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“Oh, for… Well.”
“Morgan got us a yoga frog fountain.”
“She built it,” Miles corrected.
“I didn’t build it. I just found the pieces for it and put them together.”
“Morgan, that’s the definition of ‘build.’”
“It’s that old concrete base your dad could never figure out what he wanted to do with, Audrey. And that’s Doug Gund’s copper bowl. I saw we’d sold it, but nobody mentioned we’d sold it to you, Morgan.”
“I asked them not to. Is it okay there? Do you like it?”
Studying the fountain, Olivia patted a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “He would’ve gotten such a kick out of that.” Then she bent down, kissed the top of Morgan’s head. “He’d be so proud of you. I love it. I love it almost as much as I love that some of his cleverness rubbed off on you.”
With a hand on Morgan’s shoulder, her other holding Audrey’s, Olivia turned to Miles. “I’m betting she drafted you into hauling that ton of concrete over there.”
He just flexed his biceps.
“I hope you and Howl will stay for dinner. We picked up some nice tilapia on the way home, and I’ve a mind to blacken it. You like spicy, Miles?”
“What man would say no?”
“That’s settled then. It looks like you’ve already had some company.”
Morgan rose, picked up the agents’ glasses. “Sit down, and I’ll get some fresh glasses and tell you about it.”
Audrey stopped her with a touch on the arm. “This is about him. About Gavin Rozwell.”
“Yes, but it’s not all bad. Let me get the glasses first.”
Audrey watched her go. “I’m glad you were here, Miles. I’m glad she wasn’t alone.”
“So am I, but she’s right. It’s not all bad.”
Olivia sat. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”
They listened, with the summer sun streaming, with the faintest breeze just whispering in the air. And he watched as Audrey took her daughter’s hand, as Olivia never took her eyes off Morgan’s face.
“He made her care about him,” Audrey murmured. “He took all that time to gain her trust, and more, make her care about him.”
“Because the cruelty is the point. He didn’t kill her grandparents,” Olivia continued, “because that’s not what he does. But more? I think more, because he knew how much they’d suffer. The cruelty is the point. What a sick, twisted life he lives.”
“It’s time he lived it behind bars. It’s way past time.”
Morgan gave her mother’s hand a squeeze. “That may be coming, Mom. He made that mistake, not disabling the tracking system, and they got all that information from his—I’m not sure what I’d call him—the car guy.”
“He could switch cars again anytime,” Olivia pointed out.
“He could, but they know where he is. I didn’t get to the last thing. While they were here, they got an alert. He’d checked into a hotel in Kansas City. The local police were responding. They could have him already. It could be over.”
He wanted to do some shopping, and walk around to stretch his legs and get a feel for the area surrounding his hotel. He always made a point of checking out the traffic patterns, the local hot spots. Plus, he’d grown tired of the beach look. His current identity called for a more arty wardrobe.
Italian sandals, a pair of animal-striped Vans, black jeans, some new shirts, and a straw boater.
He enjoyed himself enough to stop and take an outdoor table at a bistro, order a glass of Malbec and a French dip. With his shopping bags tucked under the table, he set up his laptop, checked out the news reports for Myrtle Beach.
There she was! A very nice photo, all smiles and beach-blond hair. The artist drawing of Trevor Caine—suspect—wasn’t bad, he concluded. Then again, Trevor Caine was as dead as Quinn Loper.
