Frank Sullivan’s face said absolutely nothing.
Which told her everything.
Frank moved to the fridge and pulled out one of the labeled containers Donna had left for him. As if she hadn’t just asked him if he’d killed a man.
Morgan took her jacket from the peg and picked up her keys from the small dish beneath it.
“Have a good time,” he said.
Perfectly even. Perfectly ordinary.
“I will,” she said, in exactly the same tone.
She spentthe first part of the drive to Patrick’s house assembling and discarding every counter-argument she could think of. Frank had said no. She had no hard evidence, only a pattern of observations that a good defense attorney would dismantle easily. She knew better than to charge toward a conclusion on suggestive evidence. That was the kind of thing that distinguished good investigative work from the kind that got thrown out.
She spent the last part of the drive forcing those thoughts aside. Not because it wasn’t worth pursuing, but because she’d need more than a non-reaction and a shelf full of books and afeelingto come to a conclusion like that.
The porch light was on when she pulled up to the house, warm and welcoming, and she shifted her focus to the anticipation tingling beneath her skin.
It’s just a collaboration. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.
She sat for a moment longer. Ran a hand over her hair. Checked her makeup in the rearview mirror.
She got out of the car. Climbed the steps. Took a deep breath.
She lifted her hand and knocked.
30
SHOW ME THE REST OF THE HOUSE
PATRICK
“Chicken Marsala?”Declan said, appearing in the dining room archway.
“Yep.”
“You sharing?”
“With you? No.”
Declan looked over at the dining room table, taking in the tablecloth, the candles, the setting for two.
“Morgan?” he guessed.
“Uh-huh.”
“Hmm.”
Patrick let him work the rest out for himself. Morgan would be the first woman—except for moms, cousins, and siblings—to be invited to the house for a meal. As a Connelly man, Declan would understand the significance.
A knock sounded at the front door. Right on time.
“Good luck,” Declan said, disappearing as quietly as he’d arrived.
Patrick took a breath and ran his hand through his hair. He didn’t need luck. He just needed to relax and let fate or whatever controlled these things take its course.
He opened the door, calm washing over him when he saw Morgan standing there.