Raw Edges (10 page)

She glanced out the other windows, taking care to stay hidden. Cop cars with light bars rolling red and white waited at the main entrance and the rear parking lot. If she tried to climb down the alley wall, she’d be totally exposed. How long would they search for her?

She needed a vehicle but had to get clear of the cops before she stole one. Sliding her phone free, she considered. Not Andre—first, he’d be surrounded by cops at Gibson’s house, and second, he’d be on Jenna’s side, want Morgan to do the right thing, trust the cops to figure things out. As if that ever actually worked.

Micah. He didn’t live far from here, and no one would ever suspect him. All she needed was twenty minutes of his time, and she’d be gone.

Still…she actually had doubts. A twinge of remorse. So unlike her. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust that Micah would come through, it was that she knew he would. And she hated getting him involved in anything to do with Clint, no matter how remote.

Clint could never know about Micah. But it wasn’t like Clint was anywhere near here. Micah would be safe. She hit the speed dial. “Hey. Got a few minutes? I could use your help—and a ride.”

“Sure,” he said. So trusting. She worried that someday it might get him killed—it’d already gotten his neck sliced open and him thrown in juvie for something he didn’t do. Maybe it was good she was in his life, if only to watch out for him.

She gave Micah directions and removed her pink coat. As much as she liked it—despite it being absolutely not Morgan’s style, it was the first time she’d ever been complimented on something she’d worn—it was way too visible. Even if she turned it inside out, the lining was a shiny silver that would do her no favors. She shivered. Carried the coat over to the window with the debris chute.

The plastic tunnel rippled in the wind but seemed fairly sturdy—it would need to be to handle construction trash. She poked her head inside, assessing the drop and what lay at the bottom, but it was too dark to see. She could be jumping into a dumpster filled with broken glass and twisted metal beneath the fiberglass insulation, who knew?

Maybe the coat could come in handy after all. She wadded it into a ball and stuffed it down the chute. Then she climbed in, feet first, face to the room, and hung by her hands from the bottom of the window frame. The plastic chute was slippery, no way to get a handhold. Nothing to do but take a leap of faith.

She let go and fell.

GIBSON ALMOST DIDN’T
need the car’s heater. The glow of triumph after following the cops and Morgan here to their squalid little manhunt HQ and now sitting right across the parking lot watching them get nowhere was more than enough to keep him warm. Clint wanted the girl, but instead of playing the game, following the trail of clues he’d left her, Morgan had brought the cops into his mother’s house—into Gibson’s home—and now he was having fun imagining other fates for Morgan Ames.

The other convicts, the two brothers waiting impatiently for Clint to bring them their payment for busting him out, the ones who jeered at Gibson every time he went to replenish their supply of beer and pizza, they’d reward him handsomely if he took Morgan to them. They wouldn’t be foolish enough to kill her—not if they wanted their money from Clint—but they’d teach her a lesson, that’s for sure. Pretty young thing like Morgan…oh, what they’d do to her.

No way in hell would Clint want her as his partner after that.

Two birds. Instead of taking Morgan directly to Clint, he’d deliver her to the brothers. He held their trust, barely, but that was waning with every day that Clint hadn’t delivered the money he’d promised them. Morgan would keep them happy and occupied until Gibson could prove to Clint that he was the worthy one, not her. All he needed was another day, just one more day. Then Clint—hell, the whole damned world—would know once and for all that he was his father’s son, capable of the same awful greatness as Clinton Caine.

Imagining Clint’s expression of awe and pride when he saw how Gibson had taken Clint’s simple plan and made it so much greater added to Gibson’s satisfaction. He would show them, show them all exactly who Gibson Radcliffe really was. And all he needed was to get his hands on Clint’s precious baby girl.

The back door of the building flew open, startling him from his fantasies. Morgan appeared briefly, tossing a purse out into the snow, then vanished again. Gibson hunched down, out of sight, angling the mirrors to watch. A minute or so later, cops came clumping through the doors—both the front and the rear, circling around, obviously looking for someone.

