Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(13)

“Like Kevin,” Lance said.

She nodded. “You have a job to do. A life to live. Seeing you with Morgan has made me realize how selfish I’ve been.”

“You’re not selfish—”

She held up a hand. “Like any patient with a chronic illness, I have to learn to manage it myself.” She straightened her frail shoulders. “I have to do it.”

She looked determined and as grounded as he’d ever seen her. Maybe she could gain some independence. But in the back of his mind, a little voice whispered if she failed, she’d lose all the progress—all the happiness—she’d gained in the past few months.

She reached up and touched his face. “Lance, I don’t want to be a burden on you. You’ve given up too much of your life for me already.”

“If you feel comfortable managing things yourself, I’m behind you all the way,” he said. “But I’m also here for you. What can I do to help?”

“Find out what really happened to your father.” His mother dropped her hand and hugged her arms, rubbing her biceps as if she were freezing. “I’d like to put this behind me. I know it’s asking a lot of you. He was your father. Maybe you don’t want to delve into his personal life.”

“I already intended to find Dad’s killer.”

“Then do it. I’ll be fine here.” His mother pressed a fist to her mouth and sniffed. Her shoulders curled forward, her posture projecting the distress her words denied. Lowering her hand, she swallowed. “We both loved him, but we need to move on. We need to put his death behind us.”

“All right,” Lance said. Tomorrow, he’d start by claiming his father’s remains.





Chapter Seven

JOHN H ROGERS

CAPT

US ARMY

IRAQ

NOV 14 1982

JUL 10 2015

BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER

Morgan stared at the headstone. Half of her wanted to throw herself on John’s grave. The other half wanted to run away as fast as possible in case the sadness she’d recently shed caught up with her again.

“Where’s Daddy?” Three-year-old Sophie frowned up at Morgan. “You said he’d be here.”

Sophie’s misunderstanding added fifty pounds to Morgan’s mood.

“I’m sorry, honey.” Morgan searched for the right words. Did she tell her daughter that John was in a box six feet under the grass? Thinking of his body decaying in a box, alone, all that time, she shuddered. Her grief turned claustrophobic.

She looked to the open sky, the brilliant and glorious blue seemed like a betrayal, as if the world should not be so beautiful without John in it. There should always be some tiny, visible sign of misery to match the kernel permanently lodged in her heart.

While she was determined to move on with her life, she would never forget. Coming here was like ripping the scab off a wound before the underlying scar tissue had formed.

“Daddy isn’t here,” Morgan said. “This is his headstone. We put it here so we can remember him.”

“Daddy’s dead.” Ava carried a white bakery box. At six, Morgan’s oldest was the only one of her children who remembered their father. Usually, she used a know-it-all tone when she corrected her younger sisters. But today, her brown eyes, so like John’s, turned up to Morgan for confirmation. Ava had the best understanding of the concept of death. At least she knew that her father was never coming home.

“Yes, honey,” Morgan said. “That’s right.”

The frigid wind blew across the open landscape. Its harshness was somehow soothing.

Morgan spotted a pink hat on the grass. She picked it up and tugged it firmly over her three-year-old’s light-brown braids.

“Mommy,” Sophie said. “We need candles.”

“It’s too windy for candles,” Ava said.

Frowning, Sophie plopped down on her knees in the cold grass. “We have to sing. You can’t eat birfday cake unless you sing.”

Five-year-old Mia tugged on Morgan’s hand. Her serious brow crunched with deep thought.

Morgan crouched and tucked a stray lock of hair under Mia’s purple hat.

Mia leaned close to her mother’s ear and whispered, “Am I s’posed to be sad?”

Morgan blinked, trying to stem the sudden, hot flood of tears in her eyes. She squinted against a morning sun that shone too brightly. The grief she’d had firmly under control stirred to fresh life, threatening to drag her down like a weighted vest.

“You’re sad,” Mia said.

“I’m a little sad,” Morgan admitted, her throat tight. “But you’re supposed to feel however you feel.”

Mia swiped a sleeve under her nose. The cold had turned her nose and cheeks bright pink. “I’m not sad.”

“That’s good.” Morgan dug a tissue from her tote and handed it to Mia. “Daddy wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

“Mommy’s not sad all the time like she used to be.” Sophie plucked a blade of grass from the grave and spun it between her fingers.

“Where are your mittens?” Morgan asked Sophie.

Her youngest gave her a what mittens? look. “When can we eat the cupcakes?”

“Right now.” Morgan took the blanket from under her arm, spread it on the grass in front of John’s headstone, and knelt on it. Tears blurred the rows upon rows of plain, pale markers. Sacrifice and heartbreak organized with military precision. It was all too neat, too perfect to represent the turmoil that each and every death had left in its wake. Lives destroyed. Hearts shredded. Worlds upended. She wanted a tornado to sweep them up, to smash and scatter them, to leave these identically shaped markers as broken as all the people left behind.