As soon as they were clear of the blast zone, Morgan bent low over Emma’s chair and whispered in her ear, “Cover for me. Tell Jenna and Andre to meet me at Pamela’s.”
Emma nodded, patting Morgan’s hand. “You take care, child. Don’t let this jackass win.”
“You know I won’t.” Morgan kissed her cheek.
Emma began to fan herself with one hand while clutching at her chest with the other. “Help! I can’t breathe!”
Morgan let Tim take over control of the chair. He surged forward, eager to play hero. “Is there a doctor?” he called out, as police and first responders swarmed toward them. “I think she’s having a heart attack!”
The police struggled to contain the health care workers as they tried to separate Tim from Emma so that they could search the two of them as well as Emma’s chair. They already had Andre down on the ground, searching him, and were trying to control Kelly, who was screaming and flailing at the uniformed officers. Andre caught Morgan’s eye and gave her a wink as he added to the chaos. “That’s my Gram—don’t you touch her! She needs a doctor!”
Morgan simply melted into the crowd, then kept going. Her car was blocked by news vans, but no worries, she’d come back for it later. As she strolled down the hill past several blocks of shops, people streamed out onto the sidewalk, craning to get a look at the smoke. “Did you hear that?” they asked each other. “What was it?”
By the time she reached Pamela’s, the normally crowded diner was half-empty. Many of the people had either headed toward the bombing to quench their curiosity or fled away from the neighborhood, trying to outrace any chance of a second bomb. The TV above the counter was filled with a blurry cell phone video of Morgan’s escape out the window—but the woman’s voice narrating it with breath-taking intensity was Kelly’s. As the video ended, the camera cut to a newsman interviewing Kelly, still wearing her volunteer vest, her hair now suddenly mysteriously tousled with fresh dirt smudging her face.
“Why did you do it?” the reporter asked, thrusting his microphone at Kelly. “Risk your life like that?”
“Someone had to,” Kelly said, shoulders back as if she were ready to accept a medal pinned to her chest. “Those poor old people, they were helpless. Abandoned by the staff. This is why I volunteer—to make a difference.”
And steal their drugs, Morgan thought, as she grabbed a table with a view of the door. The waitress bused it and took her order, and then Morgan got to work. The first thing she did was a background check on Kelly. The volunteer had a clean police record—no surprise, since no way would the nursing home let her volunteer with a vulnerable population if she had a criminal conviction—but her financial records revealed two previous bankruptcies as well as a rollercoaster of debt followed by large deposits.
She dug deeper, looking for any possible connection to Jenna. Nothing. Was it only a coincidence that the volunteer had been there at just the right time? Morgan hated coincidence, but couldn’t find any proof otherwise.
As she ate her chicken salad club, she scoured the video footage from Jenna’s office—both her own and Jenna’s cameras, searching for anything unusual in the weeks before the bomb had been placed early this morning. Nothing. Just hour after hour of footage of Tim sitting at his desk, typing on his computer, drinking his coffee. Ugh, how did he not die of sheer tedium?
And what did she really know about him—other than he seemed immune to terminal boredom? Sure, Jenna would have run a background check, but not as thorough as Morgan’s. Timothy Crane, she soon learned, was forty-seven, born and raised in Portland, Maine, had been a manager at a local bank that got bought out by a regional bank leading to his move here to Pittsburgh two years ago, followed by a buy-out by a national conglomerate that led to his losing his job last year. Financials were clean, no serious debt beyond some medical bills, no criminal record.
That was it, except a mention of a wife dying in a car crash almost three years ago. His social media stopped with her death—not that he’d been that active anyway—and best she could tell, his life outside work was as quiet and boring as his life at work.
She’d already turned to other aspects of Jenna’s grandfather’s case when Jenna, Andre, and Tim arrived. Jenna and Andre joined her immediately while Tim talked to the waitress, giving her their orders and asking to be left alone. Then he strolled over to the table as if he owned the place, taking the seat beside Morgan and boxing her in. Worse, he ignored her glare—but Jenna caught it and smirked.
