What I've Done (Morgan Dane #4)(2)

Standing, she took two steps to the window and peered through the blinds. A long lawn and driveway sloped toward the street a hundred feet away. A small red house sat on the other side of the road.

Turning, she crept barefoot to the doorway and eased from the room into the even colder hall. Her heart hammered hard enough to rattle her breastbone and vibrate in her throat. The bathroom was just outside the bedroom door. It was white-tiled, empty, and clean. She glanced through another doorway into a second bedroom furnished as a home office. There was no one inside.

Her gaze snapped back to the trail of blood that meandered down the hallway.

She hesitated, listening. Was anyone else here? Seconds ticked by, punctuated by the echo of her pulse in her ears. All she could hear was the distant whine of a leaf blower coming from outside. No sounds emanated from the living areas of the house.

Whatever she was going to find at the end of the trail wasn’t going to be good. But she couldn’t stop herself. Her feet tracked a line parallel to the blood. The air grew colder, and the dots became more numerous. Clumping together.

As if the blood had dripped less as she’d walked toward the bedroom.

The hallway opened into a living room. Her gaze panned over the furniture and carpet. Her black dress lay crumpled on the floor. Her high heels were under the coffee table. She crossed the room, snatched her dress from the floor, and tugged it over her head. The snug fit, lauded as hot by Piper the night before, felt binding and uncomfortable. It was better than being naked, but the skimpy garment did little to ward off the cold, damp air of early March in upstate New York.

Or the sense that she was acutely vulnerable.

The blood trail beckoned her to follow it through a doorway that led to the back of the house, toward the source of the wind. She walked to the threshold of the kitchen, the sight stopping her forward motion as if she’d stepped in deep, wet cement.

The blood.

The rusty trail led to a sickeningly large smear on the gray floor tiles. In the center of the blood lay a knife.

An image flashed in her mind, and she knew the knife had once been in her hand.

A second line of blood led from the smear out the open door. This trail was not composed of dots but one long streak. Through the doorway, Haley could see the large backyard and the woods in the distance.

The blood crossed the threshold and continued onto the porch.

Her legs threatened to give out as she stumbled out the back door. At the bottom of the porch steps, she saw him.

No.

Her breath froze in her throat. Her knees buckled. The sky spun. She put a hand on the nearby railing to steady herself.

Clearly crawling or dragging himself, Noah had turned right, toward the nearest neighbor’s house, but he hadn’t gotten far. He was sprawled on his side, his arms flung forward. His eyes, once a warm brown, were empty and opaque. He was wearing the same dorky Doctor Who T-shirt she’d thought was so adorable the night before. Saturated, the spinning TARDIS was barely recognizable.

Numb, she sank to her knees beside the body. The cold didn’t register on the bare skin of her legs. One hand reached for Noah. She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. A bug crawled across his face. She snatched her hand away as if burned.

She sank back onto her heels. Gasping, she stared down at her open palms and the blood on her hands. A scream ripped from her throat.

What have I done?





Chapter Two

“Lincoln Sharp, private investigator.” Closing the door on the March wind, Sharp assessed the woman in the foyer of Sharp Investigations. “How can I help you?”

“My name is Olivia Cruz. You can call me Olivia.” She unbuttoned her khaki trench coat. Black slacks and a pale-blue blouse draped a fit-looking body. She was short, even in her pointy high heels. Her dark eyes, deep-brown hair, and olive skin suggested some Hispanic ancestry. “I’m looking for Morgan Dane.”

Morgan, a former prosecutor turned criminal defense attorney, rented an office in Sharp’s converted duplex.

“Ms. Dane isn’t in this morning. You should call and make an appointment.”

“I tried that.” Olivia slid her hand into a sleek black bag and withdrew a business card. “She hasn’t returned my message.”

Sharp read the card she handed him.

“You’re a reporter,” he said with disdain.

If she had told him that when she’d introduced herself, he wouldn’t have let her through the front door. Her small smile said she knew it.

Damn. He was too old to get fooled by a pretty face.

“Yes.” She nodded, completely ignoring the obvious contempt in his voice. “But at the moment, I’m working on a true crime book about the Chelsea Clark kidnapping.”

Several months before, Morgan had been hired by Chelsea Clark’s husband. In turn, Morgan had engaged Sharp Investigations to find the missing woman. The man who had kidnapped Chelsea had committed suicide in prison, so there was no upcoming trial that would prevent Morgan from discussing the case. But Sharp still doubted that Morgan would speak to a reporter. She respected the Clark family’s privacy, and frankly, the case had been horrific. Who would want to dredge it all up again?

A reporter looking to cash in on the suffering of others, that’s who.

Sharp reached for the door, anxious to get rid of her. “Look, Ms. Cruz—”

“Olivia,” she said.