What I've Done (Morgan Dane #4)(71)

“Oh my goodness. Your poor face.” His mother stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her gaze on Morgan. She hadn’t seen Morgan since the incident at the courthouse on Monday.

“I have quite a bruise, don’t I?” Morgan grimaced, then lied without missing a beat. “It’s more ugly than painful.”

Jenny didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and turned to Lance. “Your eyes are red. Is that from the smoke?”

“Yes.” Lance gave her a heavy sigh. “If only the house fared as well as I did.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.” Her crow’s feet deepened with worry. His mom’s anxiety burned off as many calories as she managed to eat. Frailty and stress had aged her far beyond her sixty years. “Do the police think that same man who sprayed you with pepper spray set your house on fire?”

“They don’t know, but it’s a reasonable theory.” Lance didn’t mention the rock that had been thrown through this windshield. “He’s young and grieving. He isn’t thinking straight.”

“You never did anything criminal when you were young and grieving,” his mother said.

“I was perfect.” Lance grinned. “But look at all the situations the kids on my team get into.” He coached a hockey team of at-risk youths. Most of them had less than ideal home lives and were frequently in trouble. “Young people react to emotion. Controlling their impulses takes practice and maturity.”

His mother sighed, and he wondered how much of his teen years she really remembered. Mentally, she’d been absent more than she’d been present. He needed to distract her. “Do you have any other information for us?”

“Actually, yes.” Jenny turned and walked toward her office at the back of the house. Her two cats followed her like dogs. When she sat down, her eyes were more focused, and her expression less strained.

The office had once been the smallest bedroom in the house. Jenny sat behind her desk. Morgan took a chair facing her.

“Any luck on tracing the origin of that GIF of McFarland’s attack on Morgan?” he asked, leaning over his mother’s shoulder.

“Not yet. Once something goes viral, it becomes hard to trace its source.” His mom nodded toward the screen. “And that video clip is everywhere. I still can’t believe he punched you like that.”

“It was a surprise,” Morgan agreed.

“Aren’t you afraid to go back to the courthouse?” Jenny only left the house for her weekly group therapy and for an occasional trip to the psychiatrist, and she needed medication for those brief outings.

“No,” Morgan answered in a firm voice. “What McFarland did wasn’t just unusual, it was stupid. He was already facing jail time. Now he’s going to be incarcerated much longer. The prosecutor isn’t going to offer him any sort of deal. He committed assault in the courthouse, in front of dozens of witnesses, in full view of the surveillance feeds, with a dozen deputies just steps away. Most criminals aren’t that dumb.”

He appreciated Morgan’s effort to downplay the risks of her profession, but it didn’t matter what she said. The unpredictable and random nature of the courthouse incident made it the exact sort of thing that fed his mother’s anxiety. People who didn’t suffer from anxiety could rationalize that the assault had been an aberration. But his mother’s mental illness translated the event into: if one wasn’t safe at the county courthouse, then one wasn’t safe anywhere.

Lance brought the conversation back to the case. Working was the one thing that seemed to distract his mother from her crippling fears. “So what did you find out?”

“I traced the first email threat to Haley and the one to Morgan to an email address registered to Adam Carter.” His mother flexed her arthritic fingers over the keyboard. Her getting-back-to-work gesture made Lance feel like a dunce for not realizing she needed to be needed.

“The police are already looking for Adam,” Morgan said. “Please send me the evidence, and I’ll forward it to the sheriff and prosecutor.”

“OK. And if the police can get a search warrant for Adam’s computer, their forensic tech will be able to tell if he also originated the GIF.”

“Great.” Morgan entered a detailed reminder into her phone. “I’ll mention that in my email. This is a huge help, Jenny.”

Jenny beamed. “I also uncovered something interesting about Justin O’Brien.”

Morgan balanced her notebook on her lap. “What do you have?”

“Justin was arrested for date rape during his junior year of college,” Jenny began. “He brought a girl home from a party and slept with her. In the morning, she accused him of taking advantage of her while she was too drunk to walk straight, let alone give consent. In an interesting defensive move, his attorney claimed that Justin was also drunk and didn’t remember most of the night. He threatened to countersue the girl for sexual assault.”

“Sounds like a nightmare of a case.” Morgan lifted her pen.

Jenny looked up from her computer screen. “In the end, the charges against Justin were dropped for lack of evidence.”

“I’d call it a classic he said, she said, but if neither of them remembered what happened, then I don’t see how either of them could be held responsible.” Lance paced the tiny office. “What else did you find?”