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“Don’t argue, Morgan. It’s rude to refuse a gift that comes with love. This wedding is our gift, your mother’s and mine. It’s not who’s paying, baby of my baby. It’s about being part of the love. And I expect any argument to come from the groom’s family. And we’ll be prepared to compromise. That’s part of the love.”
“I already started a spreadsheet, and a budget.”
“Of course you did. Oh, she’s so like you, Mom. She sure didn’t get that practical side from me. Now you can toss those out and think of the fun stuff. Your colors, the flowers, the music, the guest list. We’ll try for next Monday for the bridal shop appointment. That way you won’t have to worry about going to work, and we can all have fun.”
“We’ll talk, but now I do have to go to work. I need to tell Miles everything I just told you—before. We made a deal.”
He led them south toward Indianapolis, where he’d rented a garage with a fresh new credit card. He tucked the truck inside, then took an Uber to the airport’s private terminal.
He’d donned a dark wig fashioned into a man bun, had taken time and care with a very trim goatee. He carried his laptop, a carry-on, and had them board his single suitcase. He didn’t worry about his identification passing—he’d taken time and care there as well.
He had a glass of wine on the flight to Middlebury, Vermont, and ate two bags of chips from the complimentary snack basket.
He just couldn’t quit them.
Private meant no security checks of his luggage. The Colt snuggled safe in his suitcase, as did the knife.
By the time they tracked him from Indianapolis—if they ever did—he’d have finished what he started. His luck would come in again.
The next time he flew, he’d fly to some lovely tropical beach with a five-star hotel. And these past horrible months would fade away like a bad dream.
“Something’s off.”
Beck stood in yet another motel room, studying yet another map. “It’s off, Quentin.”
“He’s playing us again.”
“You feel it, too. There’s no other purpose for him coming this far out of his way. He’s steadying up. He’s not steady, but he’s getting there. He’s got a plan now. That’s what I’m feeling.”
“We should head northeast. Leave this area with the agents in charge here, the locals, and take a direct route to Vermont.”
“I’m feeling that. But more.” She turned to him. “Let’s go wheels up and get there. I want to see her, see Morgan. I want to see the setup in the house, the resort again, talk face-to-face with the chief of police. Go over resort security point by point. I’m getting this sick feeling again.”
“We’ll have to clear it.”
“Let’s do that. I want to be there.”
“And we can backtrack from there. I think he ditched the truck, Tee. He bought it, then he ditched it.”
“So do I. Let’s just go there, spend some time assessing. If we’re wrong, we take a hit.”
“We weren’t wrong before.”
Rozwell landed in Middlebury after a smooth flight. The rental car he’d arranged waited. When he slid onto the leather seats of the Mercedes sedan, he felt an almost giddy wave of pleasure.
“I am back!” Giggling, he stroked his fingers over the wheel, grinned at the loaded dash. “Now we’re talking, now we’re talking, now we’re fuckingtalking!”
He hummed a little tune as he plugged in Morgan’s address on the GPS.
Thirty-two minutes sounded just fine.
When Miles walked into Après, Morgan had a cocktail shaker in each hand as she engaged two women at the bar in conversation. A little showmanship, he thought as she poured the drinks, added a skewer of three fat olives to each.
She had a knack for it. Both women toasted her after their first sip, and she took a bow.
“It’s all in the wrist,” she claimed, then caught sight of Miles.
He walked up to the bar, but spoke to Bailey.
