Vulnerable (Morgans of Nashville 4)

/> She looked around her to see who was in earshot. The last thing she needed was someone picking up on this conversation and spreading rumors that somehow they were more than associates.

“Go away,” she said. “And lose the grin.”

He did a bad job of smothering his smile. “Anything else I can do?”

“I’ll collect the evidence and process it and you catch yourself a bad guy.”

His jaw tightened and released, drawing her attention to his closely cropped beard. Neat and well-trimmed, she suspected it was soft to the touch. She wondered what it felt like if he were nestled behind her in bed.

Soft. To. The. Touch. God, what the hell was wrong with her? Jake Bishop. Detective Pain-in-the-Ass. She would rather stumble into the beds of a million different guys than his. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do need sleep.”

* * *

Amber Ryder rolled to her left side, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy motel bed. She glanced at the clock. Three thirty-three. Halfway to hell, she noted, as she sat up and clicked on a light.

She moved to the plastic-lined curtains. The cheap feel of the curtain fabric had her counting the minutes until she bolted out of this dump.

A peek outside revealed a dark night sky and a full moon. She loved the nights but hated it when the sun rose. Even as a kid, she kicked and cried when her mother woke her up and made her dress for school. She never felt like herself until about three in the afternoon when her internal body clock kicked into high gear. As an adult, the only time she saw the sunrise was after a long night out.

After peeing, she set up the coffeemaker in the room and switched it on. Soon, water gurgled and hissed. Her conversation yesterday with the detectives was disappointing to say the least. She had expected to learn more behind Georgia’s motivation for reopening the case. Was new interest in the case based on new evidence or had Dalton Marlowe finally paid off the right person to reopen it? She guessed the latter.

Remembering yesterday’s breakfast, she considered Detective Jake Bishop. He had a relaxed manner and yet his eyes were cold and unrelenting. The guy wasn’t dumb like so many of the cops she dealt with five years ago. If he had been in charge of the search then, she wondered if the outcome would have been the same.

Georgia Morgan was just as dedicated as Bishop. She was wound tighter, but was clearly one of those obsessively dedicated professionals. The two together were an impressive combination.

A knock at her motel room sent a ripple of tension through her body. “Who is it?”

“It’s the manager. Your three days are up. If you want to stay longer, you’re gonna have to pay.”

Combing her fingers through her long blond hair, she considered her options. She could spend one more night here, but that meant dipping into the last of this week’s paycheck. Another would hit her account in a few days, but until then, she had to make do.

“I’m leaving.” She slipped her feet into her shoes and stood. “I’ll be out in five minutes.”

“Five minutes is all you get. I have to get the maid inside and have her flip the room.”

“Does she have a flamethrower?” She glanced at the industrial gray carpet covered with stains, the brown veneer dresser and nightstand dinged with scratches and dents from years of use. The television looked like it dated back to the Stone Age.

“What?”

The place deserved to be burned to the ground. “Never mind. I’ll be gone in ten minutes.” She stretched and then moved quickly to the bathroom to wash up. A glance in the mirror, and she spent several minutes touching up her eye makeup and lipstick.

“Time to deal with Nashville.” She tossed one last look at herself before she grabbed her purse and bag and headed out of the room with her coffee. Even in the shitty light of this dump, she looked good. The morning air smelled fresh and sweet, a nice change from the musty motel room. As she loaded her small roller suitcase in the car, she glanced toward the motel office and saw the manager staring at her as he leaned against the brick wall and smoked a cigarette. Smoke trailed past squinting eyes.

“Ass,” she muttered as she dumped her bag in the backseat. “Someone should burn this place to the ground.”

The drive to her mother’s small house in East Nashville took less than ten minutes and when she pulled into the driveway an invisible fist clenched her heart. When she left for college she swore she’d never return to this dump. She had such big dreams when she grabbed her scholarship to the University of Texas, expecting by now to be married to a rich boy.

Shit. Rich boy. For a time she had plenty of them so hot to fuck her they would do anything she asked. Anything.

