Attention to Detail
MORGAN
Patience was a virtue. One, apparently, that Morgan had to work on.
It wasn’t normally an issue. Waiting was part of her job as an MDI. But that was when she was an objective observer. Being personally involved hit differently.
Frank's house was quiet this morning. Shadow had followed Frank out to his garage, doing whatever it was they did out there every day. She didn’t ask, and Frank offered neither explanation nor invitation.
That left her inside, waiting and semi-obsessively checking her phone while Donna did her thing.
She hadn’t spoken to Patrick since they’d parted ways the day before, but he had uploaded the most recent info on Anthony Varro like she’d asked.
The logical part of her brain knew it would take time for anything to shake out.
The illogical part of her brain didn’t care and wanted it now.
Donna was at the counter, working through meal prep with the systematic efficiency of a line cook, wielding the chef’s knife with a slightly unusual grip.
Her thumb and forefinger wrapped around the blade rather than the handle in the kind of hold that gave you control over the edge rather than just the weight of it.
Probably helped with precision.
Morgan filed it away, because she had more pressing puzzles to deal with.
“Can I help?” Morgan asked.
Thus far, she’d refrained from interfering, mostly because Donna seemed like the type of woman who neither wanted nor appreciated help, but she needed a distraction.
Donna looked at her over her shoulder. Not warmly, exactly—but without the censure Morgan half-expected.
“You can scrub those, then cut them up,” she said finally, nodding toward the bag of potatoes, fresh from the farmers market and coated in soil.
Morgan took the bag to the sink, grabbed the scrubber, and got to work.
“How long have you known my grandfather?” Morgan asked, when the silence had settled into something comfortable enough to speak into.
“A long time.”
“How'd you meet?”
A beat—not a hesitation exactly, more like a considered pause. “He needed someone. I was available.”
Morgan waited to see if there was more. There wasn't. She filled the subsequent lull in conversation by imagining possible scenarios, then stopped abruptly when she considered what kind of needs a man like her grandfather might have, because… yeah, she wasn’t going there.
Still, it made her realize how much she didn’t know about Frank. The Sullivans had been something of a taboo subject in her house growing up, including her birth father. She didn’t know much about him, either.
“It’s nice of you to come out here every day and do all this for him,” Morgan said eventually.
Donna made a sound that wasn't quite agreement and wasn't quite dismissal and reached for the cutting board.
Her sleeve rode up as she extended her arm, and Morgan saw it—a pale, lateral scar along the inside of the forearm, the kind that was old enough to be fully healed but distinctive enough that it didn't read as accidental. Not a kitchen scar. Not a fall.
Donna set down the knife and drew her sleeve back down in one smooth, unhurried motion, as if she'd done it a thousand times.
Morgan looked back at the potatoes.
“There’s very little I wouldn’t do for that man,” Donna said quietly. It was the most unguarded thing Morgan had heard from her, and it was over as quickly as it came. Donna had already turned back to the cutting board, the door of further inquiry closing.
Morgan finished the potatoes and started on a second colander without being asked.
Her phone buzzed at half past ten. Morgan wiped her hands on the dishtowel draped over her shoulder and checked the screen.
Patrick: My uncle says he’s got something. Want to head over with me?
That was a big hell yes. She was on her feet before she'd consciously decided to stand, typing a response.
Morgan: Absolutely. OMW.
Donna was watching her from across the kitchen with that flat, observant gaze.
“I've got to go,” Morgan said. “Tell Frank I’ll be back later?”
Donna simply nodded.
No wonder they got along so well. Donna’s verbal economy was even tighter than Frank’s.
Patrick was waiting for her when she arrived at his house a short while later. Climbing into his SUV now felt comfortable, almost familiar.
“Did he tell you what he found?” she asked as she buckled her seat belt.
“No. But it must be important if he wants us to drive out to his office.”
She wondered if Michael’s office was anything like Ian’s, then figured it probably was if he had access to the kind of equipment that could run non-standard tox panels.
“He’s okay with me coming along?”
“Yes. He wants to meet you.”
She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “Is that a good thing?”
Patrick’s mouth curved in that half-smile she’d become so fond of. “TBD. But for the record, I can’t imagine him not liking you. You’re a lot alike, actually.”
“How so?”
“You both have a meticulous attention to detail. He, like you, won’t rest until he finds the answer he’s looking for.”
