21
MISSING PIECES
MORGAN
The property lineran along the tree line at the back of Frank’s lot. Morgan had walked it twice already, her mind sorting, working, organizing thoughts into proper boxes. It was a big lot, occupied by enough things to make it interesting. Trees. Shrubs. An old outhouse surrounded by massive lilac bushes. A shed. Two-story detached garage that may have once been a barn or a stable.
Shadow moved with her, a silent, dark companion. The dog had appeared sound asleep when she’d stepped out but had been at her side by the time the screen door swung shut.
She didn’t mind. The company was nice, and with him around, she could think less about her surroundings and focus on the important things.
She had a lot to process.
Like the dead guy who’d been captured at one of her crime scenes. Ian Callaghan’s in-home control center. Patrick—aka DeepTrace—bringing her into the fold and then taking her to lunch.
She felt… unsettled. Life was like a puzzle. Sometimes, it took a while to find the missing pieces before you had the whole picture. Today—hell, the last several weeks—were more like aseriesof puzzles, maybe connected, maybe not, and each one was missing critical pieces.
She pulled out her phone. Opened the forum.
Nothing new had been posted.
She put it back in her pocket and continued on. Reached the house, didn’t go in. Turned and walked the perimeter again, circling from puzzle to puzzle.
This time around, she was back to the dead guy, trying to piece together a timeline. Thanks to Halcyon, she knew he’d been present at one of her crime scenes. Had he been present at others? Why was he there?
Missing pieces.
Then she’d seen him in the parking garage at work, talking with her supervisor. Did they know each other? It had looked like they did. Was it a chance meeting, or a planned one? What were they talking about?
Missing pieces.
A man connected to her supervisor had been at a crime scene she’d refused to close, and then that same man had turned up dead on her family’s land while she happened to be in Pine Ridge on administrative leave.
Coincidence? Not likely.
She stood at the tree line, now a line of dark, overlapping silhouettes, and looked back at the house. The kitchen light was on, and she could see Frank’s silhouette moving behind the curtains. Darkness was falling earlier and earlier as they drew closer toward the solstice.
Or maybe she’d been walking the property longer than she’d realized.
She checked her phone again. No new posts on the forum. Nothing from Patrick.
She went inside.
Frank was at the kitchen table with a plate of whatever Donna had left for dinner, Shadow’s dish already filled and tucked in its spot by the back door. He looked up when she entered, Shadow by her side.
Morgan found a covered dish in the refrigerator with her name on a piece of tape in Donna’s handwriting. She stood at the counter for a moment, looking at it, appreciating the neatness and practicality of labeled servings.
“She’s very organized,” Morgan commented.
“Yep.”
Morgan warmed the dish and sat down across from him. Shadow scarfed his dinner in record time, then settled under the table between them, his head on Frank’s foot.
They ate in relative silence, Frank being one of the few people she knew who spoke less than she did. She’d grown up in a house where silence was either loaded or hostile, her mother’sparticular specialty. Frank’s quiet was different. It was the quiet of someone who’d decided long ago that most things didn’t need commentary. They had that in common, it seemed.
“I met Jack Callaghan,” she said, when the bowl was half empty. “When I went to the pub, I mean. We had a nice conversation.”
Frank was still for a moment. Just a moment—the spoon didn’t pause, nothing in his expression shifted, but it was there. Then he took a slow drink of water and set the glass down.