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MORGAN TURNED DOWN Cole’s offer to stay and help her go through the boxes. “You need to be up early tomorrow,” she said.
“I’ll come by after shift to put on the next drywall coat. Will you be around?”
“Don’t see why not. Text me when you’re on your way.”
Once he’d left, she admitted that she didn’t want the distraction of his presence tonight. When he was around, only half her mind was on task. The other half was on Cole. What he smelled like, how blue his eyes were—like the Mediterranean Sea. She recalled the view from the hotel room in Monaco, how she’d wished she could go out and enjoy the beaches like a normal person. Instead, she’d met the prince, been the guest of honor at a cocktail party she was too young to enjoy.
Boxes. Boxes. Boxes.
Morgan descended into the basement, which didn’t seem so frightening now with the glow from the overhead fixture erasing the shadows. She had a trash can and lots of plastic bags to dispose of any more unwanted guests.
She set a timer for twenty minutes. The way her mother had broken her practice sessions into smaller bits when Morgan complained her hands were tired and she’d rather go play with friends.
Of course, that had stopped with tutors and home schooling. There weren’t friends to play with anymore.
Grasping the flaps of the first carton, Morgan closed her eyes, held her breath, and opened the box.
No rats. Towels. All different shades of blue. Could she use them? Would she even want to? She held one up. Threadbare in spots. A quick perusal said they were all in the same basic condition. Old and worn.
They might make good rags, or bedding for Bailey. She went upstairs for her purse and found a pen to label the boxes. When her timer went off, she’d found more towels, magazines, old newspapers too crumbly to deal with, and clothes. Plus, a box of half-used candles. She’d categorized the boxes as keepers—she had the one with towels so far—trash, and charity. One box of clothes made that category.
She’d gone through all the boxes Cole had opened. She’d need help getting them upstairs so she could open more.
Morgan set her timer for another twenty minutes. She didn’t need help. This was her house, her project. She dragged the boxes labeled trash near the base of the stairs, which gave her access to another layer of boxes.
Using a kitchen knife, she opened six more. She added a recycling category when she opened a carton filled with empty plastic water bottles. Another held empty soda bottles.
She thought of what her mother would say, watching Morgan do manual labor. Your hands, Morgan. Be mindful of your hands.
All those years of being what her mother called mindful hadn’t made a whit of difference.
The sharp tingling told Morgan it was time to stop. She shook her hands, trying to dispel the painful pins and needles, then did some forearm and wrist stretches and her spider finger exercises. She’d work on more boxes tomorrow.
Back at the inn, she lay on her bed, thinking about tomorrow and the boxes. She hadn’t found anything remotely worth saving—rags didn’t count—or anything that hinted at who all the contents belonged to. If it was Uncle Bob, she should go through all of them. If it was renters, why not just call someone to haul it all away?
Could there be a connection to the graffiti? Even if there was, would she recognize it? Would it matter?
You know you’re too curious not to look in every box. Who knows? There might be a treasure in one of them.
If she was going to spend this much time moving boxes, she ought to pull out her wrist braces.
Nothing like advertising your failures to the world.
They don’t know who you were. They don’t know you’re a failure.
~
MORGAN WOKE EARLY THE next morning, wanting to squeeze in time for a visit with Bailey before she had to be at the house for her delivery. She let the front desk know she’d be checking out and to have her bill ready.
“We hope you enjoyed your stay,” Mrs. More Cheerful said. “Do you want to keep everything on the credit card on file?”
“Yes, and I did, thanks. Would it be possible to find someone to help carry my bags to my car? If not right away, I can come back whenever it’s convenient.”
“If you’ll come back after breakfast, I’ll have someone to help you.”
When Morgan returned after a quick meal at Sadie’s, Mrs. More Cheerful beamed. “You’re in luck. I’ve got a hunk-and-a-half working on a room heater today. He’ll be happy to help you with your bags. Let me know when you’re ready to go.”
Morgan went upstairs and finished packing. After verifying she hadn’t left anything behind, she called down to the desk. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
A familiar voice said, “I’m here to help with your luggage.”
