Chapter 19 – Morgan
Nineteen
He Watches Me Like I Might Disappear
Morgan
I was sliding out of bed when I felt Lance's eyes on me.
Not unusual, as he watched me like I was something he might lose if he looked away for too long. But this morning felt different. Heavier. Like he was memorizing me.
"I told Amber I'd meet her for coffee," I said, reaching for my sports bra from the floor where Lance had thrown it last night. "She's really determined to drag me into the land of the living, and she might start getting suspicious if I keep resisting."
The land of the living.
Ironic, considering Lance had been dead for weeks and I was the one who'd needed dragging back to life.
I glanced over my shoulder and caught the look on his face. Worry. Fear. The kind of expression you wore when you knew something terrible was coming but couldn't stop it.
Shit.
"What?" I asked, turning to face him fully.
"Nothing." But his voice was tight, controlled in that way that meant he was lying.
"Lance." I crossed my arms, suddenly very aware that I was standing there in nothing but panties while having this conversation. "What the hell is going on?"
He sat up, running both hands through his hair. A tell I'd learned to recognize. He did that when he was trying to decide how much truth to give me.
How much truth.
"It's probably nothing," he said finally.
"Probably nothing doesn't make you look like someone just told you the world was ending." I grabbed his t-shirt from the chair and pulled it over my head, needing armor for whatever conversation was coming. "Talk to me."
Lance was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands like they held answers. When he looked up, his expression was resigned.
"I can't keep doing this," he said.
My stomach dropped. "Doing what?"
"Protecting you by keeping you in the dark. Making decisions about your safety without telling you why." He stood, moving to the window, and I could see the tension coiled in his shoulders. "You deserve to know what we're dealing with."
We.
"What are we dealing with?"
Another long pause. Another internal debate about how much to reveal.
Just fucking tell me already.
"There might be someone close to you who isn't who they seem to be."
The words jarred me. "What does that mean?"
"It means that not everyone in your life has your best interests at heart. And some of the people you trust might be..." He trailed off, like he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.
Might be what?
But I already knew. Deep down, in that part of me that had been cataloging Amber's strange questions, her perfectly timed appearances, her insistence on knowing details about Lance's…I already knew.
No.
"You're talking about Amber." The words came out flat, emotionless.
Lance's shoulders tensed, but he didn't deny it.
No, no, no.
"That's insane." I shook my head, denial flooding my system like adrenaline. "Amber's my friend. She's been nothing but supportive.”
She was there.
When I couldn't get out of bed, when I couldn't eat, when I was convinced I was losing my mind.
"I know," Lance said quietly. "I know how much she's meant to you."
"Then how can you even suggest—" I stopped, realization hitting me like ice water. "You have proof. Don't you?"
The silence stretched between us, heavy with implications that made my chest tight.
He has proof.
"Show me."
"Morgan—"
"Show me." My voice was harder now, demanding. "If you're going to accuse my best friend of... of whatever you're accusing her of, I want to see the evidence."
Lance turned from the window, and the look on his face was pure devastation. Like he was about to break my heart and hated himself for it.
This was real. This was actually happening.
"She's been meeting with my grandfather’s people," he said simply. "For god knows how long. Passing along information about your routines, your emotional state, your relationship with me."
Not just since Lance's "death." Since before. Since the beginning of our friendship.
Since I moved in with Lance.
"That's impossible." But even as I said it, pieces were clicking together in my mind.
Amber's perfectly timed appearance in my life.
Her uncanny ability to know exactly what I needed to hear.
Her questions about Lance that had felt like normal friend curiosity but now seemed like intelligence gathering.
"I don't believe you."
Lance moved toward his dresser, pulling out a manila envelope. "I didn't want to believe it either."
Don't show me. Please don't show me.
But he was already opening the envelope, spreading photographs across our bed like evidence at a crime scene.
Amber shaking hands with a man I didn't recognize. Amber at a café, sliding something across a table. Amber outside the co-op, photographing the schedule board.
Photographing my schedule.
"These were taken over the past three weeks," Lance said, his voice gentle but relentless. "We've been watching her since we suspected—"
"Stop." The word came out as a whisper. "Just stop."
This can't be real.
I stared at the photos, willing them to be fake, to be some kind of mistake. But the evidence was there in stark black and white. Amber. My Amber. Conducting meetings that looked very much like business transactions.
The betrayal settled into my bones like poison, cold and spreading. Every conversation we'd had, every moment of vulnerability I'd shared, every tear she'd wiped away. It had all been a performance.
"How long have you known?" I asked.
"Suspected? A few weeks. Known for certain? Since yesterday."
Yesterday.
When he'd made love to me like the world was ending. When he'd held me so tight I could barely breathe. When he'd whispered "mine" against my skin like he was afraid someone might take me away.
Because someone was trying to.
"Is that why you've been so..." I gestured vaguely, unable to find words for the desperate intensity he'd been showing lately.
"Yeah."
Simple answer. Complex situation.
I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, photos scattered around me like evidence of my own stupidity.
How did I not see it?
But that was the thing about good liars. They told you exactly what you wanted to hear. And I'd wanted so desperately to believe that someone cared about me, that I had a real friend, that I hadn't looked too closely at the details that didn't quite add up.
But I was just another piece on the board. Another pawn to be moved around for someone else's benefit.
Just like with my father.
The parallel pierced my chest. Once again, someone I'd trusted had been playing a longer game than I'd realized. Using my emotions, my vulnerabilities, my desperate need for connection against me.
How many times am I going to fall for this?
Stop. You're spiraling.
But the fear was real now, settling in my chest like a living thing. Amber knew everything about me. My routines, my weaknesses, my fears. She'd been there for every breakdown, every moment of doubt, every confession about Lance that I'd thought was safe to share.
The realization hit fresh, like a new wound opening. Amber Miller wasn't my friend. She never had been. She was a professional. Was she an assassin like Lance?
"Morgan." Lance's voice was soft, understanding. "I'm sorry."
Sorry that my friend is a lie. Sorry that I have to doubt someone I trusted. Sorry that my life is so fucked up that this is even a possibility.
"I know."
But sorry didn't make it hurt less. Didn't make me feel less stupid for falling for it. Didn't change the fact that I was about to sit across from someone who'd been betraying me for over a year and pretend everything was normal.
Pretend I didn't know she'd been watching me fall apart and taking notes.
"I'll be fine," I said, standing to get dressed. "I can handle Amber."
That was utter bullshit. Because the main thought that kept running through my head, If Amber could lie to my face for over a year, who else might be lying?
I found myself going through our conversations in my head, looking for clues I'd missed. The way she'd always seemed to know when Lance was working late. Her interest in our dinner plans, our weekend activities. Her questions about his family that I'd thought were normal curiosity.
She was building a profile.
Of me. Of Lance. Of our relationship and our vulnerabilities and how best to exploit them. I’d told her that Lance had given me his car as a gift. He’d loved that damn car. Was it my fault?
Had I helped her do it.
I'd volunteered information, shared intimate details, and trusted her with secrets that could be used against us. Because I'd thought she was my friend.
Because I'd needed so desperately to believe I wasn't alone.
"I don't know who to trust anymore," I admitted as I sank down to the floor of Gwen’s living room.
Lance moved closer, settling on the floor next to me. Close enough to touch, but he didn't. Just sat there, solid and steady, waiting for me to decide if I wanted comfort or space.
"You can trust me," Lance said quietly. "I know I've fucked up, made decisions you didn't agree with. But I've never lied about loving you. That's real."
And right now, that was what I needed to hold on to.