Chapter 39
Izzy paced the Knight Tactical operations room like a caged wolf, checking her phone every thirty seconds. Cory had left for the Morrison house twenty minutes ago, and the waiting was killing her. The FBI's threats still echoed in her mind—one more step out of line—but what choice did they have?
She'd already photographed every page of the salvaged maintenance logs, uploaded them to three different secure cloud servers, and made digital copies on a flash drive she now wore on a chain around her neck.
Martha had stopped by five minutes ago to take the logs back to the hangar.
No one was taking this evidence away again.
Her phone rang. Cory.
"Talk to me," she answered.
"Tom claims he was sleeping during the fire." Cory's frustration bled through the connection. "No GPS data because his phone was turned off. Again."
"Convenient."
"He's defensive, confused. Keeps asking why anyone would think he'd burn down Mountain Angel. He could be lying, but my gut says his confusion is real."
She could hear voices in the background—Tom's agitation, and Janet's soothing tones.
"I'm putting you on speaker," Cory said quietly. Through the phone, she heard him address the Morrisons. "Tom, I need to ask about your blue jacket. The one with the aerospace conference patch."
"What about it?" Tom's voice, defensive and shaky.
"Where is it?"
"How should I know? Janet, where's my jacket?"
A pause. Then Janet's voice, meek and apologetic: "It's... it's in the wash. I put it in last night."
Cory’s silence over the line spoke volumes.
"It was dirty. I always do laundry on Sundays..." Janet sounded near tears. "Why is that a problem?”
“Someone wearing that jacket, or one almost identical, bought supplies at the hardware store yesterday that may have been used in a crime.”
“What?” Janet’s voice rose an octave. “Tom was here with me all afternoon. You’re mistaken.”
Through the phone, Izzy could hear Tom's confusion. "What does my jacket have to do with anything? Janet, why are you crying?"
The genuine bewilderment in his voice made Izzy's investigative instincts ping. Either Tom was an excellent actor, or he really didn't remember.
Her phone buzzed with another call. Graceline.
"Cory, I've got Graceline on the other line," she said quickly.
"Take it. I'll call you back."
Izzy switched calls. "Yeah?"
"The Chief’s not answering, so I figured I’d try you. Coroner's report just came through on Brad Houzer," Graceline said without preamble. "That prescription bottle at the scene? The oxycodone was laced with fentanyl."
"Street fentanyl?"
"That's the interesting part. Doc says it's pharmaceutical grade. The kind you'd get from pain patches, not street drugs. Very pure, very lethal when mixed with oxy and alcohol."
Izzy's mind raced. "Who has access to medical-grade fentanyl patches?"
"Anyone with chronic pain issues and a good doctor. Back injuries, post-surgical pain, cancer patients..."
"Thanks, Graceline." Izzy hung up and immediately tried to call her mother. The call went straight to voicemail—again. Her chest tightened with familiar mom guilt. Her baby was safe, she knew that. But knowing and feeling were different things.
She tried Wilson instead.
"Your girl's fine," he answered without preamble. "Teaching her knots while her abuela makes enough tamales to feed an army. Phone's been sketchy—mountain interference."
"Can I—"
"Tomorrow," Wilson said gently. "The less contact now, the safer. She knows you love her."
The line went dead. Izzy stared at the phone, throat tight. Two more days until the pageant. Two more days to solve this.
Itchy to get answers, Izzy texted Kenji and Zara a quick case update, and added another request.
Any way to trace which of our suspects had access to pharmaceutical grade fentanyl?
Twenty minutes later, Cory was back, and they sat comparing notes. The evidence against Tom kept piling up—his signatures on inspections, his jacket at the hardware store, his credit card purchasing accelerants.
And fentanyl patches, it turned out.
Though she and Kenji were still tracing the number that texted Izzy, Zara had dug up intel on the fentanyl in mere minutes.
Zara: nothing prescribed via legit provider for SNB, either of the Osgood’s, or any of the Mountain Air volunteers. Only hit was for Tom Morrison. One year’s worth of patches. Expired 10 months ago. All available scripts filled at local pharmacy.
"So they could be Tom's patches," Izzy said slowly. "But expired. Would they still be potent?"
"Absolutely. Fentanyl doesn't lose much strength," Cory said. "Maybe ten, fifteen percent. Still deadly when extracted and mixed with oxy."
“This feels too pat,” Izzy said.
Cory grunted. “Sometimes lemonade is just lemonade.”
They sat in silence for a moment, then Izzy grabbed a legal pad. "Okay, let's think this through. If Tom's being framed, who could do it?"
"Someone with access to his things," Cory started. "His jacket, his credit cards, his medication."
They brainstormed—cleaning service (the Morrisons didn't use one), medical professionals (but Tom saw them at clinics), contractors (none recently according to Cory's questions).
"So we're back to Tom himself," Cory said reluctantly. "An older man, showing signs of confusion, under stress from the Mountain Angel situation..."
"Maybe the stress triggered something?" Izzy suggested. "Breakdown of some kind? He genuinely doesn't remember things, but he's still doing them?"
"Dissociative episodes. It happens." Cory rubbed his face. "The guilt about not catching the sabotage earlier, the pressure from all sides..."
