A Merciful Secret (Mercy Kilpatrick #3)(35)

Salome Sabin stepped out of the green car. She was dressed in jeans, hiking boots, and a black jacket with a wide fur collar. Her long hair rested on her shoulders, nearly as dark as the fur. The sultry gaze from his memories blazed in front of him. She was older than he remembered and still as beautiful. A mesmerizing power radiated from her confidence and the angle of her chin. “I’m fine, Officer. I don’t need anything.” She tilted her head, her gaze traveling up his body, a small smile curving her lips.

“Are you Salome Sabin?” he asked, knowing the answer.

Caution shut down her confidence, and she drew back, dark eyes suspicious. “Why?”

“Have you been home today?”

“Why? Why would you ask me that?”

Truman searched for a gentle way to break the news to her. There wasn’t one. “There was an incident at your home yesterday. Your mother was murdered.”

Her hand went to her neck. “Morrigan?” she croaked, stepping back and bumping into her car.

“Your daughter wasn’t hurt. She’s absolutely fine.” Truman cursed himself for not stating that immediately.

“What happened?” she whispered. Panic had replaced her assurance, and her breaths deepened. She swallowed multiple times, trying to keep her control.

“We’re not sure.” I shouldn’t be the one informing her. He moved closer and placed a hand on her shoulder, his heart splitting at the devastation on her face. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” Useless words.

“Where is she? Where’s Morrigan?” Tears started down her cheeks. “Where’s my mother?” She grabbed the front of his jacket, terror stiffening her posture.

“Morrigan is staying with a foster family—”

“No! I want her with me.” Anger blazed in her eyes. “Not strangers!”

“It’s a good place,” Truman started. “One of the FBI agents went and—”

“FBI? Why the FBI?”

He paused, rattled and scrambling for the right words. “Your mother’s death resembles the murder of a Portland judge—”

“Who?”

“Judge Malcolm Lake, he’s—”

Salome whirled away and bent over. Her hands clutched her abdomen and she dry heaved, her long hair hiding her face. The retching sounds froze Truman in place. I fucked this up. He should have delivered the news in a softer way. And not blurted out the name of another victim.

Stupid.

He carefully placed a hand on her back, uncomfortable with touching the distraught woman, and his brain blank of words of comfort. “Let me try to get you in to see Morrigan tonight.” It was the first option he could think of to calm her.

Turning back to him, Salome brushed her hair out of her face and wiped her dry mouth. Her eyes were wet and angry. Very angry. “She’s my daughter. You damned well will let me see her! I want her out of there tonight! She should be home with me!” Her face paled. “My home . . .”

“You should find a hotel tonight.” Truman glanced at her car. “The investigators have been trying to reach you. Where have you been?”

Salome briefly closed her eyes, regret speeding across her features. “I lost my Goddamned phone. Fuck! I thought I’d be okay without it for a few days.” She turned a fierce gaze on him, her shoulders squared.

“Get me to my daughter. Now.”



A series of lengthy calls to Mercy, Ava, and the foster mom landed Truman the address of Morrigan’s foster home.

“She has the right to see her daughter,” he’d argued to Ava when she stated she wanted to interview Salome first. The protective heat in Salome’s eyes had reminded him of Mercy’s attitude about her niece. You don’t get between a mother and her child.

“Fine,” Ava finally said. “But we’re going to meet you there. I want to talk to Salome tonight.”

Truman wondered how the FBI would interview Salome with her daughter present, but it wasn’t his problem. Right now his goal was to reunite the mother with Morrigan. Salome was beside herself, agitated that her daughter was not in her sight. She couldn’t hold still, pacing in the parking lot, monitoring his conversations, and alternating between tears and anger.

Between his phone calls, she had peppered him with questions about Olivia’s death, unhappy with his lack of knowledge. He’d offered to drive her to the foster home, believing she shouldn’t be behind the wheel at that emotional moment, but Salome had surprised him. She abruptly locked down her emotions and turned her energy to reuniting with her daughter. “What’s done is done,” she’d stated. “I’ll get details about my mother later. Right now the only thing I can change is my daughter’s location. And you can be damned sure that is happening tonight.”

The drive to the home took fifteen minutes. He parked in front of the foster home and checked his rearview mirror. Salome’s car was right behind him.

She darted out of her vehicle and raced up the driveway before Truman could open his door. Shit!

She rang the doorbell and beat on the door several times. He caught up and grasped her upper arm, stopping the pounding. “Hang on. You’re going to terrify the mother. Not to mention the kids.”

“Don’t put your hands on me!” She jerked her arm out of his grasp and he backed up, both hands in the air.