Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(56)

Lance closed his eyes, his mother’s words replaying in his head.

I don’t want to be a burden on you.

Had she been afraid another breakdown would be hard on him?

The paramedics loaded his mother onto the gurney and wheeled her out.

Anger, at himself, at the situation, at the fucking world, overcame him for a minute. He turned to the wall and let it out. His fist went through the sheetrock. Pain shot through his knuckles, dissipating his rage.

Sharp grabbed his hand and examined it. “Good thing you didn’t hit a stud.”

His knuckles were scraped, but the damage was minor.

Sharp lifted Lance’s keys from his hand. “I’m driving.”

Lance didn’t argue. They went outside. He climbed into the passenger seat and stared at the swirling red ambulance lights all the way to the hospital.

The ambulance pulled into the ER bay.

“You should call Morgan.” Sharp parked the car in the emergency lot.

Lance shook his head. “Not yet. May as well wait until we find out how she is.”

“Morgan would want to know. She’d want to be here.”

Lance checked the time. Seven o’clock. He pictured Morgan sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, supervising bath time, then curling up with her kids to read bedtime stories. “There’s nothing she can do right now. I’ll call her as soon as I know something.”

The only thing to do was wait.





Chapter Twenty-Seven

Morgan paced the living room. Picturing the nasty photos and message, she didn’t know whether to be terrified or furious. Both worked, she decided.

“Stella took the photographs to the fingerprint examiner,” Grandpa said. “She’ll call when she has some information.”

“There won’t be fingerprints.” Morgan’s stalker was far too clever. Her blood iced over when she thought of him parked on her street, using a telephoto lens to take pictures of her hugging her kids.

“We’re safe here.” Grandpa tapped the blanket on his lap. He’d stashed his own handgun under it. “We’re both armed. We have an excellent security system, and Rocket will let us know if anyone’s outside.”

She took a deep breath. Grandpa was right. Her sister had also arranged for patrol units to drive past the house during the night.

“On another note, I finished reviewing Sharp’s file on Vic Kruger’s disappearance,” Grandpa said. “He crossed every t and dotted every i.” Grandpa frowned. “I can’t think of any other leads he could have chased at the time.”

“Thanks for trying.”

“I’m happy to be useful. I wish I could have helped more.” Grandpa rolled himself away from the table. “I’ll be in my room.”

“I’m going to bed too. Goodnight.” Morgan set her gun on top of her armoire, out of reach of the children. Then she put on her pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt and got into bed. She was still staring at the ceiling when her phone buzzed. She grabbed it from the table, hoping it was an update from Lance. Snoozer and Rocket stirred, then went back to sleep.

But Sharp’s number displayed on the screen.

She answered. “Yes?”

“Did he call you?” Sharp asked.

“No.” Morgan sat up, her heart tight. “What did Abigail say?”

“We didn’t make it to the motel.” Sharp’s voice lifted goose bumps on Morgan’s skin.

“What happened?”

“Jenny tried to kill herself.” Sharp’s voice broke. “She took a whole bunch of pills.”

“No.” Disbelief rolled through her for a few seconds. Then Morgan jumped out of bed, stripped off her pajamas, and stepped into a pair of jeans. “Is Lance at the hospital?” She shoved her feet into the old sneakers she kept by the bed for middle-of-the-night dog walks.

“No. He went home to get some sleep. Jenny’s on a ventilator and it’ll likely take several days for the drugs to clear her system. The nurses told him to save his strength for when she wakes up. They don’t know about permanent organ or brain damage yet.”

Oh, no.

“Is he all right?” Morgan asked.

“He said he wanted to be alone, but I think he’s in shock.” Sharp sighed hard. “He needs you.”

Under her concern, disappointment raced through her.

He didn’t call me.

“I’m on my way.” Morgan ended the call, then phoned her sister. Stella agreed to come right over. She was at the door in ten minutes. Mac waited in the car and followed her to Lance’s house.

It was just past midnight when Morgan arrived.

She heard the piano from the front stoop, the despondent melody wrenching her heart. Lance’s version of “Hurt” was more Johnny Cash than Nine Inch Nails. Tonight, emotion lent gravel to his voice that sent a chill up Morgan’s arms.

She let herself in with her key. Sadness filled the house as fully as the music. Morgan went to the dining room, where his grand piano stood in place of a table. He played, a glass of whiskey perched above the keyboard.

“Sharp called me.” She slid onto the piano bench next to him. “I wish you had.”

He stopped playing. His hands hovered over the keys, his fingers quivering as if he couldn’t find the right notes. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m not thinking straight.”