"Poor Janet," Izzy murmured. "Watching him fall apart like this."
"She's being incredibly supportive, considering." Cory's tone held admiration. "Most spouses would be in denial, but she's trying to help us even though it's killing her."
"It's too much evidence," Izzy said suddenly. "Too neat. Real criminals make mistakes, leave gaps. This is like someone's checking off a list titled 'How to Frame Tom Morrison.' I really like SBN for this. How hard could it be to set up an old man to take the fall for ruining Mountain Angel?"
Before Cory could respond, her phone rang. The caller ID made her stomach drop: Janet Morrison.
Her phone rang. The caller ID made her stomach drop: Janet Morrison.
"Izzy?" Janet's voice trembled with fear. "I'm scared. Tom's not himself. He keeps forgetting things, getting angry. What if... what if he really is involved in all this?"
"Janet—"
"I found receipts." The words tumbled out in a rush. "Storage units I didn't know about. Equipment purchases. Cash withdrawals. I don't understand what's happening."
Izzy met Cory's eyes. He nodded—keep her talking.
"What kind of equipment?" Izzy asked.
"I don't know. Technical things. Aviation things." Janet's voice broke on a sob. "Forty years of marriage, and I don't know who he is anymore. What if he's been lying to me? What if he's the one who's been hurting people?"
"Janet, where's Tom now?"
"In his study. Door locked. He does that lately—locks himself away for hours. I hear him talking to himself, but when I ask, he says he was on the phone. But Izzy... the phone never rings."
"We'll figure this out," Izzy said carefully. "Don't confront him. Just... be careful."
After she hung up, Cory shook his head. "She's been with him forty years. This has to be killing her."
"Pobrecita," Izzy said quietly. "What if Tom's sicker than anyone realizes? Some kind of dementia or breakdown?"
"It would explain the memory gaps, the confusion." Cory rubbed his temples. "The way he genuinely doesn't seem to remember things."
She bit her lip. "Watching the man she loves disappear piece by piece. No wonder she's been trying to protect him. Washing the jacket. Making excuses."
"She's standing by him even now." Cory's tone held deep admiration. "Most people would have walked away, but she's still fighting for him. Still hoping there's an explanation that doesn't make him a criminal."
"Forty years of marriage," Izzy said softly. "That kind of loyalty is rare."
They sat in silence, pieces of the puzzle scattered before them but the picture still unclear. Tom Morrison—confused, possibly ill, all evidence pointing to him. And his devoted wife, desperately trying to hold their life together even as it crumbled.
Outside, the December day was fading toward another cold night. Izzy's phone buzzed.
Martha: Insurance adjuster was just at my door. Claims won’t be honored until they’re certain there was no fraud. Says it could be years until we see a dime. Forty years gone.
Izzy's stomach dropped. She read the text aloud to Cory, her voice cracking on the last words.
She tried calling Martha back, but it went straight to voicemail. Her hands shook as she typed a response.
"Mountain Angel is everything to Martha," she said, tears threatening. "She built it from nothing. Trained half the mechanics in the valley. Saved hundreds of lives..."
"We'll find a way—" Cory started.
"How?" The word exploded out of her. "My accounts are frozen. The hangar's destroyed. Their aircraft, too. Insurance won't pay. The FBI wants me in prison. And now the one good thing I was part of, the one way I could help people, is just... gone."
She stood abruptly, needing to move, to hit something, to do anything but sit here helplessly while her world burned. "Years of Martha's life. Bill's bad knees from all those rescue flights. All those volunteers who gave everything..."
Her phone buzzed again. This time, a text from Wilson.
Your girl made friends with a baby goat. Named it Princess Sparkle. She's happy. Mom still cooking up a storm. I need bigger pants. Sending you my clothing bill.
A sob escaped before she could stop it. "Mija." Chantal was making the best of hiding, being brave, while everything her mother had built turned to ash.
"I can't even talk to her," Izzy whispered. "Can't tell her it'll be okay, because I don't know if it will be. ?Qué clase de madre soy?"
Cory stood, moving closer but not quite touching. "You're the kind of mother who's protecting her daughter. Who's fighting to make things safe enough for her to come home."
"The pageant's in two days." Her voice broke completely. "She's been practicing for months. Made up special dance moves for her angel wings. Por favor, Dios, what if I can't—what if she has to miss it because of me?"
This time Cory did touch her, just a hand on her shoulder. Steady. Solid. "We're going to solve this. For Chantal. For Martha. For everyone."
Izzy wanted to believe him. But all she could see was Tom Morrison—confused, possibly sick, definitely guilty—and faithful Janet trying desperately to save a husband who might be beyond saving.
Her phone lit up with team messages:
Ronan: Weather broke. Wheels up at 0600
Maya: ETA tomorrow afternoon
Kenji: Just in time for the pageant
Axel: No way we miss her debut
Looking at Cory's determined expression, at the evidence they'd preserved, Izzy felt a flicker of hope mixing with the despair.
"Vamos," she whispered to herself. "One more day to prove Tom Morrison is guilty and bring my baby home."
Because it had to be Tom. All the evidence said so. Even his own wife couldn't deny it anymore.
MedFlight might still be the big player, but now there was no question Morrison was the boots on the ground.