Save Your Breath (Morgan Dane #6)(2)

He slid inside to wait for the house to become quiet again.

For Olivia to go to sleep.

For the perfect time to execute his plan.





Chapter Two

Olivia Cruz stared at her open closet. She’d spent the last hour rearranging her clothes for autumn. Technically, mid-September was still summer, but the weather in upstate New York had turned cool over the past week. The leaves were changing color and beginning to fall. Last week, she’d broken out her flannel pajamas. Tonight, she’d moved her sandals to a rear shelf and lined up a few pairs of ankle boots in front.

Now what? She could separate her blouses by color.

This is stupid.

Her closet was already ridiculously, ruthlessly organized.

She had an important decision to make, and she’d been procrastinating for days. She backed out of the walk-in closet and firmly closed the door. Sleep would help. But she’d managed little of that lately, and she dreaded lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for yet another night. She rubbed a lump of indigestion behind her breastbone and padded to the bathroom in search of an antacid.

Her weekly dinner with her family had distracted her earlier in the evening. Her mother had served frijoles negros, Olivia’s favorite traditional Cuban dish. Olivia had overindulged, and the minute she’d left her parents’ house in Albany to make the hour drive back to Scarlet Falls, her true crime research had flashed right back into her mind and unsettled her stomach.

Chewing an antacid, she mulled over her stunning discovery. The implications of what she’d learned further stirred the black beans and rice in her belly. As a journalist, her job was to seek the truth, not play judge or jury. But should she choose to pursue and publish this truth, other people could pay the price for her revelation—possibly with their lives.

Her new book proposal was overdue, but Olivia’s predicament felt like a no-win situation. Ignoring the truth went against all her principles. Then again, so did putting other people in danger.

But how much risk was involved? Could she live with being responsible for even a single innocent person’s death?

Obsessing about her research had translated into three consecutive nights of insomnia. Enough was enough. She didn’t need to make this decision alone. What she needed was outside perspective. She brought the antacids with her into the bedroom, picked up her phone from the nightstand, and checked the time. Eleven o’clock. She sent a CALL ME IF UR UP text message to Lincoln Sharp, her . . .

The word boyfriend seemed silly at their ages. She was forty-eight. Lincoln was fifty-three. They’d been dating for several months, and they spent the night together once or twice a week. She assumed their relationship was exclusive, although they hadn’t specifically discussed it.

Labels weren’t important to either of them, but when she saw him or he called unexpectedly, the stirrings of excitement and joy in her blood made her feel like a teenager. Beyond her attraction to him, she respected him both personally and professionally.

So why had she been stewing over her decision instead of asking for his opinion?

Lincoln owned and operated a private investigation firm. As a retired police detective, his practical experience with the legal system—and his knowledge of criminal behavior—exceeded hers. She valued his insight and trusted him to keep her research confidential. If she decided to pursue the story, she would hire his firm to help with the investigative legwork anyway. She may as well bring him on board now.

She burped. Her indigestion began to burn its way up her esophagus. She chewed a second antacid, the chalky taste coating her mouth. She reached for the glass of water on her nightstand and sipped.

A few seconds later, her phone rang, and she pressed “Answer.”

“Is everything OK?” Lincoln asked in a worried tone. Her late-night text was unusual.

“Yes,” Olivia assured him.

“I’m sorry I missed dinner with your parents again,” he said. “I wrapped up my case tonight. I should be able to make dinner next week.”

He didn’t talk much about work, which was fine. She understood his professionalism and appreciated his need to maintain client confidentiality. But he had mentioned the case had involved a great deal of evening surveillance.

“They understand,” she said. “I called because I’m stuck in my research, and I’d like your opinion. Are you free sometime tomorrow afternoon? I can come to your office.”

“Sure.” Interest brightened his voice. “How much time do you want me to block out?”

“An hour should do.” She considered his associates. Lincoln’s business partner, PI Lance Kruger, and Lance’s fiancée, defense attorney Morgan Dane, could also provide useful insight on Olivia’s dilemma. Morgan’s legal advice might be particularly helpful. “I’d like Morgan’s and Lance’s thoughts as well. Could you see if they’re available?”

“Hold on. Let me check their digital calendars.” The line went quiet for a few breaths. “Lance should be here in the afternoon. Morgan has a client meeting at nine a.m. Her calendar is clear the rest of the day. How about I put you in the one p.m. spot?”

“Perfect.” Olivia lowered the phone and made a note in the calendar app. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“You know, when you texted”—Sharp’s voice deepened—“I had hoped this was a booty call.”