PIECES COMING TOGETHER
MORGAN
Instead of heading straight back to Frank’s, Morgan drove around for a while, taking in the scenery. Autumn was on its way out, but the approaching starkness had its own kind of beauty. She lowered the window and breathed in the scents of crisp air and fallen leaves, pine and frosty earth.
She could understand why Patrick wanted to stay here. It was lovely and fresh, solid and enduring. This was where his family was.
And hers, she realized with a sudden clarity.
The land, purchased by her great-grandfather and bequeathed to his sons. The campground, built and maintained by the great-uncle she’d never met. Frank’s parcel, a protected haven off the beaten path. She’d been referring to the land as Sullivan land for weeks, but for the first time, she felt it.
Driving past the turnoff for Frank’s, she kept going until she reached the campground. She parked and got out, ducking under the gate. Tucking her hands in her pocket, she began walking, her steps clearly audible on the gravel and fallen leaves.
Sullivan land. She thought about Thomas and wondered what he was like. Was he anything like Frank? Had they gotten along?
What would Frank do with the campground now, assuming it would pass to him? Did he even want it?
She walked the gravel coated road, imagining the excitement and anticipation of vacationers as they pulled campers behind big V8 trucks and set up tents or headed to rented cabins.
She looked between the trees at the lake, mirror-still, reflecting the sky and the mountains that rose up on the other side.
Felt a pang of sadness for the crumbling fire rings and the cast iron grills that were no longer making memories.
When she drew close to the cabin where Anthony Varro’s body had been found, she slowed, looking at it again with fresh eyes. Who had killed him, if not Frank? Who knew the area well enough to know not only the campground, but the logging trail? Who had CIA-operator skills?
Most importantly, who would go to such lengths to protect her?
She thought about her stepfather. Did Constantine have the means and connections to make someone quietly disappear?
Absolutely. But the method was wrong. The people in his world didn’t use neurotoxins administered via frozen darts, and they didn’t leave bodies behind—unless they were sending a message.
Besides, if something happened to her, Constantine certainly wouldn’t be shedding any tears.
No, him sending Varro seemed far more likely. And it certainly would simplify things for him.
She sighed and turned back the way she came.
The sun had risen fully by the time she pulled into Frank’s driveway and parked beside Donna’s car.
She let herself in and found Frank at the table with his coffee and the newspaper, and Donna at the range, frying bacon and flipping pancakes. Shadow’s tail thumped in greeting from his place at Donna’s feet, where Morgan suspected bits of bacon were occasionally dropped.
Frank looked up when she came in, his eyes searching.
She’d expected judgment and got concern instead.
You okay? His gaze asked without saying anything.
She looked back at him, holding his gaze, her chin level. I’m good.
Something moved in his expression. Knowledge, maybe. Maybe acceptance.
Morgan took a moment to process that. Frank cared, in his own way.
“Coffee’s fresh,” Donna said.
“Thank you.”
Morgan poured a mug and sat down at the table. Donna slid a plate in front of her. Shadow, who noticed that the bacon was now in front of Morgan, relocated appropriately.
“Thank you.”
Donna nodded.
Frank folded the paper and pushed back from the table.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Morgan asked.
“Ate an hour ago,” Frank said. “I’ll be out back.”
The back door opened and closed. Through the screen door, she watched him cross the yard toward the woodpile, moving at the unhurried pace of a man who lived life his own way and left others to do the same.
Morgan wasn’t the only one watching Frank. Donna was watching him too. For just a moment, her carefully guarded expression dropped, and she looked at Frank with the keen eyes of a woman who cared.
There’s very little I wouldn’t do for that man.
Something niggled at the edge of Morgan’s brain. The inkling of an idea, not yet fully formed.
As she ate breakfast and sipped coffee, Morgan surreptitiously watched the way Donna moved around the kitchen.
Deliberate, economical, nothing wasted. The way her eyes swept over the yard each time she passed a door or window, not just looking where Frank was chopping wood, but scanning the treeline and beyond.
The way she carried herself—not with the careful posture of a woman who’d been told to stand up straight, but the unconscious alignment of someone whose body had been trained to it.
Morgan thought of the scar on her forearm, visible only in brief flashes as Donna chopped and cooked and washed. Of the calm capableness that spoke of a woman who could and would do anything a situation required.
Suddenly the pieces came together.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Morgan asked softly.
Donna went still.
She exhibited no confusion as to what Morgan was talking about. No flinch of surprise or the sharp inhale of someone caught off guard. Just… still.
“You killed Anthony Varro,” Morgan clarified.
Donna turned. Her eyes met Morgan’s directly. Steady. Unafraid.
No denial. No excuse.
“Why?” Morgan asked.
“Frank cares about you,” Donna said matter-of-factly. “And I care about Frank.”
Nine words. Nine words that said everything.
Morgan held her gaze and understood. Her whole career was built on reading what evidence said and what it didn’t say. The threat had been identified and subsequently neutralized. The action had been taken.
There were other questions. So many other questions. But at that moment, Morgan couldn’t bring herself to ask them. Not yet. Maybe never.
“Thank you.”
Donna turned back to the stove without acknowledgement.
Morgan picked up her fork and resumed eating, enjoying the meal with a renewed sense of appreciation.
She found, unexpectedly, that she was all right with that.