Cover Your Eyes (Morgans of Nashville 1)

The door to Oscar and her outrage closed. She teetered between anger and relief. “Jeb said he was parked in front of the house. Watching Annie. No one ever saw him at the front door or walk around the side of the house. All reports had him in his car. With thirty years of tree and shrub growth there is no way he could have made it to the door without being seen.”

“Assuming the neighbors were still watching.” In this confined space he looked taller. He absorbed the energy around him.

“No one heard her scream. No one saw him take her from the house.”

“The tire iron was found in the trunk of his car.”

“That means squat until I have the DNA test results. Any word on those, by the way?”

“By tomorrow, I’m told.”

“Really?” Better to argue with Deke than to dwell on what could have happened here.

“I don’t run the lab.”

“Really.”

“You overestimate my influence.”

The false modesty did not sway her. “Did your father ever consider other suspects?”

“You know he did. He interviewed dozens.”

“And then the paid informant gave him the break he needed.”

“My father was an honest man. He wouldn’t frame a guy to close a case.”

“How do you know that?”

Large hands fisted at his sides. “I knew my father.”

“Do we ever really know our parents?” Her own came to mind. As an adult, she could see now her parents’ marriage had been riddled with problems. “The face they show us is not necessarily their true-self. They want us to see the best in them, not the worst.”

His jaw tensed. “Much like your client.”

The zing hit the mark. “Yes.”

He shoved hands in his pockets and paced. “I gave my brother the Dawson case files to review.”

“Another Morgan in the mix. Outnumbering the competition?”

He muttered an oath. “I was about to suggest that we work together.”

That surprised her. “Why?”

“Do you always look for a dark motive?”

“Yes. Always.”

Amusement relaxed his stance a fraction. “We both want this case resolved. I want to prove Buddy did his job. You want Jeb cleared. One of us is right and the other is wrong. But we are on the same path.”

“Why would you want my help?”

“The sooner this is resolved, the sooner it can be closed.” A smile quirked his lips. “Many hands make light work.”

“Maybe.” She folded her arms over her chest. “What about the letters?”

“Brad thinks the first fifteen are real. He’s not sure about the last five.”

Her hackles rose. “What’s that mean? If you think I did the forgeries . . .”

“No, I don’t think you tampered with the letters. Brad dated the letters back thirty years. They were all written about the same time but perhaps they were not all written by Annie.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Certainly not Jeb.”

“No. He’d not have had the talent to pull off that kind of forgery. The man wrote at a third-grade level.”

“Then who?”

“That’s what I want to find out.”

“If it wasn’t Jeb, someone got away with murder.”

The shadows behind his eyes darkened. “I know.”

“It would explain why I was attacked,” she said. “Someone has a secret to keep.” She tapped her finger on her phone. “You believe whoever killed Lexis killed those other women and maybe Annie?”

His nod was sure and slow. “I think the cases are connected.”

“So the man who killed Annie is killing again.”

“Maybe.”

She shoved out a breath. “Could there be others before Dixie and after Annie?”

“We’re looking into it but so far haven’t found any.”

Rachel rubbed her neck with her hand. “I’ll help.”

Outside, an ambulance pulled up behind the remaining marked car and Deke’s vehicle. Deke nodded toward the door. “As soon as the paramedics check you out.”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t speak but his manner suggested that No was not on the option list.

Cut your losses. “Fine.”

As each moment passed, Baby’s hatred for Rachel Wainwright grew. The woman meddled. Didn’t know how to leave sleeping dogs alone. Baby watched Rachel get out of her car, punch the security code on her office and vanish inside. Gripping the tire iron, Baby imagined what it would feel like to beat Rachel to death. How sweet it would sound when her bones cracked and crunched under the blows of the tire iron. If Baby had another chance at Rachel, there’d be no missing. Rachel might be quick and gotten away the first time but Baby had learned and would be faster the next time.

The next time.

Baby had been told to leave Rachel alone, but Baby wasn’t as good a listener as before. The stakes rose each day Rachel kept stirring the pot. Kept digging deeper. And now she’d peeked the interest of that cop. Before Morgan had thought she was a kook. But not now. Now, he’d saved her from Baby’s perfect trap.

Not good. Not good at all.

March 1

Sugar.

I hear you’ve been asking after me. You are curious. Worried. Don’t be curious, worried and don’t come near the baby or me. We are done.

A.

Chapter Sixteen

Thursday, October 20, 7 AM

The first steps of Rachel’s run had started stiff and awkward. Each initial foot strike on the pavement jarred her bruised shoulder enough to make her grit her teeth. But she kept running, hoping for the best. To her relief, after a half mile her body warmed a little and she fell into a rhythm.

As she jogged the path at the park, her breathing soon calmed. In the morning light surrounded with a park full of runners she hoped she’d be safe, but still she kept her gaze swiveling from side to side half expecting to duck an attacker’s blow. She glanced behind her and checked her watch.

She would have loved to say this was a moment of rest and relaxation for her. But she had an important mission. Bill Dawson, Annie’s husband and the man who’d refused all her calls, jogged every morning at seven through the park. She figured if he wouldn’t see her, she’d find him. She sucked in a breath and slowed her pace, hoping he’d shown while her shoulder cooperated.

When she heard the steady clip of footsteps, she glanced back to see a tall, lean, olive-skinned man with hair more gray than black. He was fit, held his head up as he moved and looked as if he’d barely broken a sweat. Earbuds peaked out from his cap. He was attractive and she imagined thirty years ago he would have been stunning. A perfect match to Annie’s beauty.

As he passed, she quickened her pace and called out to him. “Mr. Dawson.”

He kept running.

“Damn,” she muttered, hustling faster until her fingertips brushed his sleeve. “Mr. Dawson!”

At her touch, he slowed and flashed her a look of pure annoyance.

She puffed a stray hair, which had drifted over her eyes. “Mr. Dawson, can I have a word?”

He jerked the earbuds out. “Who are you?”

“My name is Rachel Wainwright. I wanted to ask you some questions about Annie Dawson.”

His breath hitched seconds before his frown deepened with a menace that could make most flinch. “I don’t talk about her, especially to the press.”

“I’m not press, Mr. Dawson.” Her breathless tone forced her to pause. She’d underestimated the toll of her injury. “I’m an attorney and I’m representing Jeb Jones.”

Annoyance didn’t turn to anger as expected but curiosity. “Why the hell would you represent that monster?”

She didn’t rise to the bait that many had dangled in front of her the last couple of weeks. “I’m not sure that he killed your wife.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” The loud bark

ing tone matched his reputation as confrontational and hard. “The cops sent him away thirty years ago.”

In a calm, I’ve-got-to-win-this-jury-over tone, she said, “I think they made a mistake.”

He shook his head. “I don’t have time for this.”

As he turned she said, “The cops cleared you immediately after Annie went missing because you were out of town at a trade show.”

Deeply etched crow’s feet deepened. “Look, if you are trying to pin this on me . . .”