. “I don’t know what she was thinking. She said he’d promised her nothing would happen, that he’d changed, that she believed him, trusted him—”
“With her only child? And your father? Does he know?”
“I have no idea.” She blew her breath out, expelling any hope that either of her parents actually ever gave a damn.
Andre slid his hand free of hers long enough to punch the horn and jackrabbit over to the next lane, speeding up to pass and cut off the slowpoke who’d irritated him. Then his hand was back in hers. She traced the scars that ran along the back of it, smoothed her fingers around to where she could feel his pulse, his heart beating faster and more furious than usual.
“I want—I wish—” Traffic was stalled ahead and he slowed, this time without honking or slamming on the brakes. They sat in silence, the red glow of brake lights coloring them both in fresh blood. “I’m glad we’re leaving. You deserve better.” He turned to face her. “You deserve the world, Jenna. You deserve everything. I’m sorry those people can’t understand that. Tell me what I can do.”
This time she was the one who squeezed his hand. “Nothing. The Judge is dead. And I finally know the truth.” They inched toward the exit. “Morgan’s right that the bomber isn’t the same one who killed the Judge.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because my mother sent the bomb that killed the Judge. Said it was her way of taking care of things after she found out what he’d done to me. That he’d broken his promise to her.”
Funny, but she had the feeling it was that betrayal that had propelled Helen to take action more than any love for her daughter. That the Judge had dared replace Helen with anyone else. What had Helen said? The Judge had created her, given her her power.
Made her a monster. Just like him.
Jenna closed her eyes, trying to block out the images of all the times she’d crossed the line herself—she’d killed in cold blood, without absolutely needing to. It was what had cemented her bond with Morgan: two monsters from two families of monsters, unable to shed their legacies of blood, helpless to change their destinies.
“You’re nothing like your mother or your grandfather,” Andre said in a low tone, as if he could follow her thoughts merely by watching her face. Probably he could—he was more sensitive than his appearance suggested. One of the many reasons she loved him.
“Some days I’m not so sure,” she said.
“Trust me. I know.” He steered them onto the exit. “Let’s get the hell out of here and go home.”
“Home.” She sucked in her breath, sitting upright like an adult. “Yes. Take me home. Please.”
She hoped he understood what she didn’t have the strength to say out loud—that anywhere she went with him was home. As long as he was by her side, that was all she needed. He gave her the strength to change, to not be like her mother or grandfather. Andre gave her what she needed most: hope.
Chapter Nineteen
It was past seven when Morgan and Micah arrived at the medical center. They parked in the basement level of the parking garage—since it was a stolen car, Morgan figured it was best to forego the valet parking the hospital offered. It meant a longer walk through a more isolated parking area, but it also allowed her to spot security cameras and skirt them. She let Micah sweet talk the little old lady at the reception desk into giving them visitor passes while she watched his back for anyone paying undue attention. After all, with a little effort, the bomber could have found Emma easily enough without following them; he might have even beat them here.
But there was no sign of anything or anyone out of place. Even with Morgan’s scrapes and bruises collected during the day’s adventures, she fit right in with the ebb and flow of patients and staff. Hospitals. Everyone wanted to feel safe inside them, but in reality they were leaky sieves when it came to security.
“How hard is it to volunteer at a nursing home?” she asked Micah when they arrived on the telemetry floor.
“Not very. They’re always at my church asking for folks to go read or help out—and it’s on the list of school community service projects. Why?”
“There was this woman today at Emma’s nursing home. A volunteer, but she was the only staff member on the floor. She could have easily placed the bomb.”
“And given Emma that so-called birthday card to sign.” They quickened their pace down to Emma’s room.
When they entered, Morgan had half-convinced herself that she would arrive to find Kelly holding Emma hostage; or worse, a bomb strapped to Emma. Instead, they found Emma sitting up in bed enjoying a cup of butterscotch pudding. “I hear you, Morgan Ames. I’d know those footsteps anywhere. What’s got you so hot and bothered? And who’s your friend?”
“Just glad you’re feeling better,” Morgan lied. She gestured to Micah to join Emma. “This is Micah.”
“So this is the boy.” Emma’s knowing smile made Morgan blush. The older woman took one of Micah’s hands, tracing the lines of his tendons and then flipping it over to feel his calloused fingers. “Micah. Pleased to meet you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Micah said, obviously nervous.
“You’ve got strong hands, young man. Tell me how you and Morgan met.”
Morgan ignored them, searching the room for any possible explosives. No oxygen tanks; no unusual packages; nothing seemed out of place. The only sign of visitors were a vase of gift shop flowers with a card signed by Andre, Jenna, and Tim—obviously from Tim because Andre would never have gotten Emma cheap carnations and Jenna wouldn’t have thought of ordering flowers, not with her mind cluttered with the prospect of seeing her parents—and a box of cheap chocolates with no card sitting on the nightstand.
“Emma,” Morgan interrupted Micah’s story of when she’d gone undercover in the juvenile detention facility where he’d been held. “Who sent these chocolates?” They weren’t even sugar-free, so definitely not someone who knew Emma and cared about her, not with her severe diabetes.
“Kelly brought them when she came by to see if I was all right. You just missed her.”
Had the bomber gotten here ahead of them? Definitely possible, given how much time they’d spent dodging any tails. “Did she have anyone with her? A young man?”
“No, just herself. Said we both deserved a treat after the day we’ve had. Help yourself.”
Morgan stared at the box sitting on the bedside table right next to Micah and Emma. Was it safe to move?
“Don’t mind if I do,” she
said, holding her breath as she lifted the box. Nothing. Micah met her eyes and grimaced as she backed slowly away, heading into the bathroom.
“Morgan?” Emma called. “What’s wrong?”
Morgan closed the door. At least one small barrier between her and Micah and Emma. She placed the box into the sink and studied it. No plastic seal or ribbon, just a lid without any tape. Because it had been doctored? Should she call the bomb squad?
And tell them what? That her serial killer father had killed the wrong person, and now their loved one was after her? Exactly how would that end, other than with Morgan in some kind of custody and the bomber free to target anyone she wanted?
If Kelly was the bomber.
Micah knocked on the door then opened it. “Emma says Kelly unwrapped the box and took a piece while she was here. I found the plastic wrap in the waste basket.” He dangled a torn piece of cellophane before her.
“Did Emma eat any?” Nothing said a bomber couldn’t switch weapons, maybe to something like poison. Poisoning a blind woman? Easy as pie.
“No, I have to watch my sugar,” Emma called from her bed. “You know that.”
Then why didn’t Kelly? A real volunteer who cared about her charges and their health would have never brought a diabetic like Emma chocolates.
Morgan tipped the lid up. Twelve chocolates—no, eleven; one was missing. No bomb. “Emma, I’m tossing these out.”
“I was going to give them to the nurses, they’ve all been so nice. So you owe them. And you owe me an explanation. Andre said that mess earlier was because someone was after Jenna, but now I’m thinking it’s not about her or him. It’s you they want, isn’t it?”