Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane 2)

“It was her idea.” Lance crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s a lot tougher than she looks.”

The sheriff threw his hands into the air. “You could have both been killed. I should have known you’d pull a stunt like this.”

“But we weren’t killed,” Lance said. “And Karen Mitchell is alive because we pulled this stunt.”

The sheriff glowered at Lance, then redirected his anger at Morgan. “And you, Counselor, you should know better. The very first thing the Burnses’ defense attorney is going to do is claim all the evidence in that trailer could have been planted and is therefore inadmissible against them in court.”

Morgan cut him off. She’d had enough. She and Lance had taken over the situation and saved Karen Mitchell. The sheriff’s misdirected anger was not her problem. “We both know that isn’t going to happen. Karen Mitchell will provide testimony. There will be physical evidence on her body, and as a previously convicted sex offender, Harold Burns and his brother will be hated by any jury they are put in front of. Nor do I know any judge who will give them any leeway. If my suspicion is correct, the very large bloodstain on that mattress is from victim number one, Sarah Bernard. The Burns brothers will be charged with two counts of kidnapping and one count of murder, along with as many lesser charges as possible.”

The sheriff huffed. “I could charge you both with trespassing.”

Morgan didn’t care about a ridiculous trespassing charge. Exhaustion and her adrenaline crash were catching up to her with the speed of a freight train. “Are you going to arrest us?”

“Not at this time.” The sheriff frowned at her. “I need statements from you both. Now.”

“When we talked with Chelsea earlier, she mentioned an oily odor.”

“And you didn’t call me?” The sheriff chewed his molars.

“She specifically said it didn’t smell like motor oil, but it made us think hard about Burns.” With a glance at Lance, Morgan gave a very abbreviated version of their search of the property. She didn’t mention their trip through Harold’s garage. If asked, she wouldn’t lie. But there was no point in volunteering the information. When she was finished, she asked, “How did you get here so quickly?”

“We’ve been watching Harold and Jerry all night,” the sheriff said. “Chief Horner called me to tell me the DA forced him to cease his surveillance. Considering that we’ve been searching for Ms. Mitchell, I decided we should focus on this area. But we had no good reason to search the property until you called in that scream.”

“You’re welcome,” Lance said drily.

The sheriff glared.

Lance finished describing the events of the night. The sheriff released them with a threat of arrest if they didn’t report to his office first thing in the morning to cross t’s and dot i’s. The walk back to the Jeep was only a few hundred yards, but it seemed like miles.

“I don’t like it.” Morgan crawled into the passenger seat.

“What?”

“I can’t explain it. Something feels unfinished.”

“We still have to deal with the sheriff again tomorrow.” Lance started the engine. “I’m tired of his controlling bullshit.”

“He didn’t arrest us for trespassing.”

“But he wanted to. He wishes he was the one who found Karen Mitchell.” Lance drove out onto the road. “He’s been chomping at the bit all night, wanting to search the property but without enough evidence for a warrant.”

“The laws exist for a reason.” Morgan pressed her head to the back of the seat.

“We saved that woman’s life tonight,” Lance said. “Who knows if she would have still been alive in the morning? The Burnses could have killed her and buried her out in the woods before the sheriff accumulated enough evidence to satisfy a judge that there was probable cause. Would you rather Karen Mitchell have spent the night in that trailer? I would rather go to jail.”

“So would I,” she said. “Which is why we did what we did tonight.”

“Plus, I’ll bet forensics will find evidence that the first victim and Chelsea were both held in that trailer. Chelsea will be able to go on with her life knowing that the men who kidnapped her are behind bars. Your family can rest easy too.”

“I know.” But uneasiness stirred in Morgan’s belly. It didn’t feel over.

“Do you think they’ll get a plea deal?” Lance asked.

“I doubt it. After what happened last month, the DA needs to save some face, and he’s up for reelection next month. He’s going to promise to bring the hammer down. A high-publicity case against a previously convicted sex offender and his brother is media fodder. Plus, New York no longer has a death penalty. What can the DA offer the Burns brothers in exchange for a guilty plea? This is a particularly heinous crime. The Burns brothers kidnapped and held a woman captive for eight months, impregnated her, and then beat her to death. The beating also killed her unborn baby. They are going to prison, probably for life.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right.”

“We’ll know more after we talk to the sheriff tomorrow. The forensics team will be in that trailer all night. Let’s see what they find and then reassess the case.” Lance drove toward town. “We’re both too tired to think straight. We need food and sleep. We’ve been running on adrenaline all night. The most useful thing we can do is get some rest and look at the facts with fresh eyes in the morning.”

“You’re right.” She was wired. Her blood was still humming even though her eyelids were as gritty as sandpaper.

There was something lurking in her exhausted brain, a connection she was too tired to make.

Were adrenaline and stress stimulating her paranoia? Or was her subconscious issuing her a warning?

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Morgan paced Lance’s guest room, her cell phone pressed to her ear as she talked to her sister. Her nerves were still frayed by what happened with the Burns brothers that night—and by the sight of Karen Mitchell chained up in that trailer. But rescuing Karen was worth every drop of clammy sweat and rush of adrenaline-induced nausea.

If only Grandpa would wake up.

“So there’s no change?” she asked Peyton.

“No.” Behind Peyton’s low voice, a monitor beeped in a steady rhythm. “He’s stable. Please try to get some sleep.”

“When do you think he’ll wake up?”

“I’m a doctor, not a psychic, Jim,” Peyton said in her best Dr. McCoy voice.

Morgan appreciated her sister’s attempt to lighten her mood, but she didn’t have the energy to laugh. “You’ll call me if anything happens?”

“I promise.” Peyton’s tone grew sincere again. “I will watch over him all night. I’ve got this covered. Go. To. Sleep.”

“OK.”

“And Morgan?”

“Yes?”

“Grandpa is tough,” Peyton said. “Don’t give up on him yet. He’s not going down without a fight.”

“Thanks, Peyton. Good night.” Morgan ended the call, crossed the hall to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. She undressed as the water warmed. The instant Morgan stepped into the heat, her tightly reined emotions burst. She leaned against the tile and let herself cry. She was too damned tired to hold back any longer.