AFTER LEAVING NICK, Morgan approached the Galloway and Stone offices with caution. First, she parked the car she’d borrowed from the long-term lot at the Pittsburgh airport several blocks away from the office’s Regent Square location. Then, she meandered down the sidewalk, taking her time as she glanced at the various art galleries and antique shops, occasionally wandering inside one. It was ten o’clock on a Friday morning, and most stores had just opened for business, leaving her their only customer—making it easy to spot anyone overly interested in her aimless browsing.
Finally, she got a coffee and checked her phone, scanning footage from the cameras she’d placed to spy on the office. Nothing. Was that good or bad? Her father had escaped from prison four days ago; his first act as a free man had been to call her and tell her he was coming for her, and yet…nothing.
Dread, Nick had called it. Should have never have gone to him, let him play his headshrinker games. Nick meant well, but he was used to treating Norms, not someone like Morgan. He didn’t understand that it didn’t matter what she felt or what label you gave it, all that mattered was the end result. She had to focus on that. Forget all the rest. Mumbo-jumbo feelings were for Norms, not Morgan.
She sipped at her coffee—wasn’t sure if you could even call it coffee, she’d ordered some mocha-frothy nonsense that fit with the persona she was wearing, but it did taste pretty good. Not that that mattered, she’d simply needed the distraction for anyone watching the person they would see as a twenty-something blonde wearing dark blue slacks and a cowl neck beneath a hoping-for-spring pink wool coat. Appearances were everything.
The warm drink did its job, removing the chill of the late March morning. Although it definitely didn’t ease Morgan’s mind. She pocketed her phone, not sure whether to be worried or relieved at finding no signs of surveillance.
Dread. Never knowing when the blow could come or which direction it would come from. However you labeled it, Clint had perfected its creation. It’d been her father’s unique signature in his former occupation of sadistic serial killer. She’d spent a large part of her life as the chief object of his emotional manipulation, but until now she hadn’t fully appreciated how much freedom she’d enjoyed while he’d been behind bars.
And now Clinton Caine was free. Ready to pick up where he’d left off. Her mouth twisted as if the coffee had gone bitter.
“Something wrong, miss?” the barista asked, rubbing the March Madness promotional button she wore on her apron. The entire city was gearing up for the Pitt game tonight, especially as it was being held downtown at the Arena. Morgan could tell the woman took pride in her work, was genuinely worried. What luxury—having nothing more than coffee to worry about. It was difficult to even imagine.
Morgan rearranged her face into a bland smile. “No, nothing. I’m just running late.”
“I like your coat. It’s nice to see spring colors.” She nodded to the grey March clouds that made it impossible to tell if it was morning or night—until the sun blazed through them, blinding drivers and pedestrians alike for a few wistful moments before vanishing faster than Punxsutawney Phil seeing his shadow. Typical schizophrenic Pittsburgh spring. Barely above freezing this morning, a high near sixty predicted, and they were calling for sleet and snow again tonight and tomorrow. March Madness indeed.
“Thanks.” Morgan snuggled deeper into the soft wool of the ankle-length coat. She was certain the color had a pretty-girl name like rose cream or rose blush, and she’d only stolen it because it fit with the blond persona. Ordinarily, as herself, she’d never wear a coat that would attract attention like this one, but when you wanted people not noticing or remembering your face, sometimes a diversion like a pretty pink coat was necessary. If anyone ever asked, Morgan had practically crafted the barista’s testimony for her: blond, early twenties, in a pretty pink coat, acted like a secretary or maybe a salesperson for one of the upscale Regent Square boutiques.
She finished her coffee, left a generous tip to further cement her persona, and left, the sun following her movements, breaking free of the clouds in a golden blaze.
Morgan reached for her sunglasses—her favorite fashion accessory. Who wouldn’t like socially acceptable camouflage that allowed you to spy on others without revealing your own gaze? Not to mention sharp-edged lenses that could double as mirrors or cutting instruments, along with flexible lengths of wire perfect for picking locks or poking out an eye, depending on the needs of the moment. The ultimate survival tool, she’d wear her sunglasses day and night if it were practical. In fact, the few times she’d played a persona who was blind, she had. It had been glorious, hiding in plain sight, the world unfolding before her, unwitting and vulnerable.
Clint had loved using her in the role of blind cripple, setting her to surveil a target. What do you see? he’d urge her. Look past the surface. Who do you see? What are they really? Can you see them? Can you really see?
She flinched against his seductive whisper but couldn’t resist the urge to circle the block one last time, making sure there was no sign of Clinton Caine or any of the other two maximum security prisoners who had escaped with him. You shouldn’t be here, his voice echoed through her mind. You don’t belong—unless you want me to find your friends? Pay them a visit?
