Morgan waited until Bruce went into the house. She glared at the door. He was probably looking for Sarah. Damn that little bitch. Bruce hadn’t paid any attention to Morgan the entire trip to see the therapy horse. She’d bet her boob job whatever he’d been so preoccupied with had something to do with the tramp. That girl had to go.
Morgan glanced around. With no one in sight, she pulled out her phone and hurried to the Honda. She snapped a picture of the VIN through the windshield and then one of the license plate.
She drove back to her house, stormed through the front door, and tossed the still-full picnic basket on the table. Tapping her phone contacts, she looked up the number for Pete, the private investigator she’d hired years ago to keep tabs on her sister.
Stupid bitch. After adopting and raising her for seven years, Morgan’s parents forgot all about her the second their own baby popped out. The child they never thought they could conceive. Bad enough the little brat sucked up all the attention of her parents and everyone around her, but she bled the family dry with expenses causing Morgan’s life to change for the worse.
She poured vodka over ice, added a splash of tonic, and sat at the kitchen table. Adoption agencies should never give babies to loser parents. Hers couldn’t make ends meet with one child on their waitress and mechanic salaries. Forget about two. Belts tightened and sacrifices were made, at Morgan’s expense. She wore ugly secondhand clothes and never went to movies or the mall like the other girls. Every penny went to the princess for horseback riding lessons, show fees, and travel expenses. Nothing was too good for her.
Morgan gulped down the rest of her drink, shoved the chair out from the table, and stood. As she punched Pete’s number into her phone, she paced the kitchen.
“Morgan? Didn’t expect to ever hear from you again. What’s it been, five years?”
“You answered your phone, so I assume you’re still in business. I have a new job for you.”
“As always, right to the point. What is it?”
She could picture him, leaning forward, oversized belly against the worn desk as he grabbed his notebook.
“I have a car VIN and some plates for you to run. I want to know who they’re registered to.”
“Easy enough. That’s it?”
“For now. How long will it take?”
“Not long. I’ll call you back. By the way, my rates have gone up since we last did business.”
Greedy bastard. Like he had rates. “Same as last time. You deliver. I’ll pay.”
She gave him the information and hung up. An hour later, he called her back.
“Those plates are reported stolen, and the car is registered to a James Lawson. Lives in California.”
No shit. Sarah, if that was her real name, must be on the run, hiding from the law or an abusive boyfriend. If not, maybe someone had filed a missing person report.
“You there?” Pete asked.
“Yes. I have another job for you.”
“What?”
“If I send you pictures of a woman, can you find out who she is and if she’s reported as a missing person?” Morgan rubbed a finger under her chin.
“Possibly.”
“Start the search in California since that’s where the car was registered.”
“Okay.”
“Get me all the information you can on her. If she so much as farted in public, I want to know. Call me when you have something.” Morgan hung up.
She tapped her phone, and pictures of Sarah walking a horse to the stables appeared. As always, Morgan was one step ahead. She’d taken those shots on a hunch. And now they would come in handy. She forwarded the photos to Pete. Soon enough, she’d have the goods on the meddling little bitch.