Morgan wasn’t usedto second-guessing herself. She was not an impulsive person. Her actions were decisive, supported by data and executed with confidence.
Driving to a pub to meet a man she didn’t know to compare notes on an investigation she had no business being involved in was pushing the limits of her comfort zone, no matter how strongly her instincts pushed her in that direction.
Instincts werenotfacts.
And yet, here she was.
After Patrick Callaghan’s unexpected visit the day before and her grandfather’s unusual display of … well, not warmth, exactly, maybe approval?—she’d returned to the kitchen to ask Frank more about it, but he’d already disappeared into the barn, andMorgan didn’t feel their relationship had progressed to the point of barging in there and demanding answers.
Privacy and personal space were sacred.
She paced the living room instead, her thoughts bouncing between intelligent blue eyes and wondering why a man who ran his own moving company and tended bar had been skulking around a potential crime scene. Maybe it was exactly as he’d said, and the people of Pine Ridge were protective of their town.
Except Patrick Callaghan was no more a simple hauling bartender than she was an armchair detective. And, based on Frank’s comments, neither was Patrick’s family.
Morgan was beginning to suspect there was more to her grandfather, too.
Before her mind went too far down that rabbit hole, Morgan decided to do what she did best—search for tangible answers.
Who owned the campground before?That had been NorthStar’s question, and it was as good a place to start as any.
Deed records were public, so she didn’t have to use special skills to find the information. The original owner was listed as Eamon Sullivan, who bought the parcel from a much larger estate more than a hundred years earlier. One property transfer in 1987 to Thomas Sullivan as part of Eamon Sullivan’s estate, which included mention of a separate parcel as well—adjoining acreage on Old Miller Road to Francis J. Sullivan.
Frank.
Her grandfather's brother had been running a campground on land their father had bought. The same campground where adead body had recently been found. And nobody—read: Frank—had thought to mention any of this to her.
She closed the laptop and sat very still for a moment.
Then she pulled the casserole Donna left for them from the fridge, put it in the oven, and waited for Frank to come in for dinner.
He camethrough the back door at six-thirty with Shadow by his side, smelling of wood smoke and gun oil. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, then poured a big glass of water from the tap and drank half of it in one go.
Morgan put down the book she’d been reading. “Why didn’t you tell me Sulley’s campground is on family land?”
If Frank was surprised by her question, he didn’t show it. “My brother’s land,” he corrected. “Not mine.”
“Hence the termfamilyland.”
Shadow lifted his head from his spot by the door, tilted his head, then put it back down.
“Not my business,” Frank said firmly. “Not yours, either.”
“It is, actually. I’m a Sullivan and a death investigator.”
“A death investigator on leave for poking your nose where it wasn’t welcome.”
Morgan sat back as if slapped. Her supervisor saying as much was one thing, but she hadn’t expected that from Frank. “Are you suggesting I should keep my head down and my mouth shut?”
He finished the rest of the water. “Didn’t say that, did I?”
No, he hadn’t, because he hadn’t actuallysaidanything. And yet, she had the feeling that she’d missed something and her grandfather was waiting for her to catch up. She paused. Took a discreet, steadying breath. Put her personal feelings in a box and looked at the situation objectively. She needed more information, and her grandfather had it.
“What was he like?” she asked. “Your brother, I mean.”
For several moments, she didn’t think Frank was going to answer. Then he said quietly, “Tom was a good man. Sulley’s was his pride and joy, and because of him, lots of people have memories they’ll carry with them for a long time.”
“Were you close?”