Morgan. What the hell was she up to? He shifted the car into gear and pulled out, turning into the alley beside the building, inching past the construction dumpster then turning onto the main road, most of his attention still watching the building in his rearview mirror.

The cops set up patrol cars at the front and rear doors. Several officers scoured the parking lot, checking each car, while others drove away, lights flashing but no sirens.

Gibson circled the block. By the time he returned to his starting point, the cops had cleared the parking lot, leaving only a pair at each exit. Morgan was still inside the building. How long would it take for them to find her? Where would she go? Would she hide like a coward or did she have a plan?

He drove around the block one more time, making sure no one was paying attention to him, then parked, this time in front of a nail salon in the strip mall across the street. He couldn’t see the doors to the building as well as he had from his first vantage point, but Morgan wouldn’t be coming through them, he was sure. Instead, he focused on the side alley.

After a few minutes with no activity at the building, he wondered if he’d lost her when he’d been circling the block. But then a red car slowed and turned into the alley, parking beside the dumpster.

A cascade of pink insulation rose up, and Morgan appeared, her pink coat draped over her head and shoulders, making her almost impossible to see until she shook her dark hair loose. A guy jumped out of the car, climbed up onto its trunk, and helped lift Morgan out of the dumpster.

It was all over in a few seconds. But not so fast that Gibson didn’t catch the way the driver hugged Morgan, despite the fiberglass covering her, or the possessive hand planted against the small of her back as he escorted her into his car.

They pulled out of the alley, Gibson following them. Morgan was Clint’s weak spot, and he knew how to put her to good use. Especially now that he’d found Morgan’s weak spot: Mr. Driver, her Sir Galahad, riding to her rescue.

He slapped the steering wheel and cranked up the Slayer playing on the stereo. This was going to be so much fun!

“WHERE TO?” MICAH
asked as he steered his Ford Focus onto route 22 and drove away from the improvised police command post. Morgan was slouched down low below the dash, covered by her coat, strands of pink fiberglass itching. The coat had saved her from too much exposure to the noxious fibers and had protected her from the bits of drywall below the insulation. She might have a few bruises from her leap of faith but nothing worse. Except she’d lost one of her knives, her favorite CQC blade, during the fall.

Once they were past the two traffic lights with cameras, she climbed up onto the front seat and answered Micah’s question. “Anywhere there’s a parking lot.”

They weren’t that far from the mall—always a good place to go car shopping. Although this time of day, that usually meant the employee vehicles parked in the rear, far from any security. Morgan hated taking cars from worker bees just trying to earn. Not only did the owners miss them immediately, they were usually crap cars. Which was why she normally picked up cars from the airport long-term parking—also convenient for returns, not to mention free housing for the duration. Once she had the owners’ name and address, learning details of their itinerary was child’s play.

“There.” She pointed to the entrance to a warehouse store sitting in the middle of a shopping center. Not the best place to grab a new set of wheels, but there was an office building beside it with a small parking garage. After she left Micah, that’s where she’d head.

He made the turn, pulled into an empty parking space at the far edge of the lot where a few scraggly bushes posing as landscaping gave them some semblance of privacy.

“All that stuff back there,” Micah started. “Who were you running from? Why were the cops there?”

No sense hiding a truth he could learn for himself with thirty seconds and Google. “Those were the cops looking for Clinton Caine and the other escaped prisoners.”

“Clinton Caine? The serial killer?” He undid his seatbelt so that he could turn to face her.

Morgan thought about running—it was her default and usually served her well—but something held her back. She wished she knew exactly what it was and why she couldn’t ignore it.

“What’s Caine have to do with you? You didn’t cross his path during one of your cases, did you?” As far as Micah knew, Morgan was an emancipated minor working with investigators who put her especially youthful looks to good use by sending her undercover. Close to the truth but also so very, very far away.

She hesitated. Debated not answering. How far could she trust him?

“Morgan. Tell me the truth. I want to know. Everything.” His ice-blue eyes bore into her. He wasn’t asking a question, yet he was asking the most important question of all.

