Chapter 9 – Morgan
Nine
Cue the Meltdown
Morgan
I should have known Atticus would lose his shit.
He was waiting in the great room when I got back from giving my statement to the police, pacing like a caged predator in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Central Park.
The afternoon light streamed through the glass, casting long shadows across the polished hardwood floors and highlighting every sharp angle of his frustrated movements.
His usually perfect hair was disheveled, his tie loosened and hanging askew, and there was a muscle jumping in his jaw that meant he was barely holding it together.
The great room stretched out before us. All cream-colored furniture and carefully curated modern art, the kind of space that belonged in architectural magazines.
Expensive and beautiful mixed in with the warmth of Gwen’s touches, with baby gear scattered across every surface like colorful evidence of real life happening in this gorgeous space.
This should be interesting.
"Are you okay?" he asked the moment I walked in, his eyes scanning me like he was looking for hidden injuries. "Did he hurt you? Did anyone check to make sure you weren't—"
"I'm fine," I interrupted, settling onto the plush sectional sofa that probably cost more than most people's cars. "Really. Just shaken up."
And confused as hell about my mysterious savior.
Gwen emerged from the nursery, bouncing a fussy Ava against her shoulder. The baby was clearly hungry, making those demanding little noises that newborns perfected within days of birth, and I could see the wet spot on Gwen's silk blouse where Ava had been doing her best impression of a barnacle.
"How bad is it?" Gwen asked me, raising her voice slightly over Ava's increasingly insistent complaints.
"The mugging? I got my purse back, the guy's in custody, and I'm not too hurt." I lifted my purse slightly, the leather still warm from my death grip on it during the police interview. "Mission accomplished."
"Mission accomplished?" Atticus stopped pacing and stared at me like I'd grown a second head, his reflection multiplied in the windows behind him. "Morgan, you chased a criminal into an alley. In heels."
Ava chose that moment to latch onto a section of Gwen's Beyonce inspired honey-blonde braids, tugging a fistful toward her mouth with the single-minded determination of the truly hungry.
Gwen winced slightly but didn't pull away, just shifted the baby to her other arm and tried to extract her hair without causing a full meltdown.
"She's teething early," Gwen said absently, then looked back at me with concern. "But Atticus is right, Morgan. What were you thinking?"
Here we go.
"I wasn't thinking," I admitted, watching as Ava gave up on the hair and started rooting around against Gwen's chest, little fists batting at the silk in search of what she really wanted. "I just reacted."
"Exactly." Atticus resumed his pacing, his footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rug but still somehow managing to convey barely controlled panic. "You saw danger and ran straight toward it. That's what scares me."
Scares him. Not pisses him off. Scares him.
There was something in his voice. A tremor underneath the frustration that I'd never heard before. Fear, genuine and raw.
Gwen shifted Ava again, this time letting the baby find what she was looking for. Ava latched on immediately, her tiny fist curling against Gwen's chest as she settled into the serious business of eating.
"Morgan," Gwen said softly, her voice taking on that gentle tone she used when she was trying to make a point without starting a fight. "I know you're grieving. I know everything feels surreal right now, like nothing matters because Lance isn't here to see it."
The words jarred me harder than I'd expected.
"But you matter," she continued, stroking Ava's downy head with one finger. "You matter to us. You matter to this little girl who will grow up hearing stories about her brave, brilliant aunt. You can't just throw your life away chasing purse snatchers."
Throw my life away.
"That's not what I was doing."
"Wasn't it?" Gwen's eyes met mine, and I could see her own fear there, different from Atticus's panic, but just as real. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're trying to find ways to put yourself in danger. Like maybe you think you should have died instead of him."
The accusation hung in the air like smoke.
"Gwen—" Atticus started.
"No, let me finish." She adjusted Ava slightly, the baby's contented suckling sounds the only peaceful thing in the room. "I've been watching you, Morgan. We all have. The way you talk about yourself, the way you act like your life doesn't matter anymore. It's terrifying."
Because it doesn't feel like it matters.
But I couldn't say that. Not when Gwen was looking at me with eyes that had seen too much loss already.
"Atticus—"
"Do you have any idea what it was like?" His voice was quieter now, more vulnerable, as he stopped pacing to lean against the window frame.
