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A long, silent moment. “That night was Christmas Eve. It was all about the holiday party my mother had arranged for the abuse center. She and I spent the day shopping for decorations and little gifts to put under the tree—enough for all the women who’d be attending. We made eggnog and Christmas cookies. We would have cooked, but Lenny donated all the food.”
“Did your father stay home to shop and bake with you?”
“No, he had to go to work. But he came home early; I don’t remember what time. I do know the party was set for eight-thirty. My parents and I got there two hours early so we could set up. Our only detour was to the Kellermans’ penthouse; they were hosting a holiday party in Arthur’s honor. We didn’t stay long. I remember feeling bad about that, because I wanted to play with Jill, since we hadn’t seen each other in a while. But it wasn’t the night for it. My mother was itching to get to the abuse center. She, my father, and I headed over there straight from the Kellermans’. It would have been a magical night for those women. And not just because of the things we bought. Because of my mother.”
Morgan raised her head and met Monty’s gaze, tears glistening in her eyes. “I wish you’d known her. She was so amazingly empathetic. Even in her journal entries, you can feel her personal involvement with the women who came to her. I feel as if I knew them. When one of them turned her life around, my mother’s life turned around, too. And when one of them gave up, felt trapped and incapable of escaping her own hell, my mother refused to walk away. She stayed by their sides until she found a solution. Near the end, she helped one woman and her daughter make a fresh start. She also stood by a teenage girl who was sexually abused as a child, messed up her whole life, and found herself pregnant and abandoned.”
“Your mother was quite a human being,” Monty replied. He sat back in his chair. “Tell me, how did your father react to this? Having a wife whose heart is in so many places must take its toll.”
More memories. Conversations at the dinner table. Loving debates about who was more married to their work.
“He was proud of her,” Morgan murmured, remembering as she spoke. “Sometimes he got upset. He thought she was being taken advantage of. He worried about her. In retrospect, I realize he was obviously more cynical than she was. He was a prosecutor. She was an idealist.”
“During the weeks before the murders, were there any situations in particular that concerned him?”
Morgan forced herself to think. Flickers of recall. Some closed-door conversations. Passionate more than heated.
“My mother was grappling with how to handle something. I think she and my father had different ideas about the best way to do it. They didn’t have a big shouting match. But they were on edge. Neither of them was sleeping. I’m not sure why. It could have pertained to my mother’s work. Or it could have pertained to one of my father’s cases. My mother always agonized over the more dangerous ones he took on. That’s why I gave you those newspaper clippings. My father prosecuted some scary, high-profile criminals. Maybe he was prosecuting one of them when he died. I just don’t know. As for the tension in the house, I’m not sure if it was caused by my father’s current caseload. In her journals, my mother talks about a teenager at the shelter she was trying to help. Maybe it was that. Or maybe it was something unrelated I knew nothing about. I’ve been sitting in my den reading my mother’s journals all week. I can sense the urgency in her tone. On the other hand, my father—”
Morgan broke off, dropping her head in her hands. “I’m going around in circles. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. Maybe none of my babbling means anything. I was ten years old. I didn’t understand what pressures existed in my parents’ marriage. Nor was I invited to try. When it came to private discussions, they talked alone, in their bedroom, at night. What I’m recalling now are fragments. And what I’m trying to do is resurrect childhood memories and interpret them with an
adult mind. I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“Hey, you did great.” Monty squeezed her arm. “Look, we’ve covered more than enough for one day. Let me cogitate on what I’ve heard. Plus, I need to set up appointments with Rachel Ogden and Karly Fontaine. You take tonight off. Hang out with Jill, watch some TV. And get a good night’s sleep. You’ve got dinner plans tomorrow night. And my son’s a night owl.”
EIGHTEEN
With its rustic beamed ceilings and warm, low lighting, the great room at the Inn at Lost Creek was the perfect place to unwind and enjoy après-ski cocktails after a long day.
It was five o’clock, and Arthur, Lane, and Jonah were sitting around the large crackling stone fireplace. Holding his old-fashioned filled with the area’s best single-malt scotch, Arthur settled himself more comfortably on the plush brown velvet sofa. His cell phone, for the moment, was blissfully silent, and he took advantage of the time just to lean back, savor his drink, and relax in front of the fire.
Across the way, sprawled in one of the room’s matching club chairs, Jonah vegged, sipping his Coke and checking out the beautiful people strolling into the lounge.
And on the opposite sofa, Lane nursed his own scotch, rolling the old-fashioned between his palms and thinking how pumped he felt physically, how psyched he was about hitting the slopes tomorrow—and how antsy he was about what was going on back in New York.
The latter was a first for him.
Home never accompanied him on these thrill-seeking ventures. His bouts with nature were all about living in the moment, with the rest of his life tucked away on the back burner. Consequently, nothing—and no one—permeated his cerebral high.
But this time was different. And that difference had a name.
Morgan Winter.
He was definitely involved with her. Partly because of the role he was playing in the reinvestigation of her parents’ homicides. And partly because of Morgan herself.
Yup, he was surprisingly involved with her. More surprisingly, he wanted to deepen that involvement.
He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock eastern time.
He pulled out his cell phone and punched in the home number she’d given him.
The line rang twice, then she picked up. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Lane.”
“Hi.” She sounded surprised, and emotionally drained. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow. Is there a change in plans? Do you have to postpone our dinner?”
“Not a chance.” He was startled by the fervor of his reply. But he didn’t retract it. “I’m waiting with bated breath.”
