I'll Never Let You Go (Morgans of Nashville 3)

Philip. So smart. So clever. So able to win over anyone.

The muscle at the base of her skull tightened as Leah set down her coffee and moved to the dining table, where she kept her purse. She fished out her wallet and from a deep pocket pulled out an old business card she’d carried with her for years. The edges were dog-eared, the card stock thinned with wear.

The name in the center of the card read ROSEANNE JEFFERS, DETECTIVE, SOUTH CAROLINA STATE POLICE. She flicked the edges of the card. In the early days after Philip’s disappearance, she’d called Roseanne often. She’d been too afraid to sleep or eat for fear that Philip might return to kill her. Roseanne had been kind, understanding, at first, but after Leah had made a half-dozen calls to her, her answers had grown more terse. Their last contact had been Leah talking apologetically to Roseanne’s voice mail. Leah knew she had to get on with her life. Otherwise, Philip won.

“Philip is dead,” she muttered.

She hadn’t called Roseanne in three years.

Leah closed her eyes, trying to push an old worry back into the shadows. When the threats had been real, she’d had to beg the police to intervene. But when the threat had been destroyed, she couldn’t break the cycle of fear.

She reached for her cell phone and dialed Roseanne’s number. Her thumb hovered over the Send button for a second or two and, pulling in a deep breath, pressed it. She put the phone to her ear, her heart thrumming in her chest so hard it was a wonder she didn’t hear it.

The phone rang three times and on the fourth ring voice mail picked up. Leah hesitated. “Roseanne, this is Leah Carson. Leah Latimer. We haven’t spoken in a few years, but we talked several times about my husband, Philip Latimer. You notified me the day his body was found. Logically, I know I shouldn’t have doubts about your findings, but I do. Can you call me back so we can discuss the circumstances surrounding his death again? I know this is odd, but a phone call would help. Thanks.” She recited her number and then hung up the phone. Carefully, she replaced the card in her wallet and tucked her phone in the side pocket of her purse.

Leah tipped her head back, trying to ease the tension in her chest. She took several deep breaths, but nothing softened the anxiety.

I’m being foolish. I’m being foolish. Philip is dead.

He stood in the woods, staring up at Leah’s town house. Frigid air wafted around him, chilling his skin even as the idea of the chase warmed his blood. The cop watching her house had left, leaving the two of them alone.

Though the drapes were closed, he could tell the lights were on in the bedroom and living room. He saw a woman’s shadow pass in front of the bedroom drape and then appear in the living room. A smile curled the edges of his lips.

He switched on a small device that connected wirelessly to the listening device in Leah’s town house. He raised it to his ear and listened to the soft hum of the television and her steady pacing. She might look all pulled together and competent, but when she was alone, the demons came out to play. Kept her awake. Made her pace. Good. He wanted, liked her afraid. Rattled and scared.

Leah had found Deidre today. He’d seen her bolt out the door, panicked and afraid. Her hands had been trembling badly when she’d dialed the cops. She’d paced alone in front of Deidre’s place, unmindful of the cold. Three squad cars had rolled up within minutes and she’d immediately waved her arms to flag them down.

The cops had talked to her at length. The TBI had been there, sitting alone with her in the backseat of the car.

He hadn’t followed her directly home but had taken an alternate route. He didn’t need to get on any cop’s radar. Stay in the shadows. Be patient. Too soon to reveal himself. Too soon to strike.

Their final meeting would come on the anniversary of the day she’d nearly died. Perfect symmetry, in his mind.

The ultimate goal was in reach and would soon be his.

Chapter Eight

Monday, January 16, 3 P.M.

Alex and Deke arrived at the sheriff’s office in the center of the small town twenty miles north of Nashville. Tyler Radcliff, Deidre’s estranged husband, had been sheriff of the bedroom community for nearly five years and had earned himself a solid reputation as a good lawman. Not much in the way of high crimes happened in affluent New Market, but if anything did, Radcliff was on hand to deal with it.

Alex studied the one-story brick building that housed the sheriff’s office. A quick check as they’d driven out revealed this boxy, practical building housed only the sheriff’s office, which employed five people, including the sheriff, a few deputies, and a secretary.

Tyler faced a reelection this fall. With a few well-placed questions, Alex had discovered that Tyler expected to easily win reelection. There’d been some talk of another business leader running, but none in the Radcliff camp was concerned.

