Page 23 of Sinful Sorrow

“Do you have any resources for people like us?” Glassy eyed, Patricia looks at Fletch. “Funerals cost a lot of money. We could take out another mortgage, probably. Or sell the house and down-size. But my husband already works so hard. He just…” She sniffles. “There aren’t enough hours in the day. So maybe there’s something, a business that can help us through the steps and stuff?”

“We can definitely have someone come speak to you.” Fletch places his hand over hers and gently nods. “There are things in place to help people. We’ll have someone contact you soon.”

“Do you know who killed my sister?” Sandy draws our focus again, staring hard and demanding to be treated as an adult. She’s only sixteen. But she’s long ago grown accustomed to being treated as a mature adult. “Like, apart from Connor. We know he did it. But he didn’t actually do it. Ya know?”

“Connor is seventeen.” I hold her stare and wonder, “Do you know him? He goes to your school, right?”

“I know who he is. I see him in the halls and stuff. And my little sister used to have a bit of a thing for him, like, she’d say hey and bat her lashes at school. But he’s older and was never interested. He’s not part of my group or anything.”

“Did he and Naomi ever socialize? Friendly? Not friendly? A relationship. Shared classes. Anything?”

She shakes her head, even before I finish speaking. “He didn’t share any classes with her. Same as he doesn’t share any with me. He doesn’t live in our neighborhood, so we didn’t hang out outside of school. I’m certain he knew who she was, just as I know who he is, but there’s no connection there. He’s just someone we go to school with.”

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your sister?” I try instead. “Anyone she’s fought with? Anyone who had beef with her before the end of high school? Politics,” I remember our conversation from earlier. “Everywhere we go, politics exist. So maybe she annoyed someone? Maybe someone wanted Mason to look at them instead? Maybe someone wanted to hurt her, purely because she wasn’t the same aesthetic as the other students you were in school with. She was pretty, and social, but one’s economical place on the ladder matters, right? Especially in high school.”

Sandy nibbles on her bottom lip, thinking about my questions, and resting her elbows on the counter. She bends and sets her chin in her hands, but just as I expected, she shakes her head again. “No one. Mason and my sister have been a thing since forever, so it’s not like he was out there taunting other girls. There was no ‘I almost had him, but you stole him’ drama. My sister was a cheerleader and on a kinda bitchy squad. But she never took part in the crazy stuff. Her friend, Kallie,” she meets my eyes, to ensure I know who she means, “she was more of a crossover. She’d play in the social stuff sometimes. But that also meant she was a shield for my sister. Kallie would dabble in the gossip—create it, or put it out—then she’d spend time with Naomi, because it was peaceful to be around her. There’s no one, Detective. No one I can think of that would want to hurt my sister. High school is about slapping notes on someone’s locker or, at the extreme, deflating a person’s tires. Not stabbing an expectant mom to death when she isn’t even in high school anymore.”

“It could be someone at Copeland U,” I ponder, moving toward the car parked on the street and keeping my ears pricked as Sandy closes her front door with a gentle snick. Her mother howls in the kitchen. Completely broken and incapable of existing in a productive way in the aftermath of her daughter’s murder.

Her granddaughter’s murder, too.

I come to a stop at the edge of the Wallace’s yard, but I turn and look back at the house, leaning on the car as I study two homes, side by side. The houses themselves aren’t wildly different. Both two stories. Both with timber porches and pretty little gardens. The Wallace’s garden is tended to by Patricia and her daughters. It’s easy to tell. The mismatched plants, not at all like the masterpiece my brother has created over in New York. Small patches of dying grass in some spots, purely because maintaining a flawless lawn is an expensive task. Rose bushes that need a trim, and daisies that spring up in random patches that bring color and vibrancy to an otherwise neat yard.

The Morgans’, on the other hand, comes with a more Micah Malone flavor. My brother is gifted with a green thumb, so he doesn’t pay for gardeners. But not everyone possesses that same thumb, and the Morgans seem to have acknowledged that and hired someone who knows better.

Lawn stripes prove the mowers rolled across in the last twenty-four hours. Ornamental trees line the driveway, and the edging is cut to perfection.

Both gardens are pretty. Both frame a home filled with family.

But the Morgans prefer perfection, while the Wallaces create comfort.

“She’s only been at Copeland U for a couple of months,” Fletch murmurs, stopping on my right and pinching his lips between his thumb and finger. He does it so we can converse without anyone peeking through the curtains and knowing what we say. “Some folks can develop a grudge in a split second, so I’m not saying it’s impossible her killer was somewhere at college. But it all seems a little… extreme.”

“Extreme. Like how this person snuck into a haunted house, planted a weapon where a prop should have been, and hoped a teen would pick it up and kill a girl who was expecting a baby with her boyfriend. Who, according to the vic’s little sister, always only ever had eyes for her?” I glance to the side and meet his gaze. “This whole fucking case is extreme. The risks. The payoff. The victims—not just Naomi, but her baby, her boyfriend, her family, and friendships. The collateral on this one is extreme.”

His focus flitters across when the Morgans’ front door opens and a man steps out and stares. Then he peeks my way and continues to roll his lips. “Let’s go talk to them since we’re here. Their son lost the woman he loved. They lost the grandchild they were expecting. Probably time we get their take on all this.”

“Lead the way.” I push off the side of the car and dig my hands into my pockets as we cross the Wallace’s yard and mess up the stripes on Old Man Morgan’s luscious grass. Then we step onto a pebbled walkway and approach the porch.

“Daniel Morgan?” Fletch shows the man his badge, though I doubt he needs to be told. “My name is Detective Charlie Fletcher.” Then he tips his chin my way. “Detective Archer Malone. We’re the detectives running Naomi Wallace’s case.”

“I’m certain you know who I am.” Morgan sets his hands on his hips and looks down his nose at us both. “What I do for a living. The things I know.”

At that, Fletch nods. “We do.”

“So it won’t come as a surprise when I decline the opportunity to chat with you about an open investigation. It could be detrimental to us both.”

“Is there a reason you’re concerned about anything except us solving the murder of a girl who, in all likelihood, would have become your daughter-in-law someday? She was the mother of your grandchild, Daniel.”

“You can call me Mr. Morgan. And yes, I’m concerned about my son’s future.”

Curious, Fletch moves onto his back foot and studies him through narrowed eyes. “What are you worried about, specifically?”

“My son being accused of any wrongdoing, specifically.” Morgan wears black dress pants and one of those long sleeve sweater shirts only the truly rich enjoy. Rolling the sleeves up to his elbows, he reveals an expensive watch and takes his time to consider his words. “My son has a very promising future ahead of him, Detectives. The events of the last twenty-four hours will affect that future, purely because of what’s been lost. But if you think adding a deep-dive investigation into his life, perhaps accusing him of being the perpetrator, and slapping conspiracy charges against his name in hopes something sticks, then that is something I will not allow to happen.”

“I don’t recall ever slapping charges against anyone unless we had irrefutable proof of wrongdoing.” Fletch looks at me, a furrowed line digging between his brows. “What about you, Arch? You often make accusations prior to investigation?”

I shake my head and bring my focus back to Morgan. “Not once in my entire career. Perhaps you should take comfort in the fact that, one, we’ve already interviewed your son, Daniel. As you know, he remains free of cuffs and charges. And two, each and every person we’ve questioned on this matter has confidently expressed their belief that Mason loved his girlfriend very much.”

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