What I've Done (Morgan Dane #4)(42)

Haley curled in the chair. She brought her knees to her chest and hugged her legs. A shiver started in her bones and shook her body. Her mom covered her with a soft blanket.

Mom bustled from the room, all efficiency and purpose. She returned in a few minutes, sheets tucked under one arm, carrying a tray loaded with medication, a bottle of water, and a bag of pretzels. “Try to eat some of these. You need the salt.”

Her mom changed the bedding. Haley took her pill and tried to sip the water, but her stomach rebelled. The dream had felt so real. Exhaustion swept over her in a cold shudder. She felt as if she’d just gone to sleep.

She checked the time on her computer. “It’s only four? I didn’t fall asleep until at least two.”

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do? Do you want some chamomile tea? It might make you sleepy.”

“No.” Haley shuddered. “I don’t really want to sleep after that nightmare.”

“I’ll bet.” Worry filled her mom’s eyes. “Want to watch TV?”

“OK.” Anything except lying alone in the dark sounded good to Haley.

Her mom handed her the remote control to the TV on the wall.

“All ready.” Her mom led her back to bed and tucked her in as if she were five instead of twenty-five. Haley didn’t mind. She lay back against the pillows.

Her mom fluffed the pillows and climbed into the other side of the queen-size bed. “What do you want to watch?”

“I don’t know.” Haley handed the remote over. “You pick.”

“Friends is binge-worthy.” Her mom changed the channel and dropped the remote between them.

Two episodes later, her mom’s breathing deepened into sleep. But Haley resisted. Rationally, she knew she’d had a bad dream. But the memory of it still lifted the hair along her arms in a chilling rush. She drank more water and sat up straighter. She did not want to sleep.

Over the past few days, she’d been in a daze. Her time in the police station didn’t seem real. But the nightmare had.

Was she going crazy?

What was real?





Chapter Eighteen

“That eye looks painful,” Grandpa said from the doorway early Wednesday morning.

“It’s that bad?” Morgan sighed over her empty coffee cup. Her head pounded, and her eyes ached. But she’d been hoping she didn’t look as bad as she felt.

Morgan had already showered and put on makeup, including an extra layer of concealer around her black eye and on the bruise that had replaced the goose egg on her temple. But all these years after retirement, Grandpa was still cop-blunt, and he had X-ray vision that could see through industrial-strength cover-up, as she’d learned in high school when she’d tried to hide a hickey or two.

Leaning heavily on his cane, Grandpa shuffled into the kitchen. As he passed, he patted her on the arm. “It’ll start to fade in a few days. In a week or two, you won’t even know it was there.”

“I know. But that doesn’t help me today.” Morgan poured a second cup for herself and one for Grandpa. She set his on the kitchen table.

“But seriously, you have a concussion, and you worked late last night. You really could use some rest. There’s no way you can take the day off?” he asked, easing into the chair and propping his cane against the wall.

“No.” She sat across from him. “I’ll be able to manage as long as I get this second cup down before the kids wake up.”

She’d already taken extra-strength pain relievers, which were not living up to their promise. She’d slept poorly and woken at dark o’clock, achy and grumpy.

“Have the dogs been out?” Grandpa glanced in the corner, where Rocket and Snoozer were curled in their dog beds.

“Yes. They’ve been fed and walked.” Morgan had hoped the cold, fresh air would help clear her head. No such luck. “Neither of them complained about the early breakfast.”

“I’ll bet.” Grandpa placed both palms on the table and pushed to his feet. “I’ll make us some breakfast.”

Morgan started to stand. “I can do that.”

“Sit.” Her grandfather pinned her in place with a look. “I may not be able to fill my dance card, but I can make a couple of eggs. You’ve been babying me since I broke my leg. I know you mean well, but I have to be useful or I’ll go crazy. It’s time I got moving.”

“OK.” She sank back into her seat. “But I can think of better ways you can help.”

“With your case?” Grandpa’s voice perked up as he lit a burner under a frying pan and plunked an overly generous pat of butter into it.

“Olive oil is better for your heart,” she said automatically.

“But it doesn’t taste the same.” He cracked eggs into the pan and added more salt than he should have. “Life is short. Live a little.”

Morgan didn’t nag, even though she worried about his heart and high blood pressure. He wouldn’t listen anyway. He put bread in the toaster and flipped the eggs.

Outside, daylight began to filter through the blinds.

Morgan booted up her laptop. “I could use your help with the case, if you have the time. I received hours and hours of surveillance video from a nightclub. Someone needs to watch them. Someone who knows what to look for.”