Alex adjusted his sunglasses as he studied the building. “So how did Deidre, a Nashville detective, and a local sheriff hook up?”

“Couldn’t tell you. I never asked and she never offered,” Deke said.

Alex pulled off his sunglasses. “You ever have any kind of conversation with her?”

“I knew her only in passing.”

“You don’t talk to many people,” Alex said.

“We Morgans come by it honestly. And you’re one to talk. How many years does it take you to warm up to people?”

“A lot.” Outside of his family, he kept his relationships on the surface. It wasn’t a matter of what he wanted but out of necessity. He investigated other officers, so any kind of friendly relationship with anyone on the job could lead to a conflict of interest.

Alex shook his head. “We’re quite the family.”

“We’re a hardheaded lot. And some would say not the easiest group of individuals.”

Deke spoke plainly, and Alex found the raw honesty refreshing. It had been so long since he’d let his guard down, he wondered now if it were possible. “So I’ve heard.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“I didn’t join the TBI to make friends. And if you joined the Nashville Police Department to make friends, well, you’d better find another job.”

“I’m not worried about the job. Shit, I worry about it with Rachel. She says I’m sometimes distant.”

“Are you?”

“Most likely, yes. That’s the same crap that ended my marriages.”

“So talk. She’s a defense attorney. She’s seen enough not to be put off by the job. And she can keep a secret if you need it kept confidential.”

“I know.”

“I don’t like many people, Deke. But she’s okay. Don’t ruin it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It is.” Alex glanced at Deke, the barest hint of a smile softening his features.

They pushed through the glass front doors and, within steps, stood at the desk of an older woman with graying, short, curly hair, dark-rimmed glasses, and a ruddy complexion. She glanced up and, before Alex or Deke could reach for an ID, asked, “What jurisdiction?”

“TBI,” Alex said.

“Nashville Police.” Neither mentioned that they were investigating a homicide. Once people knew there’d been a murder, defenses slammed into place.

“What’re you boys doing here?” An edge sharpened the words. In an office this small, word of Tyler and Deidre’s divorce must have leaked.

“Like to visit with Sheriff Radcliff. Saw his car out front when we arrived,” Alex said.

“He’s busy.”

Local law enforcement didn’t always appreciate a visit from a TBI agent, and they sure didn’t like seeing Alex Morgan. It was one thing for an agent to show, but Alex’s appearance made people nervous or angry.

“He needs to make time. We need to see him now.” Alex’s voice was steady and controlled, and his gaze didn’t waver until the older woman looked away and pushed herself to her feet. She’d been around cop

s long enough to know that when TBI showed up and said it was important, she needed to be flexible, whether she liked it or not.

The woman knocked on the door behind her and, after a gruff “Enter,” disappeared behind it. Seconds later, the door snapped open. The secretary retreated to her desk and Tyler Radcliff appeared at the office door. He had broad shoulders and a tall frame that all but filled the doorway, giving him a menacing air that made weaker men acquiesce and alpha males bristle at the implied challenge. He’d shaved his head bald and sported a thick mustache and a scowl.

Alex wouldn’t concede because he had too many questions to ask, but he never challenged unless he thought it would be useful.

Tyler stepped aside so Alex and Deke could enter his office. He extended a large beefy hand to Alex, which he accepted easily. Tyler’s grip was strong in an overt and dominating kind of way. Alex understood the pressure points in the palm and where to squeeze so that Tyler released his grip.

“Agent Alex Morgan, TBI. Thanks for seeing us.”

Deke extended his hand. “Detective Deke Morgan.”

Tyler accepted Deke’s hand but found himself matched in strength. Alex found the test amusing.

Tyler stepped back, hands folding over his wide chest. “Did Deidre send you here?”

“Why do you say that?” Alex asked.

Tyler stood in front of his desk, his feet slightly braced, as if he were ready for a fight. “You go after cops. And Deidre works for Nashville Vice. She sent you.”

In no rush to answer, Alex let his gaze roam the room, taking in the dozens of framed citations and diplomas. No one questioned Tyler’s dedication to the job. But cops who excelled professionally often paid a personal toll. “What makes you say that?”

A bitter smile twisted his lips. He shook his head, as if he were in no mood to play games. “Oh, come on. She’s been complaining about me, hasn’t she? She’s been doing her best to stick it to me since I canceled our joint credit cards. She’d like nothing better than to screw up my reelection campaign this year.”

“Why’d you cancel the credit cards?” Alex asked.