The afternoon light caught the exhaustion in his features, the worry lines that had appeared since Ava was born.
"Getting that call from Anthony, finding out you'd been attacked?
Finding out you were hurt and I wasn't there to help?
Do you know what losing you would do to your sister? "
Oh.
I looked at him more closely, noticing the slight shake in his hands, the way he couldn't quite meet my eyes. This wasn't anger. This was terror. My robot big brother was experiencing an emotion.
"I was barely hurt," I said gently.
"It could have been catastrophic." He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled than before. "Jesus, Morgan, you could have been killed. And for what? A purse?"
Lance's journal. But I can't tell him that.
"It wasn't just any purse," I said instead. "It had things in it that mattered to me. Things I couldn't replace. Lance’s journal."
Something shifted in his expression. Understanding, maybe.
"Pictures of Lance?"
"Among other things."
He nodded slowly. "I get it. I do. But Morgan..." He looked at me directly now, and I could see the fear he was trying to hide. "I can't lose you, too."
There it is.
The words hung between us, heavy with everything he wasn't saying. That Lance was gone. That I was all they had left of him. That losing me would be losing their brother all over again.
"You won't," I said quietly.
"You don't know that." He stood up again, resuming his pacing but with less anger and more nervous energy. "You don't know what's out there, what kind of people might want to hurt you."
"What do you mean?"
Atticus exchanged a look with Gwen, one of those married-couple conversations that happened without words.
"Lance had enemies," Gwen said carefully. "People who might blame you for things that had nothing to do with you."
Enemies. Right.
"But Lance is dead," I pointed out. "What would be the point of coming after me?"
"Revenge doesn't always make sense," Atticus said. "Sometimes people just need someone to blame. That's why you have security. That's why you're staying here, where we can keep you safe." He stopped pacing and looked at me. "That's why you can't go running off on your own anymore."
Ah. And there's the control issue.
"I understand you're worried," I said carefully. "And I appreciate everything you've done for me. But I can't live like a prisoner."
"You're not a prisoner—"
"Aren't I?" I stood up, needing to move. "I can't go anywhere without a bodyguard. I can't make decisions about my own safety. I can't even grieve in my own space."
In the home I shared with him.
"Morgan." Gwen's voice was gentle. "We just want to keep you safe and look after you.”
"I know. And I love you both for it." I looked between them. "But I need to go home. To the loft. I need to be where Lance and I were happy, even if it hurts."
Especially if it hurts.
"Absolutely not," Atticus said immediately.
"I'm sorry?" I blustered.
"You can't go back there alone. It's not safe. Someone blew up your car right outside.”
I winced. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Fuck. Morgan—” Before either of them could answer, there was a knock at the door. Sharp, authoritative, the kind of knock that meant business.
"That'll be Pierce," Gwen said, standing up with Ava. "I asked him to come by after the police finished their report."
Pierce. Atticus's head of security. This should be enlightening.
Pierce entered with the kind of professional bearing that commanded attention, tall, alert, the sort of man you wanted on your side in a crisis.
“Hey, guys. We all good here,” he asked as he glanced between Atticus and me, clearly picking up on the tension in the room.
I bit down on my molars and nodded my head before I called my brother-in-law a robot from hell. “Fine,” I ground out.
"I have the preliminary report on the incident," he said carefully. "Should I come back later, or—"
"Now is fine," Atticus said. "Morgan should hear this too."
Should I? Or do you want me to hear it so I'll agree to increased security?
Pierce pulled out a tablet, swiping through what looked like a detailed report.
"The perpetrator was identified as Daniel Torrino, age twenty-two. Small-time dealer, mostly marijuana and party drugs. Multiple priors for petty theft, nothing violent."
Typical street crime. Nothing mysterious about it.
"However," Pierce continued, "there are some concerning aspects to this incident."
Of course there are.
"What kind of aspects?" Gwen asked.
"Mr. Torrino doesn't fit the profile for this type of crime. According to his record, he's never escalated to armed robbery, never targeted civilians in broad daylight. His usual M.O. is breaking into cars, shoplifting, that sort of thing."
So why the change?
"People escalate," I said. "Maybe he was desperate."