“Did the cops find anything?” Morgan asked them.
Andre frowned. “Devices in each of the emergency stairwells, hidden in fire extinguishers. Thankfully, the dogs sniffed them out and they were able to safely remove them.”
“I meant, any clues?”
“Nothing they’re sharing with us,” Jenna said.
No surprise.
“How about you?” Tim turned to Morgan and beamed down at her. He was freakishly tall sitting down even though when standing he was only average height. Like it was all in his torso or something. Or maybe Morgan was looking for excuses to not like the guy. She wasn’t sure why. After all, he was a middle-aged loser who’d been shoved out of one job and now was saddled with a hopelessly boring, no-chance-for-advancement new one. And yet…he annoyed the hell out of her. Which Jenna would probably pay him a bonus for.
“Nothing on the office cameras. But I found something on the envelope.”
“What?” Jenna asked, leaning forward so quickly she almost upset her water glass. “The police kept that secret, so how did this bomber know to use green ink? And the handwriting—it was identical.”
“If it’s the same guy, why is he back after almost twenty years?” Andre asked. “And why target Jenna?”
“Maybe you should think about flying to California, and getting the police to share what they had on the old case?” Tim put in.
Morgan cleared her throat. “Or maybe you could listen to what I found.” They all turned their attention to her. “I’m not sure it is the same bomber. I found a copy of the piece of your grandfather’s envelope online.”
“What? How? The police never released—”
“The forensic handwriting consultant they brought in. He retired a few years ago and started a blog featuring his cases.” Morgan pulled up the site on her phone and showed Jenna. “He doesn’t mention your family by name, but he does have a photo of the remnants the FBI gave him to examine. You can see the green ink and enough letters—”
Jenna was shaking her head. “No. I mean, yes, you can see part of the address, but it’s not enough for someone to fake. I saw it—the original, I mean. I almost picked it up, the handwriting was so pretty and yet so weird. But then my grandfather came and—”
Andre put his hand on her arm as she trailed off. “Anyway,” she continued, “this scrap isn’t enough for anyone to duplicate it. It must be the same guy.”
“What next?” Tim asked, obviously excited to be a part of the inner circle. “How do we protect your family out in California? Hire body guards?”
“My mother would never—and Dad, he’d fire them, pocket the money himself.”
“If you’re certain it’s the same guy, we could go out there ourselves,” Andre said. “Force him to shift his targeting, maybe draw him out while we look into your grandfather’s case.”
Tim already had his phone out. “I can book you a flight today—with the time difference, you’ll be there by four o’clock their time.”
“Do it,” Jenna said.
“Three tickets to LA—”
“Two,” Morgan said. “I can’t go.” She hated it, being trapped here, all because while her fake IDs were good enough for most scrutiny, she didn’t trust them to get her past TSA. One more reason to work on creating a legit ID—or at least one legit enough to get her a valid driver’s license and passport. Oh, the places she could go with a real passport! She could take Micah to see every art museum in the world if he wanted.
“Why not?” nosey Tim asked, bringing her back to earth.
“Because someone needs to stay here and watch Emma,” she answered. Not to mention pursue the case without getting trapped in the tangled web of Jenna’s family drama.
“I can do that,” he replied. “Happy to help.”
Morgan scraped her chair back and snatched her phone from the table. “Maybe I have other obligations as well. Not everyone can just pick up and leave whenever they want.”
“Except isn’t that exactly what you did over the summer?”
The man was lucky it was only a phone in her hand and not a blade, Morgan thought as she passed behind Tim and his exposed neck. The perfect kill zone, that sweet spot at the base of the skull. It was right there, waiting for her…
Morgan contented herself with brushing Tim’s neck with the tip of her finger, light enough to surprise him and make him jump. If she wanted to blend in with normal people, she reminded herself, she had to take what small pleasures she could.
Maybe it was enough just knowing if she really wanted to…she could have. Easily. Happily. And quickly enough that she could have gotten away with murder.