Page 14 of Beyond Her Reach (Bree Taggert #10)

Bree said, “Dr. Jones agrees that Kelly Gibson was murdered. If you saw the pictures, so would you.”

Morgan didn’t react, but she knew from the tone of the sheriff’s voice that the death had been particularly terrible.

Bree continued. “Troy has exchanged calls and text messages with Kelly for the past six weeks, and he confirmed that he was in a romantic relationship with her.”

Before he realized he should call an attorney.

Bree consulted her notepad. “On Sunday morning, Kelly’s phone shows six unanswered calls from Kelly to Troy. He phoned her that evening and they engaged in a six-minute conversation. Later, Kelly sent text messages that Troy did not answer.”

Troy sat completely still. “I turned off my phone.”

Morgan brushed his arm, a silent shh as she responded to the sheriff. “And what do those messages say?”

“Four apologies, two requests for a call back.” Taggert glanced down at her notes again. “The last message Kelly sent Troy reads, How could you do this to me? ”

Morgan didn’t comment. The messages suggested an altercation of some sort between Kelly and Troy, but she wouldn’t put ideas in Bree’s head. “And how did we get from a few text messages to my client being detained?”

“We went to your client’s home to conduct an interview,” Bree said.

“A Porsche 911 GT3 registered to Mr. Ryder drove out of the garage and refused to stop when signaled to do so.” She described the pursuit and finding the crashed vehicle.

“Inside the Porsche, we also found a box cutter with a dried, dark-red substance on the blade. Footprints showed where the driver ran into the woods. Our K-9 followed the trail to Blackbird Lake but lost the scent on a dock. The owner of the dock confirmed his kayak was missing. We searched with a drone, but we haven’t found the missing vessel. ”

Blackbird Lake. Where Troy owned a cabin. Not good.

“No one saw the person steal the kayak?” Morgan confirmed.

“Correct.”

Morgan appreciated that Bree provided the facts without added drama or conjecture. “Did you see the driver of the Porsche?”

“No,” Bree admitted.

Two points to Morgan.

Except this wasn’t a courtroom, and Bree was immune to subtle theatrics. Morgan knew from experience that the sheriff played the long game. This interview was a scouting maneuver.

Morgan needed to throw real doubt on Bree’s arguments. “Then how do you know it was my client?”

“Who else would it be?” Bree asked Troy.

“Whoever stole my car,” he said.

“Your house doesn’t show any signs of a break-in,” Bree responded.

Morgan interrupted. “It isn’t my client’s job to prove his car was stolen. He was driving his other vehicle at the time. How could he have driven away from his house in his Porsche, then returned to it in a different vehicle?”

Bree stared at her for a few seconds.

“And if he was running from the police, why would he return to his own residence?” Morgan asked.

“That’s a question for your client.” Bree turned her focus toward him.

Troy remained completely still. “Because I wasn’t running from anything. I was just going home.”

“Where were you Monday and Tuesday?” the sheriff asked.

“I own a cabin on Blackbird Lake. I go there for at least twenty-four hours every month. Sometimes I manage a couple of days. Once every summer, I take a solid week off.”

When Troy told Bree about his cabin on Blackbird Lake, her eyes lit up in a way that Morgan didn’t like at all.

Yes. It was conceivable that Troy had escaped the crash of his Porsche, run to his cabin, and—unwilling to run away from his very nice life—returned to his primary residence later in the day ready to lie his head off.

“What’s the address of your cabin?” Bree asked.

Troy supplied the house number and street.

Bree and Matt Flynn exchanged a look, and Matt left the room. Morgan guessed he was going to request a warrant to search the cabin.

The sheriff leaned her body a hair forward, focusing on Troy again. “Do you have any proof you were at this cabin?”

“Proof? Why do I need to prove where I was?” Troy’s voice held no inflection.

“A strong alibi would clear you.” Bree waved a hand. “Make all this inconvenience go away.”

Troy’s tone shifted slightly as he enunciated words with extra clarity. “I go to my cabin to be alone and unplug.”

“Unplug?” Sheriff Taggert asked. “As in get away from your electronics?”

“Yes.” Troy nodded. “No phone. No computer. No Wi-Fi.”

“You do this every month?” she asked.

“Not always on the same days, but yes.” He lifted his chin. “I make maintaining my mental health a priority the same way I exercise my body daily. I schedule the downtime on my calendar.”

“What if one of your clients needs you?” Bree asked.

“They can wait a day,” Troy said. “I require solitude. It’s just the way I’m wired. In my business, I’m connected all the time. It’s important to clear my mind. Like a battery, it won’t perform optimally unless properly recharged.”

