Page 34 of Beyond Her Reach (Bree Taggert #10)

The pale gray of cloudy morning light filled the kitchen as Morgan sipped her second cup of coffee and ate the crust from her youngest daughter’s peanut butter toast. She’d consumed her first cup during the usual bedlam of getting three children out of bed, fed, and dressed for school.

Sitting at the table, she twirled her mug on the placemat, listening to the silence, the dogs begging at her feet.

The front door opened and closed with a click.

A few seconds later, Lance walked into the kitchen. “Mission accomplished. Three children on the bus, on time, with no squabbles. Miracles do happen.”

“Or you’re pretty good at being a dad.” The universe had aligned twice for Morgan in that respect, and she was immensely grateful.

Lance’s joy at parenting the girls shone through his smile. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then turned to lean back against the counter.

Morgan pushed one plate aside and reached for another plate of half-gnawed leftovers from her children.

He side-eyed her breakfast. “You know we can afford for you to eat a whole slice of toast, one that hasn’t already been chewed.”

Morgan laughed. “I hate to waste food. Plus, it’s here.”

Lance shook his head. He hadn’t reached the eating-your-kids’-leftovers-as-a-meal phase of parenting yet, but Morgan suspected that would come with time. She finished the toast corner and leaned back. “It’s too quiet.”

The house was rarely still. In addition to Morgan and Lance and the girls, Morgan’s grandfather and the girls’ nanny lived with them. This morning, the nanny was driving Grandpa to physical therapy.

Lance set down his coffee and crossed the room. He leaned over, brushed aside her hair, and kissed her neck. “Can we be a little late to work? Seems wrong to waste an empty house.”

“Like missing a solar eclipse.” Morgan angled her head to give him better access.

“That’s about how often we get the place to ourselves.” He chuckled against her skin.

The brush of his lips warmed her blood. She tapped her phone screen to check the time.

“I don’t have to be in court until eleven, but I want to get to the courthouse early.

” The case wasn’t complicated. A drunk guy who’d gotten into a fistfight with another drunk guy in a bar.

The idiots had broken a stool, overturned a table, and smashed some glassware.

She anticipated the prosecutor would be amenable to a deal: community service, damages paid, and time served.

A weekend in jail had sobered her client.

As long as he didn’t have to spend another night behind bars, he was willing to pick up all the roadside garbage in the state of New York.

“I am very efficient,” Lance mumbled against her skin.

“And thorough.” Morgan sighed as his mouth worked its way up to her jaw.

“Always thorough.”

Her phone buzzed on the table.

“Don’t answer it,” Lance said.

But Morgan’s gaze landed on the screen. “It’s Troy.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Lance kissed her one last time, then straightened.

Morgan pressed “Answer” and put the call on speaker. “Troy? This is Morgan. Lance is here as well.”

Troy didn’t bother with a greeting. “The sheriff called.” His voice started flat and shifted to disbelief. “They want me to come to the station for another interview. It didn’t sound optional. Do I have to answer more questions?”

“Technically, no, but doing the interview can be the best way to find out what evidence they’re holding.” Morgan knew the sheriff. If she had summoned Troy, then she had evidence. “You can plead the fifth or say you don’t recall. If I feel like they’re fishing, I’ll end the interview.”

“I don’t have anything to hide,” Troy argued. “And that makes me look guilty.”

“At this point, it’s the sheriff’s job to prove you committed a crime. It isn’t your job to prove you didn’t. Nor are you required to help them build a case against you.”

“What could they have?” Troy protested. “I didn’t kill Kelly.”

“The most critical outstanding pieces of evidence are the DNA results from the box cutter and the bloody sock found in your hamper.” Morgan hoped the sheriff hadn’t turned up anything unexpected.

“Someone must have been in my home, but I can’t prove that.” Troy’s voice rose in alarm. “I didn’t kill her.”

“We’ll go to the station. You don’t say anything unless I approve it. You listen and let me do the talking. We do need to know what’s going on. We’ll pick you up.”

“No, I’ll meet you there.” Troy sounded reluctant and stubborn. “I don’t need an escort.”

Morgan stood and headed for the bedroom. “ Ok . Don’t talk to anyone. Lance and I will be at the station in thirty minutes. Don’t even get out of your vehicle until I’m with you.”

“Fine.”

“I mean it, Troy,” Morgan said.

But the line had gone dead.

