Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane #2)(89)

“As soon as I can.” The sheriff rested both palms flat on his desk and pushed to his feet. “I have some loose ends to tie up before I can go home to a shower, a meal, and my bed. You should both do the same. You look like shit.”

“Thank you, I think.” Morgan stood and offered her hand across the desk.

The sheriff took it, albeit grudgingly. “You’re OK, Counselor. But don’t get in my way again.”

“Good night.” Morgan smiled politely, but she made no promises.

She and Lance left the sheriff’s station. Light from overhead lamps puddled in yellow circles on the asphalt. A blast of cold air swept across the parking lot. Mid-October felt more like winter than autumn.

Morgan clutched the lapels of her coat together. “I’m not sure what to think of the sheriff. Sometimes he seems competent, but his department definitely dropped the ball a few times on this investigation.”

Lance walked closer, his body shielding her from the wind. “He probably should have called the state police for help on a case that clearly strained the resources of his department, but that’s against his nature. Maybe next time he pulls a case of this magnitude, he will.”

Morgan doubted it. Old dogs could learn new tricks, but she didn’t have the same faith in humans.

Her phone buzzed. She dug it out of her bag. Her sister’s name was displayed on the screen.

“It’s Stella.” She answered the call, nerves jangling. “Hello?”

“He’s awake,” Stella said.

Morgan put a hand to the center of her chest. Her heart thumped hard and relief weakened her legs. “I’m so glad.”

“I thought you’d want to know right away.”

“God, yes.” Morgan could barely catch her breath. “Where’s Peyton?”

“She’s talking with the doctor. Grandpa is already ornery. He’s asking for bacon and eggs. Ian just got here too. But Grandpa is kicking us all out tonight. He said he doesn’t need a damned babysitter and that we all look worse than he does.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Stop by and see him,” Stella said. “You’ll feel better.”

“I will.” Morgan ended the call and slid into the passenger seat of the Jeep.

Lance took her hand over the console and squeezed it. His hand warmed hers. “Your grandfather is all right?”

“Yes. Awake and hungry.” She drummed her fingers on the armrest. “I’m going to call Tim on the way and make sure he and Chelsea are OK.”

Morgan called Tim’s cell number. He didn’t answer, and she left a message. “Let’s drive by Tim and Chelsea’s house.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t answer his phone.”

“Maybe he’s busy.” Despite his argument, Lance turned in the direction of the Clarks’ neighborhood.

“Nothing would make me happier than the county forensics team finding DNA in a storage container in the salvage yard. I really want this to be over for Tim and Chelsea.”

“But?”

“But there’s no physical evidence linking the Burns brothers to Chelsea’s kidnapping.”

“The sheriff said he’d send an officer to talk to Derek Pagano.”

“He didn’t say when,” Morgan pointed out. “And what is Sheriff King going to do without any evidence?”

“We don’t know that Derek did anything. Unfortunately, the police can’t get a search warrant based on gut instinct.”

“Elliot lied.” Six years as a prosecutor had given Morgan an excellent lie detector. Yet she hadn’t picked up Elliot’s omission. Either he was very good or he had simply made a mistake.

“He omitted information,” Lance clarified. “Maybe he was just trying to protect his brother.”

Morgan fastened her seat belt. “Let’s drive by Derek’s house.”

“The sheriff said he’d do it.”

“He didn’t say when, and we didn’t promise not to pay Derek a visit,” Morgan said.

“Good point.”

Meeker County was a twenty-minute drive from the sheriff’s station. Lance followed the GPS until it led them to a narrow county road in the middle of the woods. Not a streetlight in sight.

“What is the house number?” Lance asked, slowing the vehicle and squinting through the windshield. The houses were spaced very far apart on the rural route. The last mailbox had been nearly a mile back.

Morgan scrolled on her phone. “Two hundred thirty-eight.”

Lance stopped the Jeep. “That’s two fifty and the last house was number two twenty-seven.

“How can there be no house?”

“The address is wrong.” Lance turned the Jeep around. “Could be a simple error.”

“Or not.” Morgan set a hand on her stomach, where anxiety burned like a smoldering match. “I don’t like this at all. Elliot omits his brother’s name from the list and doesn’t mention the fact that his brother is a convicted sex offender. Then Derek’s home address is listed incorrectly?”

“This isn’t right.”

“No.”

“Would you call Sharp and put him on speakerphone?” Lance asked.