“What? You’ve been fangirling over GraveDigger’s posts for years.”
“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Finally! You found a woman who gives you the tinglies in more than just your bits.”
“You’re being ridiculous right now.”
“No, I'm being sincere.” She was, which was almost worse than if she'd been teasing. “She’s perfect for you. She thinks the same way you do. She asks the same questions. She's been in that forum for years, contributing work that you respect. Shefits, Patrick.”
He had nothing to say to that, even if he’d been thinking the same thing.
Riley, mercifully, said nothing more.
17
JUST A DREAM?
MORGAN
It was nearlymidnight when she got back to Frank’s house. The porch light was on, and low-level lighting spilled out of the first-floor windows, welcoming her back with a warm glow and the quiet promise of someone being there to greet her. Even with her mind whirring, she registered the contrast of returning to her sterile, dark, studio in the city after being called out to a scene.
She kept her steps light and quiet as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, but she needn’t have bothered. Frank was in the living room, a thick book open in his lap, while Shadow lazed at his feet.
Both looked at her when she came through the door. Frank executed a quick, assessing glance, while Shadow gave more of a lazy perusal.
“Everything all right?” he said.
That feeling of warmth bloomed beneath her ribcage. Frank had waited up for her. He’d never admit it, of course, and in return, she’d respect that by not calling him out.
But she knew.
“Fine,” she said. “It’s just been a long day.”
He looked at her for a moment with those dark green eyes that missed nothing. Then he nodded, closed his book, and stood.
“’Night.”
“Goodnight, Frank.”
Morgan saton the edge of the bed with her laptop and told herself she'd make it quick.
The forum group had been working through the evening, cross-referencing what little the public record offered, hitting the same walls she'd been hitting. They had good instincts and insufficient data with which to work, which wasn’t uncommon. Their skills lay more in discovering what wasn’t publicly available.
She was going to help them with that.
She opened a new post as GraveDigger, without preamble or context. No one would question how or where she’d got the information. Trust was implicit, and the goal was finding answers, not judging the methods with which they were found. Legality was often irrelevant when seeking the truth.
Gravedigger:Photographs of the victim attached. Full face and profiles. Run what you can.
She uploaded the images she'd taken in the morgue. They were clean, well-lit, and shot with a cold, professional eye, exactly like the kind she'd been taking for four years on the job. Then she closed the laptop before she got sucked into the rabbit hole.
She already had too many other thoughts vying for her attention.
One of the strongest contenders: Patrick Callaghan.
Her thoughts about Patrick had been circling in the background all evening, clouding the edges of everything else. Like the way he'd waited in the car without complaint. The firm and clear ‘she's Declan's friend’ declaration. The enigmatic curl of his lips when she’d not-so-subtly accused him of being DeepTrace.
Even though he hadn’t admitted it, hewasDeepTrace. She knew it in her bones.