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MORGAN THANKED RICH and left him to his vacuuming. She found Cole in the kitchen. “Guess what?” she said. “Rich might have known the kid who wrote the journals. They would have been in school at around the same time. Before you ask, no, Rich doesn’t have any idea about the graffiti. The kid’s name was Kirk Webster, and what Rich remembers about him matches what I read in the journals. He was a good student, always had his nose in a book. It didn’t make him popular with most of the kids. He was accused of being a suck-up, trying to be teacher’s pet. Kept to himself a lot.”
Cole set the paper he’d been reading aside. “That matches what I found in the last journal.”
“Do you have it with you?” she asked.
“No. It’s still at my place.”
“The rest are at the inn. With a name, you could look him up, couldn’t you?”
“Same way you can. Cops aren’t allowed to use law enforcement databases for personal use. Everything is logged and tied to a case number.”
The excitement in her belly turned to a dull sense of disappointment. “Do you think there would be people at the school—teachers and staff—who might remember him?”
“Could be. Why? I thought you were more interested in your uncle’s past, and he was gone when Kirk Webster lived here.”
“You don’t think he could be tied to the graffiti? That if we know more about him, we might solve the puzzle?”
“It’s an interesting exercise, but I’m not sure it’ll lead anywhere. Meanwhile, let’s go over the plans for the house so you can move in and fulfill the terms of your uncle’s trust. Didn’t you say you had to be living here within three days of the utilities being turned on?”
She blew out a sigh. “Yes, and don’t remind me that the clock is ticking. I have a bed scheduled for delivery tomorrow, which is another reason I wanted the house clean. Easier to do without furniture.”
Cole gathered his papers, then handed her several sheets. “These are your materials. Nothing specific. If you decide you want to put in new flooring anywhere, or tiles, sinks, vanities, countertops, your contractor can give you choices and prices.”
Morgan perused them, visualized a complete renovation, then shoved the dream aside. She needed numbers before she could make decisions. She had money of her own, but most of it was untouchable. She’d liquidated some assets when she decided to make the move to Pine Hills. Her financial advisor would have to juggle more funds, and he’d remind her not to mess with her portfolio, that everything was mapped out, that the market was down, that her own trust from her parents had been set up to release funds on an annual basis until she was thirty-two.
Three more years.
“Here’s how I think you should prioritize,” Cole said, and Morgan focused her attention on the next sheets of paper he handed her.
The two of them wandered the downstairs, Cole pointing out options as they moved from room to room. Morgan added her comments, Cole made notes.
“Wait,” Morgan said. “A fence. When I bring Bailey home, he’ll need room to go out and play.”
Cole scratched his head with the pencil he’d been using. “You’ve got two acres here. Fencing the entire property would be a major budget suck. What about fencing a smaller area in the back?”
Morgan strolled through the kitchen to the back door and let her gaze roam the yard. “That could work. I should get things rolling on that as a number one priority. Do you know any good fencing companies?”
“I’ll ask around,” he said. “I doubt you’ll find someone who could start immediately.”
“That’s all right. Bailey and I will go on walks together until he can be let out alone.”
The noise of the vacuum cleaner stopped, and Rich thumped down the stairs carrying the machine. “Okay if I hit the floors down here?”
“Good timing,” Morgan said. “We’re ready to move upstairs.”
Rich plugged in the vacuum, and Morgan approached. He paused, his hand hovering over the power switch.
“Do you know a good fence company?” she asked.
“I’d recommend Evans Fence Company,” he said. “They’re out of Salem, but they cover the whole area.”
Morgan thanked him and turned to Cole. Instead of the smile she expected, his brows bunched together. She moved past him and tromped up the stairs and into the master bedroom where she stood, hands fisted at her hips, staring at the message on the wall.
Cole joined her, stopping several feet away.
She didn’t turn to face him. “What did I do wrong now?”
“Nothing,” Cole said, without moving closer. “I trust you’ll get more than one estimate and check the company’s references before hiring them. I know you’re on a budget, and I know it’s tempting to take the fast, easy, and cheap way out, but those decisions can turn out costing you more money in the long run.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Thanks for your sage advice. I’ll take it under consideration.”