Lance cleared their coffee cups and placed them in the sink. “Troy isn’t patient.”

“Agreed.” On her way down the hall, Morgan called over her shoulder, “We should be there in twenty. I don’t want him at the station alone.”

“Good point.” Lance was right behind her. They were both already dressed. Morgan brushed her teeth and stepped into the navy-blue heels that matched her suit. They were out the door in three minutes.

While Lance drove, Morgan donned tiny hoop earrings, applied lipstick, and smoothed a few flyaway hairs.

“What the hell?” Lance muttered as he slowed the car.

Morgan flipped up the visor and mirror. News vans and crews overflowed the sheriff’s station parking lot. A prickle of unease spread across her skin. “Something happened. Something big.”

With the frenzy of weekday mornings, she and Lance usually checked the news when they arrived at the office.

She reached for her phone and opened a social media app. She searched for a local news station account and froze on their latest post. “Oh, no.”

“What?”

Morgan scanned the short article, which was scant on details.

Then she clicked “Play” on a short video of Sheriff Taggert giving a quick statement outside a home in the dark.

Morgan skimmed a few more posts. She lowered her phone, stunned.

“A woman was murdered last night. The unconfirmed story is that someone broke into her home and slashed her throat.”

“Oh.” Lance eased off the gas pedal.

“Yes.” Morgan suddenly wished she weren’t a local quasi celebrity.

The press knew she was representing Troy.

Once they saw her, they’d assume he was also a suspect in this second murder.

When he drove up, they’d be on him like locusts on a wheat field.

“I should have insisted Troy come with us. Do you see him?”

“Not yet.” Lance stopped the van before entering the parking lot. “What do you want to do?”

Morgan scanned the busy street, looking for a place to park that wasn’t inundated with reporters. There wasn’t one. “Turn around.” She called Troy. “Where are you?”

Troy’s answer was sharp, as if he sensed her alarm. “About three minutes from the station.”

“Meet me at my office instead. We’ll drive together.”

“Why?”

“Because there was another murder. That’s why you’re being called in.”

A few seconds of silence passed as Troy processed the news. “What does that have to do with me? I don’t know anything about it.”

Morgan took a breath to stop herself from snapping at him. “I don’t know, but the media is all over the sheriff’s station. It will be better if we arrive together.” Plus, she’d be able to control his responses.

“Doesn’t that make me look weak and guilty?” Troy argued.

Morgan swallowed her frustration. Why did clients resist so hard?

What was the point of paying her if they were going to argue with her advice?

She slipped into the soft, direct voice her kids instinctively knew not to argue with.

“It will be easier for the three of us to get through the crowd than you alone. Plus, I can field media questions while Lance paves the way, which is far better for optics than you getting swarmed by reporters, not knowing what to say, and having to shove them aside.”

Or worse, answering their questions without a full understanding of the consequences of recorded statements. All media attention affected a potential jury pool. Every word and response should be weighed accordingly.

They met outside the office, and Troy transferred to the back of the minivan for the drive back to Grey’s Hollow.

Morgan turned in her seat and instructed him, again, not to say anything until she approved each question. “The woman’s body was found around one thirty this morning. She was killed yesterday afternoon. Where were you?”

Troy brushed a hand across his scalp. “Home. The cleaners were there. I don’t like to leave them alone in the house.”

An alibi! Morgan jumped on it. “Your house cleaners will need to make a statement.”

He made a face. “They don’t speak English very well.” He looked away. “I’m not even sure they’re legal.”

Morgan wanted to scream. “How do you pay them?”

“Cash.”

Morgan rubbed her forehead. “How did you find them?”

“A friend recommended them.” He threw up his hands. “How was I supposed to know I’d need an alibi for murder at some point?”

Morgan didn’t have an answer to that one.

But the optics of his alibi being potentially illegal immigrants he paid under the table weren’t good.

Even if the cleaners agreed to sign statements—which Morgan doubted they would do if they didn’t have green cards—how much weight would their testimony carry?

“We have to find out if they’re legal. Can you give us their information? ”

Troy pulled out his phone. “My contact is Maria.” He read off a phone number.

Morgan made a note. “We need to know if she’s legal immediately.”

“If the answer is no, she might just disappear,” Lance pointed out.

“She won’t talk to you.” Morgan eyed her husband. “You still look like a cop, and so does your boss.”

Lance nodded. “You’ll have to do it. Take Olivia with you. She speaks Spanish.”