Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(87)

They’d put those pieces together right in the sheriff’s conference room, which put Sharp, Lance, and Morgan all at risk.

Sharp picked up his phone, a sick feeling rolling around in his belly. He dialed Lance. Still no answer. Sharp’s unease grew as he tried Morgan’s line. She didn’t pick up either. He sent them each a text. Morgan, always worried about family emergencies, paid close attention to her phone.

Sharp lowered his phone to his leg, his brain still churning out possibilities.

What happened to Vic? And why kill Crystal and try to kill Jenny?

What if Mary made that phone call? She would have called Crystal. So Crystal would have known that Mary had been in the station. Was King eliminating anyone who knew that he’d arrested Mary that night?

P. J. and Crystal could have been able to link King and Mary on August 10, a connection that didn’t matter until Mary’s body turned up. But Sharp had no theories about how Vic or Jenny played into the scenario.

His phone buzzed a few seconds later. Hoping it was Lance, Sharp snapped it up. Disappointment filled him as he read the name of his Florida PI contact on the screen.

He answered, “Sharp here.”

The Florida PI got right to business. “Owen Walsh is in a hospice facility, dying of cancer. He’s medicated and sleeping right now. He doesn’t have any family to object, so I’m hanging here with him, hoping he wakes up and wants to talk. I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

“Thanks,” Sharp said. “Pressure him about Lou Ford’s death. Convince him he wants to go to his maker with a clean conscience.”

“You had a break in the case?”

“I did. Now I need a deathbed confession.” Ending the call, Sharp lowered the phone and stared at it.

Morgan should have returned his message by now.

He accessed the app that would let him track Lance’s phone. The wait symbol rotated and rotated and rotated.

Phone not found.

Ned’s statement played in Sharp’s head on repeat.

The sheriff is one cold-blooded SOB.

Sharp needed to find Lance and Morgan, fast, and he needed help.

He dialed Brody.





Chapter Forty-Six

A half inch of snow dusted the ground. Spotting a game trail, Lance pulled Morgan onto it. The cleared ground would be easier for her to navigate with fewer large obstacles to trip her up.

On the downside, they would also be easier to track if they followed the path. But at this point, he didn’t know how far the sheriff was behind them. King wasn’t a runner, but he was an experienced hunter and outdoorsman. They were going to be easy to follow no matter where they ran.

Lance hoped the trail led to the lake. If they kept the water to their right, that would eliminate one side of possible attack. The sheriff would have to come up behind them or on their left flank.

Lance had no doubt King would catch up with them eventually. Morgan was freezing and exhausted and running on pure willpower. But he couldn’t let her stop. Once she was still, hypothermia would take over, though he could carry her at that point. They had no coats, no food, no water, and no method of communication. Their only option was to keep moving and pray they found help before King found them.

Wishing he could get out of the handcuffs, Lance eyed Morgan’s hair. As gorgeous as it was tumbling around her shoulders, today would have been a good day for one of her courtroom buns and the dozen hairpins that secured them. He was a decent lock pick. “No chance you have a hairpin on you?”

“No, sorry.” Her teeth chattered and her words quivered.

Helplessness flooded Lance. There was nothing he could do to protect her. He squinted through the woods. Had they even traveled a mile yet?

How close was King? The sheriff would be warm and dry and armed. He’d be in no rush. He’d hunt them with steady, dogged determination.

The snow picked up, just hard enough for them to leave footprints, not hard enough to fill in those prints as they walked. Their dark clothes, which had been excellent camouflage earlier in the evening, now silhouetted them against a white backdrop.

The cold blew through the thin sleeves of his shirt, and a shiver swept through his bones. If this night dragged on long enough, the cold would kill them as surely as a bullet.

Morgan stumbled again. Lance caught her arm in his hands. Could he hide her somewhere, then lead the sheriff away? He rejected the option. If the sheriff shot him, she was done. A fire would lead the sheriff right to her, and without one, hypothermia would kill her before morning.

The sound of water moving in the darkness caught his attention. The lake?

Evergreen boughs closed in on the trail, smacking him in the face and blotting out the scant light from the overcast sky. He released Morgan’s arm to separate the branches. As they neared the sound, he realized it wasn’t the lake he’d heard but a stream, which likely fed into Grey Lake.

The trail opened suddenly, the ground dropped off, and Lance teetered on the edge of an embankment. If it hadn’t been for the white of the snow at his feet, he wouldn’t have noticed the steep drop-off.

He stepped into Morgan’s path.

Morgan bumped into his back, then froze.

Leaning over his shoulder, she pressed her lips to his ear. “What is it?”

He leaned to the side so she could see. With her body touching his, he felt the intense shivering racking her body. She was shaking so hard she could barely stay upright.