Secrets Never Die (Morgan Dane #5)(5)

Morgan’s house was closer to the Knox residence than the Randolph County Sheriff’s Station was, so being the first to arrive wasn’t a surprise. But that left one major question wide open.

Is the shooter still in the house?

They jogged along the sidewalk. Morgan had a long stride, but she worked hard to keep up with Lance. They approached a quaint two-story home at the end of the street. A white vinyl fence enclosed the backyard. The Knox residence was on the periphery of the development and abutted the woods.

Lance drew his weapon. “If I asked you to wait in the Jeep until I cleared the house, would I be wasting my breath?”

“Yes.”

They turned and ran up the driveway.

Morgan pulled her Glock and followed him to the front stoop. “You’re not going in there without someone to watch your back.”

The death of Morgan’s first husband had left her in a very dark place, one she’d climbed out of less than a year ago. Her daughters had already lost their father. Now that she and the girls had been blessed with Lance in their lives, Morgan would not allow him to take an unnecessary risk.

Her pulse accelerated as adrenaline surged through her. The door was closed but unlocked. She positioned herself at Lance’s left flank as they went into the house. It appeared as if every light in the house was on.

Lance glanced into the dining room on their right. An archway opened to the kitchen as well. “Clear.”

They withdrew back into the hall and approached a set of French doors on the left side of the foyer. Lance opened one door. He swept his weapon from corner to corner. Morgan covered the hall at their backs.

“Clear,” he said.

They continued down the corridor. Morgan’s heart thumped against her ribs. Her lungs burned as she fought to quiet her breathing. They emerged in the kitchen. Broken glass and shattered plates littered the floor. They detoured around the shards. Lance led the way through the room to another doorway. They stepped into a short hallway.

Lance hesitated for a few seconds as they passed a half bath and laundry room. “Clear.”

The next door was open.

Lance crossed the hall to stand behind the doorframe and peer around it. He lowered his gun. “Tina?”

Morgan followed him into a den. Paul lay in front of a square wooden table, his legs sprawled out. His shirt was soaked in blood. His hands clutched his abdomen, where he’d clearly sustained at least one devastating wound. A bullet hole pierced the center of his forehead.

Morgan pulled her gaze from the body. Tina knelt on the floor at her husband’s side. Blood streaked her hands and smeared the side of her face, as if she’d forgotten her hands were wet and brushed her hair away from her cheek.

Tina turned stunned eyes to Morgan and Lance. “I can’t find Evan.”

“Stay with her while I check the rest of the house.” Lance turned and disappeared.

“I tried to save him,” Tina said in a detached voice.

One glance at Paul told Morgan he’d died quickly. Her gut twisted as she pictured Tina desperately attempting to resuscitate her dead husband.

Morgan angled her position until she could see down the hallway. She kept watch, gun raised, sweat trickling down her back, listening to the squeaks of floorboards overhead. As much as Lance would like to find Paul’s killer, Morgan hoped the murderer was not in the house.





Chapter Three

Lance crept up the stairs. His heart galloped in his chest as he went into the master bedroom. Crouching, he swept the beam of his flashlight under the bed. Nothing. He opened the door to the walk-in closet. Tina’s clothes hung in a neat row on one side, Paul’s on the other. Shoes were lined up on shelves. The floor was clean. He checked the en suite bath and backtracked to the upstairs landing to poke his head into the hall bath. Clear. Then he moved into the home office and ended in what was clearly the bedroom of a teenage boy.

When he was certain the house was secure, he paused on the landing and listened. The faint sound of sirens approached. He didn’t have much time. The police would be here in a few minutes, and Lance’s opportunity to search would be over.

He went back into Evan’s room. Dirty clothes spilled out of the hamper and were strewn across the floor. Empty cups and plates covered the dresser, and his sheets and blanket were pulled half off the bed to pool on the floor. An electric guitar stood in the corner, and posters covered the walls: Guns N’ Roses, Rush, Jimi Hendrix. A Game of Thrones banner for House Stark hung above the bed.

Lance scanned the tops of the furniture. He searched the floor for the black Converse sneakers that Evan always wore but didn’t see them. He used a pencil to open the top nightstand drawer. No wallet or phone in sight.

The sirens drew closer. Lance closed the drawer and hustled his butt down the stairs. Grey’s Hollow was the territory of the Randolph County Sheriff’s Department, and Sheriff Colgate would not be pleased to catch him snooping. He made his way to the back of the house. At the doorway to the den, he hesitated, his gaze locked on the back door—and the bloody handprint on the white paint just above the doorknob.

He returned to the den. When he and Morgan had entered the room, he’d been focused on the body and the potential for danger. On this second look, Lance absorbed the details. Paul had been shot at least twice. One bullet had hit him in the lower torso. That injury had bled heavily. A second bullet wound, to the center of his forehead, had not.