Bree arched a single, skeptical brow. “And you didn’t encounter anyone at your cabin? A neighbor, a delivery driver, another person walking in the woods?”

Troy stared back. “I saw a woman when I was out trail running.”

“Can you describe her?” the sheriff asked.

He closed his eyes. “About thirty. Blond. Ponytail. She was wearing black tights and jogging on the trail around the lake.”

Bree made a note. “You don’t know her name or where she lives?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“Do you usually run that trail?” Taggert asked.

“Yes,” Troy said. “It’s a three-mile loop. I run it every day when I’m at the cabin.”

Bree tapped on her notepad with the pen. “Do you know any of your other neighbors at the cabin?”

He shrugged. “I would recognize their faces, but I don’t know their names. I go there to get away, not to talk to people.”

Bree tilted her head. “Where do you work?”

“I’m self-employed as a cybersecurity consultant.” Troy’s posture straightened almost imperceptibly. “I have an office in my home. Because of that, I need to leave it to truly have time off.”

Morgan wanted to object and to stop the interview, not because his answers were damning but because he was almost robotic.

He had the emotional control—or suppression—of a monk, but underneath that rigid facade, Morgan sensed a lot was happening, that his almost disconcerting lack of emotional response was a mask.

Bree nodded. “So, you were at your cabin, with no communication. Kelly called you on Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“Why did she call you?” Bree asked patiently.

He blinked twice, the first sign of any real discomfort. “She said she was pregnant.”

But Bree didn’t pause. She probed. “Did she take a test?”

He paused for a few seconds, not moving, just staring. “I don’t know. That’s all she said.”

“You had sex with her?” Bree confirmed.

Again, Troy hesitated before replying. Was he thinking about his answer? “Yes.”

“How long ago?” Bree asked.

“The first time was about four weeks ago. Then again last Thursday night.”

Four weeks would be just barely long enough for a pregnancy test to be positive.

“If she’s pregnant, it isn’t mine,” Troy added.

Bree raised a brow. “And you know this because ...”

“I had a vasectomy fifteen years ago,” he said.

Morgan had not seen that coming. Clearly, neither had the sheriff, because silence ticked off a few heartbeats.

Troy looked away. His face remained blank, but Morgan could see the sorrow buried deep under his facade.

“I was married. My wife had a congenital heart defect that made pregnancy very dangerous. So I had a vasectomy.” His gaze dropped to his folded hands.

“We were going to adopt, but, uh”—he paused with a sound that was half cough, half choke—“her heart gave out.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bree said.

Without lifting his gaze from his own hands, Troy nodded. He wasn’t completely a robot.

Bree cleared her throat. “So what did you say to Kelly?”

“I told her I can’t have children.” Troy’s animatronic voice returned. When he raised his gaze, he’d regained his composure. “Then I went to my cabin as planned.”

“You left?” Bree asked.

“Yes.” He looked confused. “I needed to process what she’d told me—what her claiming to be pregnant meant.

She was either lying or she’d been with someone else.

Given that we haven’t been dating very long, I’d hope that occurred before we met, but who knows?

It’s not like I’ve never been cheated on before.

” He said this in the same disconcerting monotone.

Morgan nudged him to stop elaborating.

But Bree picked up on the jealousy motive immediately. “Did you feel betrayed?”

“No.” Troy swallowed, then seemed to brace himself before continuing. “Of course I was hurt. She lied to me. But we didn’t have a long-term relationship, and we didn’t have fireworks or incredible chemistry. I doubt the relationship would have lasted much longer.”

Except for the moments when he’d talked about his late wife, Troy’s lack of emotion made him hard to read. But to a stranger—or a jurist—his flat personality suggested he could be a good liar. Or a sociopath.

Morgan ended the line of questioning. “The autopsy will tell us if she was pregnant. If she is, DNA will determine who the father is. Speculating is fruitless.”

Bree now has potential jealousy or betrayal as a motive.

Bree acknowledged her point with a nod, then turned back to Troy. “Did you read the messages she sent you while you were at the cabin?”

Troy shrugged. “No. I always lock my phone in my truck. I told her I wouldn’t be available until Tuesday. I don’t know why she kept messaging me.”

“Your getaway cabin is awfully close to your home,” Bree commented.

“It’s convenient,” Troy said.

“What do you do there?” the sheriff asked.

Troy said, “Fish, chop wood, run the trails, read. I have a stand-up paddleboard for summer.”

“I don’t see where that’s relevant,” Morgan said.

Bree gestured toward Troy’s bandage. “How did you injure your forehead?”

“I ran into a low-hanging branch,” he said.