That made him smile a little. Maybe, in addition to wanting to know what he’d found, she was anxious to see him, too. “Good to know. I’ll text first though, okay?”
“That works.”
The line stayed open. Neither of them filled it.
“Patrick, are you okay?” she asked.
Not “what did you find” or “is it bad”—just “Are you okay.” As if his state of mind was worth asking about.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
She ended the call.
He drove the last few miles, the roads empty and dark as pitch. He was no longer thinking about Anthony Varro. He was thinking about Morgan. Awake, wondering, waiting for answers.
Tomorrow morning couldn’t come soon enough.
23
I’M ON YOUR PORCH
MORGAN
After a few hoursof restless sleep, Morgan decided sitting around and waiting was not going to work for her. She left Shadow snoring on the bed, got up, got dressed, and pulled up the county assessor’s website while sipping coffee and nibbling a protein bar.
It took about four minutes to discover Patrick Callaghan’s address. Another four to grab her jacket, her backpack, keys, and be on the road.
Yes, it was early.
Yes, she was planning to show up on his doorstep unannounced.
Presumptuous?
Again, yes.
So she went a few blocks out of her way and picked up coffee and donuts. That seemed like the kind of thing a decent person would do.
The Victorian sat back from the road at the end of a gravel drive, bigger and older than she'd pictured. It was a work in progress, with none of the polished restoration of his parents’ house. White paint was going gray at the eaves. A deep covered porch ran the length of the front face, the railings showing fresh-scraped wood in patches where someone had been working the old paint off.
Framed by old trees and iron fencing, it wasn’t unattractive. On the contrary, the place had a stately elegance that she found instantly appealing.
It was only when she saw other vehicles that she realized she hadn’t taken into consideration the possibility that Patrick didn’t live alone. She almost turned around and drove somewhere else to wait for his text.
Almost.
She parked along the street and walked the driveway, her soft footfalls inaudible over the chirping of birds and the chattering of squirrels. The drapes and curtains were drawn, with no sign of activity within.
Showing up unannounced was one thing. Banging on the door this early was something else entirely. As anxious as she was to hear what Patrick had found, she still had some manners.
Climbing the porch steps, she zeroed in on an Adirondack chair at one end facing the drive. She set the box of donuts on one wide arm, her coffee on the other, and sat down. It was a niceproperty. Private. Wider than the surrounding ones. The grass was mown, the bushes trimmed.
She checked her phone. Nothing from Patrick yet.
She was glad she’d opted for the insulated cups; the morning air was crisp.
The front door opened.