“I know. I don’t mind. I like having something to do.”
He was the same way. He sent her to the spare bedroom with a roll of tape and a marker, where she spent the next hour methodically going through the closet contents, labeling, and staging everything for his guys to carry down. He checked on her twice. Both times she was deep in it, efficient and unhurried, fully focused on the task.
He stood in the doorway the second time and watched her for longer than was warranted.
She looked up.
“You good?” he asked, like that was why he'd appeared.
“Yep. Almost done in here. Do you want me to start on the linen closet in the hall next?”
“Sure,” he said, and went back downstairs.
They brokeat noon for lunch, which consisted of eating hoagies from the local Wawa under a sprawling sugar maple. His guys had accepted Morgan's presence without issue. Patrick’s not-so-subtle caveman routine probably had something to do with that, along with the fact that she saved them a lot of work. Cody even suggested that Morgan join them on jobs from then on.
Patrick handed her an iced tea and watched her assess the property with a thoughtful, contemplative expression on her face.
“What were you thinking about just now?” he asked.
She looked at him, mildly surprised. “The family who lived here.” She turned back to the house. “You can tell a lot about people by how they live.”
He thought about the kinds of scenes she must be used to dealing with. Of using evidence to reconstruct the happening around someone’s death.
“What does this place tell you?”
“That these people took pride in their home. They cared.”
He looked at the house. He knew what she meant. It wasn't just the structure, it was the quality of attention visible everywhere. The garden beds were neatly edged and cleaned in prep for winter. The porch boards were tight and level. It showed care that had accumulated over decades.
“What’s your place like?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“Not like this,” she said quietly, then smiled. “I live in a studio apartment in Philly,” she said. “But before that, we lived in Delaware County. Bigger than a row home, but smaller than this. It wasn’t bad, but our house wasn’t cozy and lived in like this one. My mom’s big on image—or more accurately, my stepfather is big on image and my mom is big on whatever my stepfather wants.” She shook her head. “Sorry, TMI.”
TMI? There was no such thing as too much information where Morgan was concerned. He wanted to know it all.
“I’m guessing Pine Ridge is kind of culture shock for you.”
“Yes, but in a good way. I feel like I can actually breathe here.”
“Breathing is good,” he agreed, and they ate the rest of their lunch in a comfortable, companionable silence.
By three o'clock thehouse was empty and his crew was tying off the truck. Patrick signed off on the paperwork, shook hands, and stood in the drive watching them pull out.
Morgan was leaning against the passenger door of his SUV with her hands in her pockets, her dark hair pulled back, a streak of dust on the sleeve of her jacket she hadn't noticed. She looked calmer than she’d been earlier that morning, like the work had burned something off.
He pulled out his keys. “Ready to head out?”
“I am.”
They drove out past the ridge instead of through town—not because it was faster, but because it wasn't. It was the long way by at least fifteen minutes, taking them through a stretch of back roads that ran along the creek and came out on the far side of Pine Ridge.
She looked out the window at the creek, running low from the recent lack of rain.
“You wouldn’t know it by looking at it now, but that creek gets up to road level with snow melt in the spring,” he said, when theypassed the low bridge. “Comes up about four feet in a bad year. When I was eight, Riley dared me to wade into it.”
“Did you?”
“Of course.”