Secrets Never Die (Morgan Dane #5)(46)

He wanted to call his mom. He needed to go to a hospital, but he couldn’t risk it. The police would find out, and Paul’s killer was a cop. He’d end up getting himself and his mom killed.

Fuck it. He grabbed the whole bottle of ibuprofen.

He found a nylon bag in the linen closet and filled it with supplies: the first aid kit, the meds, soap, and some small towels. Then he went back into the bedroom and took another set of clothes and a pair of slip-on old-man sneakers. They were a little tight, but his Converses were still wet. And they reeked. He zipped the bag closed and went downstairs.

In the kitchen pantry, he opened a can of chicken and ate it with a fork, swallowing four ibuprofen tablets as well. He found a second bag and filled it with a few cans of peaches and chicken, a box of crackers, and a can opener. Unfortunately, his ability to carry food and water was limited by its weight and his injured arm, but he found a few bottles of water in the garage and tossed them in the bag. What else could he use? He thought of his camping trip with Paul and the supplies they’d packed.

Paul.

Grief tightened Evan’s chest. He shoved it down deep. When all of this was over, he could miss Paul and be sad. Now he had to figure out what he was going to do.

The house was warm and dry. Could he stay here for a while?

Did he have anywhere better to go?

The answer to that question was a big fat no.

He went back into the family room, set the two bags of stolen supplies under the window with the broken latch, and closed the blinds. He spotted a can of long matches on the mantel over the fireplace. On their one and only camping trip, Paul had taught him that fire could mean the difference between life and death. It could provide warmth and the ability to boil water to kill bacteria and parasites. Evan put the matches in his bag.

A fleece blanket was draped over the back of the couch. Evan sat and pulled the blanket around his shoulders. The ibuprofen was helping a little, but he still felt like shit.

He might not pay attention to everything his mother said, but he knew that an infection in a wound this deep was dangerous. If it spread, he could lose his arm or even die. Maybe he should consider calling her or the police.

If only he knew what was happening. His gaze lingered on the TV. He turned it on, surprised that whoever owned the house hadn’t canceled the cable. He turned on a local news channel. A breaking news banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen: SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD EVAN MEADE WANTED IN THE SHOOTING DEATH OF STEPFATHER.

Shock flashed through him like ice. As if a cop killing Paul and chasing Evan wasn’t bad enough, now the police were going to try to pin Paul’s murder on him.

He could never go for help. He had to run as far and as fast as he could. If the cops found him, he’d wind up in prison or dead.

The sound of a car door closing outside made Evan jump. He turned off the TV and hurried toward the living room. He peered around the edge of the blinds. A sheriff’s department car was parked in the driveway.





Chapter Eighteen

Morgan drank from a Styrofoam cup in the conference room at the sheriff’s office. Ten minutes after the press conference, the sheriff had called Tina, requesting she come down to the station for additional questioning. The timing could not be coincidental. The sheriff wanted something. Morgan schooled her face into a blank expression, but inside, her brain was scrambling. The sheriff had plenty of evidence against Evan, enough to convince a judge to sign off on an arrest warrant for Paul’s murder.

The evidence required for an arrest warrant was lower than the beyond a reasonable doubt standard applied in the courtroom. In order to get an arrest warrant, the sheriff only had to establish that he had probable cause to believe Evan was guilty. Considering the evidence in the case so far, there was only one way to invalidate the warrant: find Paul’s real killer.

Sitting on her left, Lance’s posture was rigid in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. He made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was seething. Tina huddled in the chair next to him.

“They’re going to shoot him on sight.” Tina chewed on her thumbnail. “I know it. They’re setting up Evan so they can kill him. I was bullied by enough cops when I was a kid. I know how they operate.”

Morgan doubted the police were intentionally setting up Evan to be shot. But listing him as an armed and dangerous suspect, rather than a missing person, definitely increased the risk.

She eyed the camera in the corner of the ceiling. The light was green. They were being recorded. She leaned close to Tina’s ear and whispered, “Take a deep breath.”

“But this isn’t fair.” Tina rubbed her hands together. She obviously hadn’t slept the night before. The circles under her eyes were deep and dark. “Evan wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s a victim.”

The door opened. Morgan had expected Sheriff Colgate, but the appearance of ADA Esposito behind the sheriff was a surprise. Next to her, Lance stared. The sheriff closed the door. Esposito took the chair opposite Morgan. She and Esposito had faced off over several cases. So far, Morgan was well ahead, and Esposito was chafing for a win. The gleam in his nearly black eyes told Morgan he thought he’d scored big on this case.

Morgan didn’t say a word as the sheriff and ADA settled into their chairs. Sheriff Colgate had a file, notepad, and pen. Esposito needed no props. He smoothed his suit jacket and tugged his French cuffs into place.