Page 85 of The Last Morgan

They drove through dark, crumbling streets that looked forgotten by the city. Broken streetlights flickered overhead, and half-built homes stood hollow and abandoned like skeletons.

Lucy glanced sideways at the ghost town they were passing.

"Another lost place," she thought grimly.

"Make note of this area, Barnaby," Lucy said, staring out the window. "I'll get Davina to look into it. I might buy it and finish it. Looks like it holds promise... buried under all this darkness."

Barnaby gave a small salute from the backseat.

They pulled up outside the only half-decent property in the entire street — a sagging, tired-looking two-story house.

What stood out immediately was the wide-open front door, swinging slightly in the breeze.

Almost like an invitation.

Then came the voice, drifting out eerily: "Come in. I'm not trying to fight."

Lucy narrowed her eyes.

"Maybe you come out with your hands up instead?" Lucy called back, her voice cutting through the night air.

And surprisingly — he did.

A man shuffled into the doorway, arms raised stiffly. It was Max.

Pale, unshaven, trembling slightly under Byron’s iron grip the second he reached him.

Corey and Damien immediately flanked the door, weapons drawn, slipping inside the house to clear it room by room. Lucy waited, standing perfectly still. Byron held Max steady, his own body taut, ready to crush the man if he so much as twitched wrong.

"All clear!" Damien called from inside.

Barnaby adjusted his oversized vest awkwardly and darted in behind them, laptop ready, fingers flying as he grabbed any files, devices, or flash drives he could find.

A few minutes later, they bundled Max into the back of the SUV.

Lucy slid in across from him, arms folded tightly, watching him closely.

Max sat slumped, gripping his hair in both hands, rocking slightly.

"My Rebecca," he whispered. "He killed her... and I helped him."

Lucy exchanged a sharp glance with Byron, who tightened his jaw.

Max continued:

"But I promise you — if you keep my existence quiet — I’ll help you find him. I want my revenge too."

They pulled into the mansion’s underground garage, the tires screeching slightly on the polished floor.

Byron dragged Max out roughly but not cruelly, steering him toward the secure holding room they had set up after the death of Rebecca.

"Talk," she said flatly.

Max licked his dry lips. His skin was ghost-pale under the harsh fluorescent lights.

"I met Rebecca when I was seventeen," he began, voice low, almost mechanical. "We grew up hard. Foster homes. Streets. She pulled me out of hell."

He stared at the floor like the memories physically hurt to dig up.