When she opened the door to Tom, his polite smile turned to surprise, then a broad grin. “Morgan. We meet again.”
~~~
COLE SHOWED UP EARLY for shift, hoping to have time to talk to Detweiler or Kovak before roll call.
He tapped on the door of their shared office. No response.
“Looking for me, Patton?” Detweiler’s voice carried down the hall.
Cole stepped aside to let the detective unlock the door. “I found something interesting about the graffiti on the old Elm Street house. I wanted to run it by you.”
Detweiler motioned him inside, and Cole took a seat in the visitor’s chair. He explained how he’d been helping Morgan, and about the journals she’d found. “I tried to track down the kid who wrote them at Oregon State, but hit a dead end. Going there seemed to be his goal, but the journals stopped before he mentioned being accepted. I couldn’t find him in school yearbooks or graduation records.”
“Maybe he went somewhere else.” Detweiler tapped his fingers on a stack of file folders sitting on his desk. Body Language 101 said the man was impatient to get to work, although he kept his gaze focused on Cole.
Cole explained the feelings he’d gotten when he’d talked to Rich. “There’s a secret in there, Sir, and I’ve got a niggle that Kirk Webster was either the one who wrote the message on the wall, or the one the message was talking about. I’d like to proceed.” Cole held up a hand. “Before you tell me niggles aren’t enough to open investigations, I know that, Sir. It’s just something that won’t let go.”
“What do you want from me?” Detweiler asked.
Cole flashed a weak smile. “I’m not sure. Guess I needed a sounding board. What would you do if you suspected something you couldn’t prove?”
The detective paused, as if examining a moment from his past. “I’d make damn sure I didn’t cross any lines while I dug deeper.”
Was that a subtle way of saying Cole was free to investigate...but to be careful?
“Thank you, Sir.”
Detweiler rested his hands on the edge of his desk and pierced Cole with his gaze. “And I’d make damn sure it didn’t interfere with my assigned duties as a member of the Pine Hills Police Department. Especially if I was the lowest ranking officer on the force.”
Cole stood at attention. “Yes, Sir. Understood, Sir.”
Detweiler tapped his keyboard. “Kirk Webster, you said? Went to Pine Hills High?”
Cole kept his expression neutral, despite feeling that he’d just hit winning numbers in the lottery. “Yes, Sir. Graduated six years ago.”
“See you at roll call.” The sound of computer keys clicking followed Cole as he walked to the briefing room. Was Detweiler investigating Kirk Webster?
Why would he look into a niggle?
At roll call, when nothing was said about the house on Elm Street or Kirk Webster, Cole suspected Detweiler had been humoring him. Let the new kid have his fun.
Cole coasted through his patrol routes. Could he find a reason to go into the high school? Conveniently work things around so asking questions about Kirk Webster wouldn’t stand out?
Nope. No calls about loitering teens.
While he was at Confections by Ashley for a caffeine and sugar boost, Dispatch called, told him he had more papers to serve. He shoved the rest of his Danish into his mouth, grabbed a napkin from a table dispenser, and headed for the station. He picked up the summons and passed reception on his way out.
Could he ask Scott Whelan to have lunch with him? Pick his brain some more now that he had new information? Okay, information was a stretch. Cole had a few facts he’d put his own spin on. Whelan’s experience might shed new light, or open new avenues of thinking.
Whelan agreed to a brain-picking lunch session, and Cole headed out to let some unsuspecting soul find out he was being sued and would have to go to court. Cole prepared for hostility—most people hated being served and took it out on the person doing the serving—but the man accepted the summons without comment, his eyes showing a hint of guilt.
Glad there had been no argument, Cole continued his patrol route, weaving through neighborhoods, making a police presence known. His eyes scanned the streets, the yards, alert to anything unusual. As was most often the case, all was quiet.
He let Dispatch know he’d take one swing by the river.
As he approached, he caught a glimpse of a powder blue Mustang tucked into a copse of trees. Great. He couldn’t read the plate, but what were the odds there were two of these classics in Pine Hills?
He let Dispatch know his whereabouts and tapped his vest before leaving his vehicle.