She almost smiled at that. Patrick really could read people.
They entered the hospital through a back entrance, bypassing the lobby and registration areas. Patrick led the way with a confidence that suggested he’d visited his uncle here many times.
Dr. Michael Callaghan's private office wasn’t what she was expecting.
It was large and well-lit, more suited to a college professor than an MD.
Every wall was filled with bookshelves, his massive desk buried under multiple display monitors, journals, and printed research.
In front of the desk, a pair of visitors’ chairs.
A couch along the side. Mini kitchenette with a coffee maker, microwave, and a small fridge.
A private bathroom with a shower. Clearly, he was important to have this kind of building real estate and probably spent a lot of time here.
The man who turned at their arrival looked a lot like Ian—i.e., an older version of Patrick. His manner was unhurried and soft-spoken, with an aura of intelligence that operated at a slightly different frequency than everyone around him.
The woman leaning against his desk was something else entirely, and Morgan pegged her immediately as someone not to mess with.
Long raven hair. Nearly colorless eyes that assessed you within seconds and decided if you were in the friend or foe category.
Morgan could guess which one held more people.
Morgan met the woman’s gaze and held it.
Something shifted in the woman’s expression. Fractional. Approving.
“Morgan Sullivan, this is my uncle Michael and my aunt Nicki.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the older man said with an easy, friendly smile that appeared genuine. Nicki just offered a slight head nod, which Morgan would take.
“You too,” Morgan said, addressing both of them. “Thank you for doing this.”
“My pleasure,” answered Michael. “It’s not often we come across something like this.”
“What is this, exactly?”
Michael waved toward the visitors’ chairs. “Please, sit.”
Morgan didn’t want to sit. She wanted answers. But Patrick’s gentle touch at the small of her back helped her remember her manners.
Once she was seated, Patrick folded into the chair beside her. Michael leaned against his desk, much the way Nicki was doing, picked up a sheet of paper from a pile on his desk, and handed it to them.
Morgan accepted it. Patrick leaned closer.
She read it.
She read it again.
“Saxitoxin?” Morgan said, surprise lacing her tone.
The potent neurotoxin was familiar because she’d just read about it in a book on Frank’s shelf, along with several others.
Refined, stabilized, and developed by the CIA in the 1950s as an assassination tool because it worked cleanly, resulted in rapid cardiac arrest, wouldn’t appear in a standard trace, and had no window for intervention.
“Delivery mechanism?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Typically by frozen dart,” Nicki said. “Melts on contact. No physical evidence by the time anyone is examining the body, except for a tiny pinprick at the insertion site.”
Like the one she’d found beneath Anthony Varro’s neck.
“All but invisible during a standard autopsy,” Michael said. “Unless you know what to look for.”
“Even if it was discovered—which is highly unlikely in a small town by an overworked county ME—it would likely be written off as a sting or a bug bite,” Nicki added.
Morgan set the sheet down, keeping her expression schooled and professional under their curious stares.
More pieces of the puzzle, coming together to form a picture she didn’t want to see.
The injection site. The stripped identity.
The constructed cover built for a single operation.
The hands with the grip callus and the care taken with placement behind the left ear.
Anthony Varro at one of her crime scenes.
Talking to her boss in her parking garage.
“You’re sure,” she asked, regretting the words the moment they passed her lips. These were not people who said things they weren’t one hundred percent sure of.
“Yes. No question.”
She nodded. Looked at Nicki, who was watching her with those unsettling silver eyes, silently asking questions Morgan wasn’t ready to answer. Not yet.
Michael leaned back against the desk, slipped his hands into his pockets, and looked from Morgan to Patrick. “Anything you want to tell us?”
It was Patrick who answered. “Dad didn’t fill you in?”
“He did.” Michael’s gaze went back to Morgan. Nicki’s had never left. “But I have a feeling there’s more to this than boredom and a random professional interest.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“Do you believe you’re in danger, Morgan?” Michael said softly. As if he’d somehow sensed the chill that ran the length of her spine.
“Not at the moment,” she answered honestly. “But I do have a lot of questions I need answers to.”
She had a feeling they did too.
“Thank you again,” Morgan said, rising, before either Michael or Nicki put those questions in verbal form. “Both of you.”
