Look Deeper (Callaghan Next Generation #1)

Strategic Relocation

MORGAN

Morgan Sullivan couldn’t help but appreciate the view as she crested the ridge. Pine Ridge might be a small valley tucked into the mountains of Northeastern Pennsylvania, but it was scenic.

She took the main road in at just under the speed limit. She wasn’t in a hurry.

The town was quaint and well-maintained. The people who lived here clearly cared about their community.

A nice-looking hotel sat on the right. Some restaurants, including an IHOP—she’d have to remember that one.

A big, white-brick garage on the left with several refurbished 60s and 70s era muscle cars on the side.

An Irish pub that, despite its immaculate condition, looked like it could have been there since before the United States became a thing.

She'd looked up Pine Ridge prior to making the decision to come, and it seemed like a nice enough place to visit. It wasn’t like she was running away from anything.

She preferred to think of it as a strategic relocation.

Instead of spending her forced administrative leave in her cramped studio in Philly, binge-watching true crime and getting into more trouble with the ME’s department, she’d be spending the next few weeks at her grandfather’s house.

She hadn't seen Frank in four years. That wasn't estrangement exactly.

Theirs was more of a parallel existence, each living their own life in different lanes.

They'd exchanged exactly three texts in the last twelve months, all of them brief and functional. The third, two days ago, when Morgan had typed: I’ve got a few weeks off. Up for a visit?

Frank had replied: Yep.

Which was Frank, in a nutshell.

Her grandfather was a man of few words, much like her, so she wouldn’t have to deal with intrusive questions or listen to unsolicited opinions on her life choices.

Other than that, she didn’t know much about him.

Her mother didn’t like to speak of the Sullivan side of the family, which made it even more surprising when she suggested reaching out to Frank.

Morgan slowed when she saw the sign for the café up ahead.

She told herself she wasn’t stalling. That it was natural to feel apprehension when walking into an unfamiliar situation.

The same thing happened every time she was called to a scene, that sense of not quite knowing what to expect.

And, just like those times, a double-pump hazelnut with oat milk creamer would settle her nerves.

She parked at the curb and went inside.

The place was warm and smelled like coffee and buttery sweet pastries, with only a few patrons occupying the space.

A cluster of older men sat near the window.

A woman focused intently on her laptop at the back.

Two teenagers perched at the counter, thumbing their phones.

She’d hit the place at the perfect time, when the lunch rush had cleared and nobody was in a hurry to be anywhere else.

Morgan stepped inside and paused, subconsciously registering the layout like the scene investigator she was.

Counter, straight ahead. Kitchen pass-through visible at the back.

Mismatched but cozy-looking table and chair combinations to the left and right.

A middle-aged woman at the till. Exit at the rear. Nothing that required a second look.

Except possibly for the man at the counter.

He was talking to a younger, attractive woman refilling the coffee station, but he was the one Morgan focused on first. Jet-black hair, intense blue eyes.

Tall, lean, and powerfully built. His hand was loose around a large paper cup as he said something that made the woman laugh and bat her eyelashes.

Morgan profiled him without thinking. Social fluency—high. Conscious of how he commanded a room—also high, but casual and easy, not calculated. Twenty-six to twenty-eight years old. Local, almost certainly. Confident and comfortable in his own skin.

A charmer.

Or, put another way, the kind of man women tended to make poor decisions around.

Case in point—the young woman he was talking to was even easier to peg, describable in one word: smitten.

No, thank you.

Morgan moved her attention to the lighted menu mounted on the wall, far more interested in the caffeinated choices than the Hallmark moment taking place in front of her.

She was almost to the counter when he turned and took a step, and the movement brought his arm directly into her path. Morgan, who had been focused solely on her options—and definitely not stalling—didn’t course-correct in time.

They collided. The cup in his hand tipped, and a hefty splash of coffee painted the front of his shirt.

She stepped back, irritated, and catalogued the damage.

His Henley was light enough—a beige that highlighted the tanned expanses of skin at his neck and forearms—that the coffee stain was unmistakable. Hopefully, it wasn’t piping hot. The lack of steam rising from his chest suggested it wasn’t.

The woman he’d been talking to made a sound of distress and rushed behind the counter, murmuring about getting a towel.

“That was my fault,” Morgan said matter-of-factly. “I wasn't watching where I was going.”

The man turned his full attention on her. Rather than being annoyed or angry, he seemed amused. Not laughing at her, just lit up in some small way, either by the situation or her readiness to assume blame.

“I don't know,” he said smoothly. “I was the one who moved.”

“I was already in motion, and you were otherwise occupied. The fault's mine.”

One corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “Do you always apologize so precisely?”

He tilted his head slightly and looked at her, his gaze going from simply amused to curious. Morgan held it because it was impossible not to. That shade of blue was the same vibrant color as the cloudless autumn sky.

Then he smiled. Not the practiced, charming smile she would have predicted. This was something softer than that. Almost involuntary.

The crooked half-grin intensified those apprehensive flutters under her rib cage, which was ridiculous. She was known for keeping her cool and calm in any situation.

“Can I buy you another coffee?” she asked, because that was the decent thing to do.

His grin grew. “To drink or to wear?”

Her lips thinned.

“Just kidding,” he said. “I’m good but thank you.”