Amber made her way slowly up to the front door. Through the door she heard the voices from the television. That didn’t mean her mother was awake or home. That damn television was always blaring because her mother so hated the silence. She knocked on the door with the flat of her hand. At first, her only response was the sound of a commercial about dog food, but then she heard the scrape of a chair and she imagined her mother pushing herself up. Footsteps padded. A chain scraped against the door and it opened. Staring at her through the screen door was her mother, a petite woman with gray-blond hair, faded blue eyes that had once been as vivid as sapphires. The lines around her mouth and eyes had deepened, but her face still possessed hints of the beauty that Amber had once envied.

“Hey, Mom,” she said.

An unspoken smugness narrowed her eyes and she nodded. “So, you’re back.”

“Yes.”

“Never thought I’d see you again.”

Amber tightened her hand on her purse strap. The taste of crow was far more bitter than she imagined. “I said some pretty harsh things when I left.”

Her mother folded her arms over her chest, accentuating the wrinkled cleavage in the V-neck of her sweater. “You had a lot of mouth on you. But then, the world dumped a lot of trouble on your shoulders and mine. They were tough times.”

“I was hoping I could stay here for a few days.”

“Sure. You can stay. But why are you back, Amber? You being here is only going to stir up trouble.”

“I’m not the one that stirred the trouble. Dalton reopened the past, not me.”

“I been watching the television. I saw that the cops found the bodies up at the park.”

Amber cocked her head. There’d been no mention when she shut off the television at one a.m. “What bodies?”

“Bodies found in Percy Warner Park. One they think is that missing girl, but no cop is talking about the other two. Reporter thinks it’s Bethany and Mike.”

“Bethany and Mike?” The frown lines in her smooth face deepened. “After all this time, they’ve been found?”

“Well, that’s what the reporters are saying. No one really knows. Reporters stir all kinds of shit up for headlines.”

“Damn.”

Tracy raised a bony finger and swiped away a brittle strand of bleached blond hair. “Ain’t that some shit?”

“Yeah.” She ticked through the trouble that would soon swirl around her now. “Where did they find them?”

“In a cave in the park. You’d think with all the people looking so many years ago that someone would have found them.”

“You’d think.”

Tracy took Amber’s bag. “Come on inside. You look like you could sit.”

“Thanks.” Her mother smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. She recalled the image of Detective Bishop on the phone outside the diner and the way he stared at Georgia as he spoke. He’d found out then about the bodies. “Mom, I’m almost out of money.”

She sighed and set the bag beside a tall stack of magazines. “We’ve had our differences, but you’re my baby girl. You can stay here as long as you want.”

Amber glanced around her mother’s house that was as it had been when she was a kid. Beer. More cigarettes. Stale Chinese food. Air freshener. Her life had done a one-eighty and she was back where she started five years ag

o. And she hated it.

Her mother opened her arms. “Give Mama a hug, baby girl.”

Amber lowered her purse to the floor and stepped into her mother’s arms. As her mother’s thin arms tightened around her, she carefully raised her hands to pat her mother on the back as her mind drifted to the bodies found in the park. “Thank you, Mama.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wednesday, October 4, 11:00 A.M.

Georgia made it back to her apartment just after two in the morning. So damn exhausted, she stripped her clothes and shoved them in a green trash bag, which she set on her balcony. Straight to the shower, she turned on the hot tap, and stepped under it, letting the hot water wash away the chill, dirt, and the smells of the crime scene. She scrubbed until her skin was pink as the grime swirled down the drain. Falling into bed minutes later, she slept like the dead until ten in the morning.

Now as she walked through the door of the forensic lab, a cup of coffee in hand and her mind sharp, she was ready to work. The sleep had always left her energized better than any amount of coffee. At times like this, she promised herself that the next time she would sleep like a normal person.

Right. Who was she kidding? With her crazy life, sleep was a low priority.

Brad had showered and shaved, and judging by the number of paper coffee cups on his desk, he had arrived hours ago. He stood in front of a large examination table. On top of it was a red sweater spread arms wide. The garment had the old musty smell of the evidence room.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late.”

He glanced up, noted her relaxed demeanor and smiled. “It’s nice to see the color back in your face.”

“Nice not to feel as if I have five pounds of sand in each eye.” She sipped her coffee. “So what case is that sweater from?”