1
STRATEGIC RELOCATION
MORGAN
Morgan Sullivan couldn’t helpbut appreciate the view as she crested the ridge. Pine Ridge might be a small valley tucked into the mountains of Northeastern Pennsylvania, but it was scenic.
She took the main road in at just under the speed limit. She wasn’t in a hurry.
The town was quaint and well-maintained. The people who lived here clearly cared about their community.
A nice-looking hotel sat on the right. Some restaurants, including an IHOP—she’d have to remember that one. A big, white-brick garage on the left with several refurbished 60s and 70s era muscle cars on the side. An Irish pub that, despite its immaculate condition, looked like it could have been there since before the United States became a thing.
She'd looked up Pine Ridge prior to making the decision to come, and it seemed like a nice enough place to visit. It wasn’t like she was running away from anything. She preferred to think of it as a strategic relocation. Instead of spending her forced administrative leave in her cramped studio in Philly, binge-watching true crime and getting into more trouble with the ME’s department, she’d be spending the next few weeks at her grandfather’s house.
She hadn't seen Frank in four years. That wasn't estrangement exactly. Theirs was more of a parallel existence, each living their own life in different lanes. They'd exchanged exactly three texts in the last twelve months, all of them brief and functional. The third, two days ago, when Morgan had typed: I’ve got a few weeks off. Up for a visit?
Frank had replied: Yep.
Which was Frank, in a nutshell.
Her grandfather was a man of few words, much like her, so she wouldn’t have to deal with intrusive questions or listen to unsolicited opinions on her life choices. Other than that, she didn’t know much about him. Her mother didn’t like to speak of the Sullivan side of the family, which made it even more surprising when she suggested reaching out to Frank.
Morgan slowed when she saw the sign for the café up ahead.
She told herself she wasn’t stalling. That it was natural to feel apprehension when walking into an unfamiliar situation. The same thing happened every time she was called to a scene, that sense of not quite knowing what to expect. And, just like those times, a double-pump hazelnut with oat milk creamer would settle her nerves.
She parked at the curb and went inside.
The place was warm and smelled like coffee and buttery sweet pastries, with only a few patrons occupying the space. A cluster of older men sat near the window. A woman focused intently on her laptop at the back. Two teenagers perched at the counter, thumbing their phones. She’d hit the place at the perfect time, when the lunch rush had cleared and nobody was in a hurry to be anywhere else.
Morgan stepped inside and paused, subconsciously registering the layout like the scene investigator she was. Counter, straight ahead. Kitchen pass-through visible at the back. Mismatched but cozy-looking table and chair combinations to the left and right. A middle-aged woman at the till. Exit at the rear. Nothing that required a second look.
Except possibly for the man at the counter.
He was talking to a younger, attractive woman refilling the coffee station, but he was the one Morgan focused on first. Jet-black hair, intense blue eyes. Tall, lean, and powerfully built. His hand was loose around a large paper cup as he said something that made the woman laugh and bat her eyelashes.
Morgan profiled him without thinking. Social fluency—high. Conscious of how he commanded a room—also high, but casual and easy, not calculated. Twenty-six to twenty-eight years old. Local, almost certainly. Confident and comfortable in his own skin.
A charmer.
Or, put another way, the kind of man women tended to make poor decisions around.
Case in point—the young woman he was talking to was even easier to peg, describable in one word: smitten.
No, thank you.
Morgan moved her attention to the lighted menu mounted on the wall, far more interested in the caffeinated choices than the Hallmark moment taking place in front of her.
She was almost to the counter when he turned and took a step, and the movement brought his arm directly into her path. Morgan, who had been focused solely on her options—and definitelynotstalling—didn’t course-correct in time.
They collided. The cup in his hand tipped, and a hefty splash of coffee painted the front of his shirt.
She stepped back, irritated, and catalogued the damage.
His Henley was light enough—a beige that highlighted the tanned expanses of skin at his neck and forearms—that the coffee stain was unmistakable. Hopefully, it wasn’t piping hot. The lack of steam rising from his chest suggested it wasn’t.
The woman he’d been talking to made a sound of distress and rushed behind the counter, murmuring about getting a towel.