Patrick didn't speak until they were back in the SUV and out of the lot, but his presence was doing wonders. Just having him around eased her in a way that was almost as scary as the idea that someone had sent a hit man after her.
Because she was pretty sure that was why Anthony Varro had come to Pine Ridge.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. I think so. Your family is… interesting.”
Patrick barked out a laugh. “Fair.”
“I can see why Michael became a doctor. He has a very calm, healing vibe about him. Out of curiosity, what does Nicki do?”
Morgan tried to sound nonchalant, but she really wanted to know. There was no way someone with that level of lethal intensity had a regular nine-to-five.
“Officially, she runs the garage in town with my uncle Sean.”
“And unofficially?”
Patrick smiled. “I could tell you but…”
“You’d have to kill me?”
“No, she’d kick my ass.”
It was Morgan’s turn to smile. The brief moment of levity didn’t last.
“Do you have any plans for the rest of the afternoon?” he asked, reminding her of the last time he’d done so. That had turned out okay.
“No, why?”
“I’d like to take you somewhere,” he said. “If you're willing.”
She looked at him, picturing another moving job. “Where?”
“Somewhere quiet. Away from town.” He checked the mirror, signaled a turn onto a road she didn't recognize. “When things get to be too much, I go there to put things back in perspective.” A pause. “It helps. Trust me.”
She did trust him, she realized. She wasn't sure exactly when that had happened.
“Okay,” she said.
The pavement ended and he switched to four-wheel drive. The world outside the SUV narrowed to unpaved trail and the close press of trees. They kept going until it was hard to believe the real world existed.
Her first thought? This would be a good place to hide.
Her second: This would be a good place to hide a body.
“This is as far as we can drive. We have to do the rest on foot.”
They got out of the vehicle. Patrick extended his hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
She took it, inhaling sharply when the static shock made her fingers tingle.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Yes, I just wasn’t expecting static electricity out here.”
He smiled and turned ahead again, tugging gently, leading her forward.
She heard it before she saw it—the gentle burble of running water, somewhere through the trees.
He led her another hundred feet along the unmarked path until the trees opened and she saw what she’d been hearing.
The waterfall wasn't large. It wasn’t dramatic or thundering or even the kind of thing that ended up on a postcard.
It was something better—a series of falls stepping down dark, flat rocks into a wide, shallow pool.
The late October light cut through the surrounding trees at a low angle, splitting in the mist into a prismatic display above the water.
The sound of it was constant and even, like white noise.
“Oh,” she said softly.
“Yeah,” Patrick said from beside her.
They stopped at the edge. Colorful leaves drifted down, floating lazily into the water only to be swirled and carried away.
It was idyllic. Peaceful. The sound of the water. The shafts of golden sunlight. The smell of earth and leaves and clean, fresh air.
Patrick’s hand wrapped around hers, prepared to pull her back if she lost her balance. She knew, in that moment, that he wouldn’t let her fall.
“Anthony Varro was watching me.”
She said it matter-of-factly, accepting the truth of the picture the pieces were showing her.
Patrick’s thumb began moving gently, slowly, along hers. “What makes you say that?” he asked, not like he was asking a question, but like he’d reached the same conclusion.
“The evidence,” she answered, mentally recounting the points even though he knew them as well as she did.
“He was at my crime scene—one of them, at least. And then he was in the parking garage at my office, talking to my supervisor.
And then he turned up dead less than two miles from where I was staying.
“ She paused. “He has—had—all the hallmarks of a mid-level hitter.” She paused again. “I think I stumbled onto something I wasn’t supposed to, and refusing to sign off on that case had bigger consequences than an LOA.”
“Keep going,” Patrick encouraged quietly.
“But someone took him out first, before he could get to me. And whoever did that had access to a CIA-developed assassination compound.”
“Yes.”
She turned and looked at him, fighting the urge to fall deeply into his blue eyes. “Was it you? Did you kill Anthony Varro?”
“No,” he said, eyes blazing. “But had I known, I might have.”
Her chest squeezed. “Why?”
In response, his head lowered slowly, making his intentions clear, giving her time to protest. She didn’t. Because at that moment, the only thing she was one hundred percent sure of was that she wanted to kiss this man who held her hand and wouldn’t let her fall.
He paused a hair’s breadth from her lips.
That was when she threw caution to the wind, rose on her tip toes, and kissed him.