The voice in her head might be his, but the doubts were hers and hers alone. She shouldn’t be here—she should be halfway around the world by now. Far away from anyone she cared for, leading Clint even farther away from them. And yet…she’d tried to leave, twice she’d made it all the way to the state line, she’d told herself she could keep an eye on her friends from a distance, safer that way for everyone…and twice she’d turned back, returned to Pittsburgh.
Her first instinct—after running—was to hunt Clint alone. Find him, kill him, return to her life, and forget she ever had a father. But with the FBI, US Marshals, State Police, a handful of county sheriff’s departments along with numerous local police departments searching for him and the other escapees and coming up empty, she realized she’d have to make him come to her. And somehow protect her friends while she did it.
Which meant coming home. This morning’s session with Nick had only served to cement her resolve.
It was the kind of plan that wasn’t really a plan at all: embracing the dread, playing the role of sacrificial lamb, waiting for Clint to pounce. It was the kind of plan she hated. Morgan much preferred playing the role of the wolf stalking its prey rather than Judas goat.
But it was the only plan that would allow her to keep an eye on the people she cared about and make certain that if anyone was ensnared by Clint, it would be her, not them.
Scouring the approach to Jenna Galloway’s building, nodding in approval at the two unmarked police vehicles watching the main entrance, she finally entered the ground floor art gallery, sidled into the narrow passage that led to the storage area, disarmed the lock, pushed through the door to the private stairwell, then jogged up the steps, one hand on the pistol in the pocket of her coat.
At the Galloway and Stone Security Consultants’ door, she paused to remove her sunglasses and wig, shaking free her dark curls. Plastering on another disposable smile, she entered.
“About time you showed up,” Jenna Galloway called from behind her desk in her office across from the reception area. “Figured you’d be hiding under a rock somewhere with your dad on the loose. Or halfway to Argentina.”
That was Jenna being nice. Despite the fact that Morgan knew her deepest secrets and was the closest thing to a female friend Jenna had. Morgan didn’t mind. She didn’t need Jenna to like her, merely to be there when Morgan needed her. “Belize,” she corrected cheerfully. “No extradition, and they speak English.”
Andre Stone, Jenna’s partner in business as well as in life, came barreling out of his office, paused for a brief second to scrutinize Morgan head to toe, then pulled her into a rib-crushing hug that lifted her from her feet. Surprising, because Andre knew the truth of who Morgan really was, including the fact that from the time she was a child, her father had forced her to participate in his torture and kidnappings as well as teaching her how to kill—and enjoy it.
Andre was a former Marine with his own battle scars—burns over sixty percent of his body accompanied by more difficult to heal psychic wounds—and he’d appointed himself Morgan’s protector. By accepting her into his family, he’d place his life on the line for her. He’d also be the first to put an end to her if she returned to her violent ways, which made Morgan’s relationship with Andre the most honest one she’d ever had in her life.
That was why, despite the fact that she despised being touched and had no clue how to offer affection in return—another problem with growing up being groomed by a serial killer—she not only tolerated Andre’s embrace, she squeezed him back. Just like a normal person would.
During her sleepless vigil over the past few days, Morgan had questioned why she was so determined to even try to pretend to be normal. So far, it’d turned out to be hard work and a pain in the ass.
Except for one bright spot: Micah Chase. Morgan had met Micah when she’d gone undercover in a juvenile detention center. Although Morgan could pass for anything from twelve to twenty-something, she was actually only fifteen, so it’d been an easy role for her to play, exposing the corruption that had led to a girl’s death.
But then she’d met Micah, a seventeen-year-old incarcerated through no fault of his own. Micah, like Andre, wasn’t one of the many sheep that so many Norms were, mindlessly grazing through life. And he certainly was no fish—her father’s word for his victims. Micah was a protector. He’d risked his own life to save Morgan’s. He had no clue who or what she really was, yet she felt like she could tell him anything and he’d understand. Understand her like no one else did.
That scared Morgan. She’d never been to school or had any kind of normal friendships with kids her own age, and here was Micah, offering her the world. All she had to do was decide to accept what he offered.
She’d replayed their single kiss over and over in her mind. Ridiculous, really. She had a sadistic killer on her trail, no time to indulge in fantasies of being a normal adolescent girl. She had to take care of herself. No room to take care of anyone else.
Better to run from Micah as fast as she could—for his sake, if not hers.
For four days, that’s what she told herself. Yet, each evening she’d found herself talking to Micah on the phone, watching him through the cameras she placed around the house he shared with his mothers, and wishing things were different.
Which was why she’d returned to Galloway and Stone, despite the fact that every instinct told her to run, run, run.