Over the past few days, she’d been in a daze. Her time in the police station didn’t seem real. But the nightmare had.
Was she going crazy?
What was real?
Chapter Eighteen
“That eye looks painful,” Grandpa said from the doorway early Wednesday morning.
“It’s that bad?” Morgan sighed over her empty coffee cup. Her head pounded, and her eyes ached. But she’d been hoping she didn’t look as bad as she felt.
Morgan had already showered and put on makeup, including an extra layer of concealer around her black eye and on the bruise that had replaced the goose egg on her temple. But all these years after retirement, Grandpa was still cop-blunt, and he had X-ray vision that could see through industrial-strength cover-up, as she’d learned in high school when she’d tried to hide a hickey or two.
Leaning heavily on his cane, Grandpa shuffled into the kitchen. As he passed, he patted her on the arm. “It’ll start to fade in a few days. In a week or two, you won’t even know it was there.”
“I know. But that doesn’t help me today.” Morgan poured a second cup for herself and one for Grandpa. She set his on the kitchen table.
“But seriously, you have a concussion, and you worked late last night. You really could use some rest. There’s no way you can take the day off?” he asked, easing into the chair and propping his cane against the wall.
“No.” She sat across from him. “I’ll be able to manage as long as I get this second cup down before the kids wake up.”
She’d already taken extra-strength pain relievers, which were not living up to their promise. She’d slept poorly and woken at dark o’clock, achy and grumpy.
“Have the dogs been out?” Grandpa glanced in the corner, where Rocket and Snoozer were curled in their dog beds.
“Yes. They’ve been fed and walked.” Morgan had hoped the cold, fresh air would help clear her head. No such luck. “Neither of them complained about the early breakfast.”
“I’ll bet.” Grandpa placed both palms on the table and pushed to his feet. “I’ll make us some breakfast.”
Morgan started to stand. “I can do that.”
“Sit.” Her grandfather pinned her in place with a look. “I may not be able to fill my dance card, but I can make a couple of eggs. You’ve been babying me since I broke my leg. I know you mean well, but I have to be useful or I’ll go crazy. It’s time I got moving.”
“OK.” She sank back into her seat. “But I can think of better ways you can help.”
“With your case?” Grandpa’s voice perked up as he lit a burner under a frying pan and plunked an overly generous pat of butter into it.
“Olive oil is better for your heart,” she said automatically.
“But it doesn’t taste the same.” He cracked eggs into the pan and added more salt than he should have. “Life is short. Live a little.”
Morgan didn’t nag, even though she worried about his heart and high blood pressure. He wouldn’t listen anyway. He put bread in the toaster and flipped the eggs.
Outside, daylight began to filter through the blinds.
Morgan booted up her laptop. “I could use your help with the case, if you have the time. I received hours and hours of surveillance video from a nightclub. Someone needs to watch them. Someone who knows what to look for.”
With decades of experience as an NYPD homicide detective, Grandpa had already proven that he hadn’t lost his mental edge when she’d asked him for help in other cases.
“It’ll be boring,” she added. “A whole evening of coverage from multiple cameras, and I’m not even sure what you’d be looking for.”
“Sounds perfect.” Grandpa loaded two plates with food.
Morgan summed up the case. “I’ll give you the videos and photos of the main players.”
“You want to look for someone spiking your client’s drink?” As usual, Grandpa cut to the chase.
“Yes. And any other interesting interactions. Arguments, who was chatting up whom, that sort of thing. I trust your judgment and your eye.”
“I’ll start on it after breakfast.” Grandpa attacked his eggs and toast with renewed zeal.
Morgan finished her food, feeling better after having delegated a monumental task. She fetched her grandfather’s laptop and the thumb drive containing the videos. He settled in the living room in his recliner just as the girls appeared in the doorway. In a few heartbeats, the house went from quiet haven to complete zoo. Morgan’s nanny, Gianna, fed the girls pancakes. While Gianna cleaned up the kitchen, Morgan herded them into their room to get dressed. Mia and Ava liked to coordinate outfits, but Sophie . . .
“Don’t I look colorful, Mommy?” Sophie twirled in the center of a giant pile of clothes she’d pulled from her drawers. She wore plaid leggings under a flowered dress. One sock was purple, the other red.
“Yes, you certainly do,” Morgan said. “Let’s get that hair combed.” Her youngest looked as if her hair had been styled with a leaf blower.
“No,” Sophie wailed, covering her head with both hands. “Gianna pwomised to make kitten ears.”
“OK. I’d be excited for that too.” Smiling, Morgan lifted her hands in surrender.
“Mommy, there’s something sticky in my hair,” Ava cried.
Morgan sniffed Ava’s hair. “It’s just a little syrup. Into the bathroom.”
She led the way into the next room. Kicking the step stool into place for Ava, Morgan rinsed most of the syrup out. “There. All gone.”
“Now my shirt is wet,” Ava said, near tears.
“It’ll dry before you get to school.” Morgan’s headache rapped on the backs of her eyes. “The bus will be here soon. Go get your shoes.”
Sniffing, Ava left the room, and Morgan mopped up the sink.
The dogs barked in the other room. Each yap felt like a gong between her temples.
“Is that the bus?” Morgan shouted.
“No. Just me.” Lance popped his head in the doorway. Sophie was riding him piggyback. “Rough morning?”
“Just a little.” She hung the wet towel over the shower-curtain rod. “I have to get the girls on the bus. Why are we always running late?”
He glanced down at her yoga pants and water-splotched sweatshirt.
“Why don’t you change? I’ve got this.” He called over his shoulder to Mia and Ava. “Grab your gear, girls. I’ll take you to the bus.” He leaned in to give Morgan a quick kiss. “Remember, after we interview Noah’s friend Isaac this morning, we’re visiting the crime scene. I wouldn’t wear anything fancy.”
Instead of heading to her room to change, Morgan walked out of the bathroom, leaned on the wall, and watched him contain the chaos. He handed Sophie off to Gianna, then gathered kids, coats, and school gear like a pro before herding her two older girls to the bus.
When the door closed behind him, Morgan changed into dark jeans, boots, and a sweater.
He was waiting in the foyer when she came out of her room.
“Ready?”
“Thank you for that.” Morgan couldn’t help but think how much easier mornings would be if he were always here.
Lance held her coat open for her. “I love the girls, and you are not feeling your best.”
“No, I am not.” She slid her arms into the coat sleeves.
“Morgan!” her grandfather called from the living room.
She poked her head into the room. “Yes?”
“One of these camera feeds is blank.” He looked up from his laptop. “And I don’t see one for the restroom hallway at all. I’m sure they have a camera in that area.”
She crossed the floor to stand at his side. “Which one is blank?”
“One that covers the tables alongside the dance floor”—he pointed to static on his computer screen—“which is where most of the patrons are drinking.”
“And the one that would have shown if someone slipped a substance into Haley’s drink.” The ache in Morgan’s head echoed. “We cannot get a break in this case.”