His earlier companion returned with a towel, and Morgan took the opportunity to end the exchange, turning and moving to the end of the counter to order properly.

She didn’t look back as she paid for her order and left, telling herself that the weird feeling in her stomach had everything to do with being out of her comfort zone and nothing whatsoever to do with him.

Morgan drove the remaining distance to Frank's house, sipping her truly excellent hazelnut blend, and absently wondering why she was still thinking about him.

The man hadn't offered his name. She hadn't offered hers. The interaction had lasted under two minutes and consisted of approximately sixty words and one odd moment where their eyes had met, and she’d felt something unexpected and unidentifiable.

She put it down to tiredness and to being annoyed that this trip was even necessary in the first place.

The gravel drive started about a quarter mile off the main road.

The tree line came up close on either side, the brilliance of fall colors breathtaking against the blue sky.

Morgan slowed to navigate a rut and came around a bend to find the house sitting there the way old houses did—like it had been there forever.

Frank’s place was an old farmhouse, painted a white that had lost some of its brightness over the years.

A wide porch spanned the front, with a rocking chair at one end.

Firewood was stacked along the tree line, away from the house.

A large, two-story detached garage sat off to the left, behind the house, door down.

She sat in the car for a moment after she cut the engine.

It didn’t look so bad. The house and grounds were well-maintained. Nothing like the run-down place she’d prepared herself for.

And it was only for a few weeks. Maybe not even that long, if her supervisor came to his senses.

She could do this.

She got out of the car.

Frank opened the door before she reached the steps, and he held the door with his free hand. His expression gave nothing away. Was he glad to see her? Annoyed by this sudden and unexpected disruption to his routine? She didn’t know him well enough to tell.

He was old, in his mid-to-late seventies.

Well-groomed. His beard was white, though there were still enough strands of auburn to keep him from looking ancient.

His eyes were the most striking thing about him.

Bright and intelligent, they were the same penetrating dark green that she saw in the mirror every morning.

She wondered if her father had had those eyes too, or if the trait had skipped a generation.

Beside him stood a large dog that looked like he had some Great Dane in him, equally watchful and assessing. Just as she was about to ask if he was friendly enough to pet, the dog turned around and walked away.

Well, okay, then.

“Have any trouble getting here?” Frank asked by way of greeting.

“No.”

“Good.”

Inside, the house smelled of wood smoke and beef stew, worn leather and old paper.

Military photographs lined the entry wall—a younger Frank in fatigues, a group shot, something official in a black frame that she’d look closer at later.

A bookshelf stuffed with volumes on military history, government surveillance, assorted almanacs, and survivalist guides.

Beneath their feet, a braided rug worn through at the center from decades of the same traffic on the same patch of floor.

A coat rack mounted on one side of the door held quilted flannels and jackets of various weights and thicknesses.

A gun rack, fully stocked, on the other.

“Hungry?” Frank asked, moving toward the kitchen.

“A little.” The coffee she’d had, delicious as it was, was eating a hole in her empty stomach. Eating seemed like a nice ice breaker.

“Donna left soup.”

“Donna?”

“Comes a few days a week. Cooks, does some cleaning,” he said evenly.

Morgan considered this. “She sounds useful.”

“She is.” Frank ladled stew from the big cast-iron pot into three bowls, one of which she gladly accepted.

He set one bowl on the floor for the dog, then took a seat at the table, indicating that she should do the same. Lifting a spoon to his mouth, he looked at her in that direct way he had. Not warm, not cold. Just… Frank.

“You look tired,” he said.

“I'm fine.”

“I know you're fine.” He set down his spoon and picked up a piece of bread, dipping it into the soup. “You also look tired.”

“It was a long drive.” Morgan wrapped both hands around the ceramic bowl and waited for him to ask what prompted the sudden urge to visit.

“I'm not going to ask,” Frank said simply, as if reading her mind.

Her eyes snapped up.

“You’re my granddaughter,” he continued. Another dunk, another bite. “You are always welcome here. I figure you'll tell me what I need to know when I need to know it.”

Morgan felt something unclench and slowly exhaled.

“Okay,” she said.

The spare room was small and clean, with a window looking out over the back of the property and the tree line beyond it. There was a handmade quilt on the bed, a reading lamp on the nightstand, and one framed photograph of a lake with mountains in the background.

Morgan set her bag on the chair and stood at the window.

The trees were full and awash with color. Ash, oak, maple, with the occasional white birch scattered here and there. They stood close together and then opened into a clearing about forty yards back, where the golden autumn light made everything look like a photograph.

Her phone buzzed. She looked at the screen and saw that it was her mother.

She let it go to voicemail, turned the phone off, and looked back out at the clearing. A sudden image of black hair and dancing blue eyes made her blink and shake her head.

She was not going to think about the man at the coffee shop. There was nothing to think about. It had been a chance encounter, nothing more.

She was definitely not thinking about the way he'd looked at her, or the way his smile had been slightly crooked, lifting higher on one side than the other.

Outside, the tree line held its shape against the fading light. Belly full, mind whirring, Morgan lay down on the surprisingly comfortable bed without unpacking and looked at the ceiling. Whatever else was true, she was tired, physically and mentally.

Everything else could wait until morning.