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“A tree house?” The image caught Morgan off guard, and her tension eased, a smile tugging at her lips. “That’s quite an analogy. Although knowing you and your father, I’m sure building a tree house together was as challenging and competitive as doing detective work together. I can just visualize it: the two of you fighting over who was in charge, who was quicker, who was more thorough, and who produced the best results. All that testosterone in one tree—it boggles the mind. I shudder to think how the poor tree survived.”
By this time Lane was chuckling. “Point well taken. And you’re right; it was a battle of alpha males. But the result was one solid, serious tree house. When Monty and I take on a project together, success is a given.” He raised his voice a bit as the piano player returned, resumed playing some soulful background music. “So have I convinced you what an unbeatable team my father and I are?”
“I never needed convincing.”
“Fine, then have we settled this monetary nonsense? Are you okay with me analyzing the photos?”
“More than okay,” Morgan admitted, lowering her wall of pride. “I’m grateful.”
“Don’t be. Not until I find something. Which I will.”
“You sound just like your father. I hope you’re both as confident as you seem, and not putting on a brave front for me.”
“We don’t do brave fronts. We do solutions.”
“Good.” Her hand slightly unsteady, Morgan raised her glass, took another sip of her drink, then regarded the glass for a long, thoughtful moment. “I guess you’re used to seeing homicide photos. But I’m not. And these particular photos…” She drew a long breath. “I’m just not sure how I’ll react when I see them.”
“Do you have to see them?”
“Yes. Not to challenge myself or to prove a point. But to get at the truth. I can’t leave a single stone unturned. I have to do anything, everything, that might lead us to the killer.” She shut her eyes for a second. “That means reliving that night, and all the months that led up to it, trying to see if I have information locked away in my mind I don’t realize is there or I’m unaware is significant. It means scrutinizing those photos, one by one, focusing on every detail to see if it triggers a memory. I have to. But I’m terrified. Staring at those pictures, when the nightmares are still so horrifyingly vivid—I’m just not sure how I’ll hold it together.” Her lashes lifted and she met Lane’s gaze. “I don’t know how much your father told you. But I’m the one who discovered the bodies.”
“He didn’t have to tell me.” Lane saw no point in being evasive. “I already knew.”
Her brows drew together. “How?”
“Let’s just say that seventeen years ago was a dicey period for my family. The time my sisters and I spent with Monty was broken into chunks. That made it hard for him to draw his usual definitive line between us and his work. Devon and Merry were young—eleven and five. Their focus was on Monty as their dad, not as a homicide detective. But I was sixteen—and on the reckless side. I thought the danger and excitement of my father’s career was cool. I hung around him a lot, even when he didn’t know I was there. I listened to his phone calls, watched him reviewing evidence. This case drove him crazy. He couldn’t let it go. It’s not something I forgot.”
“Neither did he,” Morgan surprised him by saying. “And not just because the end result didn’t sit right with him. It’s because he personalized the investigation. He’d just moved out. I was about the same age as your sister Devon. Losing my parents reminded him how much he missed his kids.”
Lane’s jaw practically dropped. “He told you that?”
“Not in so many words. Your father’s not exactly the type to spill his guts.”
“That’s the understatement of the year.”
“What he told me was that no separation could break or weaken the bond between parent and child. He mentioned your names, saying that he wasn’t living in the same house as you anymore, but that he loved you just as much as he had then. He was obviously hurting. The hurt was raw, which meant the separation was new. I was too young to
fully understand it. But I understand it now. I’ve had many years to reflect on the things he said to me that night, and to recognize the paternal way he comforted me. So it doesn’t surprise me that he was preoccupied with the case. He needed to make it right—for many reasons.”
Lane took a hefty swallow of his drink. “You got all that from one conversation?”
“It wasn’t just what he said. It was the pain in his eyes. The way he didn’t push me away when I glued myself to his side. The way he brought me to the precinct. The way he sat with me when I sobbed. The way he found a cot for me to sleep on, and left a light on so I wouldn’t be afraid. The way he ran interference until I was ready to leave and face the other people who loved my parents.” A sad smile touched Morgan’s lips. “Every one of those things is what a father does to protect his child. I know, because I remember my own father.”
With each passing moment, Lane was gaining new insight into why Morgan felt such fierce admiration for and gratitude to Monty. “I didn’t realize Monty had factored so heavily into helping you cope with your loss.”
“He helped me survive that first night. I was in shock. I was also in denial.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “That basement was horrible. It was dark and creepy, and there was a sickening smell in the air—decay and blood and death. My parents didn’t belong down there, lying on that broken filthy floor. I had to get to them. But no one would let me. They kept holding me back. But they couldn’t make me look away. All I could do was stare at their bodies. There was blood everywhere: under my father’s head, in a pool around my mother, in splotches on the floor. I almost stepped in one, I was so frantic to break away and run to my parents’ sides. I kept screaming their names, begging them to wake up—even though I knew that wasn’t going to happen. No one could get through to me, not even the grief counselor. The entire scene was surreal, like disjointed flashes of a nightmare.”
Morgan wet her lips and continued. “Your father stepped in. He didn’t try to make it go away. He knew he couldn’t. He just told me to let the police and the ambulance workers do their jobs. He wrapped a blanket around me and led me away. He was nonjudgmental, kind, and honest. He told me the truth. But he also told me my parents weren’t in pain, and I wasn’t alone. He made me feel safe. And he was real, human. The grief counselor was so professional; it was like relating to a caring textbook. Elyse and Arthur were the opposite—way too personally involved. Not that I blamed them. They were my parents’ closest friends. They were emotional basket cases. I needed someone who understood, but didn’t intrude. That was your father. He simply took care of me. You and your sisters are lucky; I’m sure he did—and does—the same for you.”
An immediate nod. “You’re right. He does. That’s Monty’s MO—taking care of the people he loves, and the people he feels responsible for.”
“Well, the night my parents were killed, I certainly fell into the latter category. Actually, I still do because, in your father’s mind, he never fulfilled his responsibility to me. Not really. Not when the real murderer is still walking the streets.”
Lane folded his arms across his chest, eyeing Morgan with undisguised admiration. “No wonder you’re so good at what you do. You’ve got quite a handle on human nature.”
“Hey, that’s what a master’s degree in human behavior will do for you.”
“Maybe the master’s degree helped. But what I’m describing isn’t acquired in a lecture hall. It’s innate. You really get what makes people tick. And what you lived through obviously enhanced that ability.”
