The beer was stale. The conversation wasn’t. Nonetheless, Morgan spent the first few minutes paying no attention to Mason’s brags of dominance, and instead kept going back to Gary in his mind, asking him for the inside scoop on what had happened in the office after he’d left. It was suddenly all he could think about: getting the dirt on the man he’d saved. The man who showed no appreciation outside of a flat beer.
They found a quiet corner where they could talk. Morgan scooched into the booth and kept his sleeves off the sticky table, setting down his glass with no intention of drinking its contents. He was here for the conversation, he kept telling himself, but deep down he knew he was only here because he didn’t have the nerve to say no to his present company.
“Believe it or not, I really am thankful,” Mason said, taking a sip of the beer. He pulled a face that said he was dissatisfied with the quality and then put it aside. “I’m going to level with you here, just so we’re on the same playing field.”
Morgan’s ears pricked. “I’m listening.”
“Well, it’s like this… have you ever been a captive?”
“Not exactly.”
“As you know, I have. Let me tell you, there’s nothing more demoralizing or soul destroying as being somebody’s personal property. It takes every ounce of confidence and satisfaction you have, then it hauls it out the window and lets you fall the thirty stories to your death. Only it doesn’t feel like you die.”
Morgan swallowed a dry lump. It wasn’t enough to make him reach for the beer.
“It feels like you hit the ground and can’t move. All your bones have turned to mush, and you can’t do anything. All you have left is your voice. You use it to scream over and over, but nobody’s listening. It’s like you landed on the quietest street in the world. And your captor? She just comes down every now and then to make sure you’re still hers—still a nobody.”
It dawned on Morgan that Mason really had been affected by his capture. The words were deep and cutting, but the truth shone in his eyes like a beacon, summoning just the slightest sense of camaraderie from Morgan. “I don’t understand,” he said, hoping for more.
Mason fell silent and took another sip. This one made him wince, and he leaned over to sit the glass on the windowsill. It didn’t look like he wanted it back. “What I’m saying is, pushing my chest out back there was the only way to make me feel like I had any kind of control. I used to be a lot more stubborn, going back a few years. For a minute there I wanted to be my former self, even if just for a moment. I guess it made me feel like that bitch hadn’t won. Does that make sense?”
It did. Morgan completely understood that what’d happened back in the office wasn’t personal—it was nothing more than a simple coping mechanism. “Sure.”
“What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry, and I’m really glad you found me.”
Morgan couldn’t help but smile. “Want to drink to that?”
“Not a chance in hell.” Mason grinned and wiped his eyes. “How are my girls?”
“You haven’t spoken to them?”
“I called them from the precinct to let them know I was okay. They gave me all the usual joy and happiness, but they’re getting pretty good at hiding their concern. When you spoke to them, did they sound worried? Hopeful?”
Morgan remembered Amy’s face. He’d never seen such a loss of faith, but he wasn’t about to tell that to a broken man. Not when everyone on this side of the case had endured the same doubt. “They were concerned, but they knew they’d get you back.”
“Seems they put a lot of trust in you.”
“Apparently I was recommended.”
“As well you should be. Drink to that?”
“Not a chance.” Morgan smirked. At last, he felt as though the walls had been broken down, and now he was finally being introduced to the real Mason Black. The man who’d single-handedly brought down a number of serial killers. His career history was nothing if not impressive, and now he felt as though he was actually in a room with that legacy.
And he could relate to him in more ways than he imagined.
“How long have you been a PI?” Mason asked.
“Long enough. Starting to realize it’s not the safest job in the world.”
Mason grunted. “Let me guess, loved ones aren’t comfortable with it?”
“Actually, Rachel is really supportive.”
“They always are at first. Then the danger comes.”
“We don’t all have your experience,” Morgan said. But when the words left his mouth, he realized they actually had a lot in common: they were both family men with a history of dangerous investigations. Where Mason had been a cop beforehand, Morgan had dived straight into the PI business. Regardless of their beginnings, however, they both seemed to have ended at the same place: bedlam. The most popular vacation spot for psychopaths and trauma.
Mason crooked his eyebrow. “I guess serial killers aren’t the norm for people in our field. I have to admit, when I first started I was expecting more of a comfortable role. You know, finding thieves or photographing proof of adultery.”
“Then we’re in the same boat.”
“How so?”
“We both have shitty luck.”
“Cheers to that.” Mason looked over both shoulders as if searching for a waitress. “I keep wanting a drink, but I don’t trust this place. Anyway, you seem to know all about me. What about you? What’s your story?”
Morgan sunk into his seat. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything. You always lived in Washington? Do you like it? You seem to know the cop who interviewed me, so what’s going on there? You haven’t said much about your wife. I’m getting the impression you’re more interesting than you think you are.”
“I grew up here,” Morgan said, diverting the attention from that last comment. “With Detective Lee, who you spoke to. We’ve been best friends our whole lives, only now we have more of a professional relationship.”
“Gotcha. I have a similar setup. And the wife?”
Morgan touched his wedding band, spinning it on his finger without taking it off. “Her name’s Rachel. Childhood sweethearts, married young and never looked back. We have one kid together, but he’s still young. Like your son, MJ.”
“You really have done your research.”
“I have. Want to see my boy?”
“Sure.”
Morgan reached into his coat and drew his phone, opening up the gallery on his device. He found his favorite photo and passed it to Mason. It showed a picture of Rachel in a hospital bed. Robin was still a newborn, and she was cradling him with the biggest smile on her face. He remembered thinking it was the start of the most exciting journey a man could take—the journey of being a father.
But Mason’s face told a different story.
His face grew pale, the color draining like a vampire had sucked him dry. He gripped the phone tight with both hands as it shook between his fingers. “This… is your wife?” He put the phone down and pointed at the photo. “Her?”
Morgan felt a wave of worry carry him away. “Yeah. Why?”
“Because I’ve seen her before.” Mason shot out of the booth and stood up, grabbing the jacket he’d borrowed from the MPD. “When Erika escorted me through her house, a picture of your wife was on the desk.”
Morgan froze, confusion and fear tearing at his conscious mind and leaving him blank. “Slow down. You saw my wife’s photo? What exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying get your coat.” Mason pulled him by the arm. “Because Rachel is in trouble.”