“Morgan, I’m not trying to make your decisions for you. I just don’t want you to end up regretting them.”
“If I do, they were my decisions to make, and I’ll have to live with the consequences. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s finish your list. What would you prioritize in here?”
~~~
COLE HANDED MORGAN the sheets of paper. “Here. Make your own notes.”
She took them, then held out her hand. It took a moment to register that she wanted his pencil, not a handshake. He extended it, holding it a little more tightly than normal so she had to tug on it.
Why are you being such a jerk?
Morgan reached for the graffiti, paused with her hand several inches away. “Will regular paint cover this? I don’t want to have to paint the room this dark a color.”
“There are special primers that should cover it. Your best bet would be to replace the section of drywall.”
“Which would cost more money than paint, right?”
Maybe Morgan didn’t have as much money as he’d thought. Maybe there was a stupid rule in the trust that didn’t permit her to use her own funds, although he couldn’t imagine why.
“Some, yes,” he said. “It’s a small area. I’d be happy to do that for you.”
She tilted her head. “Would it be a breakfast, lunch, or dinner job?”
The tension snapped like a cheap piece of particle board. Cole grinned. “After materials, a fast-food lunch should do it.”
“Can you do it right away?” she asked. “I’m going to be sleeping in here starting tomorrow, and it’s still creeping me out.”
“It’s a deal,” he said. “I’ll hit the Tool Shed for materials. After lunch.”
Why he didn’t want to leave Morgan alone with Rich—the man had been nothing but friendly and professional—made no sense, but his gut said to stay close to her. Whether it was his cop sense or his guy sense, wasn’t clear.
“I need to go through more boxes,” she said. “How about I pay for your lunch and you get what you need? Plus, I’m supposed to be getting an internet connection this afternoon, and I don’t want to risk not being here. The appointment window is noon to five, and it’s eleven-thirty.”
Telling himself it was hormones, not fear for her safety, he agreed.
“My purse is downstairs,” she said.
Where Rich could go through it.
Before Cole triggered another argument, Morgan headed down. Cole followed her to the kitchen, where her purse sat on the counter. She handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Lunch.”
“I’ll bring change,” he said, “and front you for the materials.”
“Save the receipts.”
~
COLE GRABBED A BURGER from the takeout counter at Burger Hut and took it home. He powered up his laptop and searched Rich’s company. Great reviews, a family business for twenty-plus years.
Get your hormones under control.
Feeling a quick tinge of guilt for checking behind Morgan’s back, he checked Evans Fence Company. A startup, no red flags. Satisfied, he moved on to Kirk Webster, starting with the Pine Hills High School’s yearbooks.
Good-looking kid, based on his senior photo. Dark curls, expressive eyes behind black-framed glasses. Nothing memorable. Not listed on any club rosters, not flagged in any school photos.
Kind of like Morgan’s uncle. A nonentity.
As he stared at the picture, thoughts swirled through his head. He picked up the journal he’d abandoned last night, this time trying to read between the lines. To analyze the words, as Miss Oberg said. To look for a deeper meaning.
Cole had questioned whether authors had all those deeper meanings in mind when they wrote the books, or if it was an English teacher’s ploy to keep their classes occupied. Blue eyes were blue eyes, weren’t they? Maybe Hemingway had a good friend with blue eyes. Or he’d been looking at the sky.
His time as a cop had taught Cole about hidden meanings and subtext, although that was from watching body language and listening to vocal inflections.
Not wanting to mark up the journal without Morgan’s permission, and not ready to tell her why he was asking, he found a pad of sticky notes and flagged suspect passages.
He’d have to dig a little deeper. First, Morgan expected him to start drywall repairs. The mud would take a day to dry, but the offensive message wouldn’t be there. He grabbed his laptop and the journal and made his way to the Tool Shed.
According to the yearbook, Kirk had graduated six years ago. Were the Websters the last renters of the property? When and where had they moved? According to Morgan, Kirk had brought the journals with him when they moved into the house. Why had he left them behind? Had he gone to Oregon State? His journal entries hadn’t mentioned his being accepted, only that he was applying, and would be glad to close the door on Pine Hills High.
Had Rich known more about Kirk than he’d told Morgan?