Morgan considered her response carefully. She knew what she wanted to say, knew exactly the words to use to convince him his suspicions were wrong. She had one hand on the car door, ready to bolt.

But then she turned to face him, pulling her knees up to her chest, so close that his face filled her vision—yet also very far apart, separated by far more than a gear shift. She wanted to trust him. Needed to trust him. With the truth.

Even if it meant losing him.

“Clinton Caine is my father.” The words hung between them, long enough that she imagined them sprouting devil’s horns and wings as they jeered at her. “He raised me. I’ve never been to school—not since third grade. Never been around kids or a mother or, really, not anyone at all. Except Clint.”

Micah was smart—especially about people. So it was no surprise he understood everything behind her words. His breath escaped him with a whooshing sound and he pulled both fists into his belly as if he’d been sucker punched. Despite the weatherman’s optimistic predictions, it was cold enough outside that their breathing quickly fogged the windows, creating a cocoon of intimacy.

“Clint didn’t want a daughter,” she continued, without mercy for herself or him. Funny, she didn’t feel hot or cold, not even scared. Just weary. Relieved she wouldn’t have to carry on this charade of pretending to be a normal human girl with normal human emotions.

“He wanted a partner,” Micah finished for her. “I read about him. About what he did.”

She nodded. Waited for him to run—it’s what she would do if their situations were reversed.

Micah didn’t run. He reached across the space that separated them, tugged at her hand, and pressed it to his heart. He felt so warm—or maybe it was simply that she was so numb.

“Those women he kidnapped and tortured. He made you part of that?”

“Yes.” The word sounded so tiny and harmless. But with it she surrendered everything. “He taught me how to fish—that was his word for it. Going fishing. Using me as bait. When I got good at that, he taught me how to do…other things to his precious little fish. He liked the way I could make them scream.”

She felt his body stiffen beneath her palm, absorbing the blow. “Did
you
like it?”

How to explain? “I liked being good at something. When Clint was happy with me, with what I did, it was as if God had reached down and handed me the whole universe wrapped in a ribbon. I lived to make him smile.”

“He conditioned you. Taught you.”

“Yes. But I think I’m also wired like he is. I’m not like normal people. Somehow I’m different inside. I don’t feel things the same way you do. I’m…empty.”

She blinked. That was something she’d never admitted before, not even to herself. She’d always told herself that being different meant being special, that not feeling made her superior to the sheep and fish that filled this world. But after meeting Micah, all that changed. Not who she was—that was hardwired. Rather, who she
wanted
to be.

It wasn’t merely that Morgan trusted Micah—she also trusted Andre but still never let her guard totally drop when she was around him. No. This was much, much worse than that.

Micah made her feel safe.

Except now he was shaking his head. It was too much for him. He’d be leaving her soon, she was certain.

“Did you,” he swallowed and started again. “Did you kill anyone?”

“Yes.” Her tone was as blunt as a two-by-four. “And I enjoyed it—it’s the one thing I’m good at.”

A frown pulled his eyebrows together and he turned to face her again, a hand on each of her elbows, gripping her tight. “No. Morgan, that’s not true. I understand—kinda—what you’re telling me. I can only imagine what it was like, growing up that way. But you can’t truly believe that. You’re so smart and brave and—look what you did when we first met. You saved my life. Not just mine. And you did it without killing anyone.”

Before she could protest, he pulled her in close and kissed her. It wasn’t as sweet as their first kiss, or as tentative. This time it was Micah telling her what he felt, what he believed but did not have the words for.

Morgan couldn’t help herself. She wrapped her arms around him, wanting more.

Finally they parted. She traced a finger along the scar on his neck, brushed his hair away from his face. “You should leave. Me. Now. Forever.”

“No.” He lay his hand over hers, pressing her palm against his cheek.

“Seriously. Micah. I’m selfish and impulsive, and I’ll always put my needs before anyone else’s, and I’m manipulative, and—”