Page 22 of Not This Soon

Mr. Morris just shrugged a single time.

Rachel took a steadying breath, the weight of the Morris family's turmoil settling heavily on her shoulders. She turned her attention back to Mr. Morris, her voice level but insistent. "Mr. Morris, I need you to tell me more about these articles. Who exactly was affected by them?"

Mr. Morris huffed, his eyes darting away from Rachel's probing gaze. He fiddled with his phone, seemingly reluctant to divulge more information. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice low and strained. "Some business associates of mine. People who had invested in my company. Rebecca's articles... they painted them in a bad light. Accused them of insider trading and other illegal activities."

Rachel leaned forward, her interest piqued. "And were those accusations true?"

"No!" Mr. Morris's response was sharp, his hand slamming down on the table. "They were baseless lies, meant to ruin good people's reputations. Rebecca had no proof, no evidence. She just wanted to stir up trouble."

Rachel nodded slowly, she kept her face expressionless and her tone impassive, adopting a veneer of stoicism. “I need specific names, please.”

He looked trapped, but then, at a glance at his wife's teary eyes, he released a long, pent-up breath and said,

"Fine. There were three of them. Mallory Standish, an old oil man from Lubbock. Charles Thorne, a tech investor from Austin. And Elias Grant; he owns real estate all over the state.”

Rachel made quick notes of the names, jotting them down on her pad with precision. She did not miss Mr. Morris's tone when he mentioned the last name, Grant. A slight hardening of his voice, a tiny furrow in his brow.

"Tell me more about Elias Grant," she prompted.

"He's... he's just a business associate," Mr. Morris responded hastily, a little too hastily.

Rachel saw how his wife looked away at the mention of Grant's name, pulling at the edges of her cardigan nervously. She stored away this observation for later reference.

"Do any of these people have reason to harm your daughter?" Rachel asked. There was no accusation in her voice, just a plain question needing an answer.

"No!" Mr. Morris exploded suddenly, surprising both women in the room. "They had nothing to do with Rebecca's disappearance! They're good people! It was all her fault! She brought this on herself!"

Mrs. Morris let out a soft sob, head bowed low as if trying to escape the harsh truth of her husband's words.

Rachel double-checked the three names she’d written down.

Rachel watched Mr. Morris silently for a moment, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands clenched into fists on the table. She was well versed in reading people, their body language often more truthful than their words. His anger was still palpable, but there was something else now, something that hadn't been there before. Fear.

"Why are you frightened, Mr. Morris?" Rachel asked softly, allowing her voice to drop into a gentle lull.

The room went quiet save for the muffled sobs of Mrs. Morris. Mr. Morris’s eyes darted towards his wife and then back to Rachel, his hardened demeanor crumbling.

"I'm not... I'm not afraid." He stammered out, refusing to meet her gaze.

"You're lying," Rachel said flatly. She held his gaze steadily, the silence in the room stretching on.

Mr. Morris opened his mouth to argue but closed it again, swallowing hard. He ran a hand through his hair, looking suddenly older and more tired.

"I didn’t want her to get involved with Elias Grant," he finally admitted in a whisper so low Rachel barely heard it.

"Elias Grant?" she prompted.

"He’s... powerful,” Mr. Morris muttered, “And dangerous."

"Dangerous how?" she pressed her fingers tapping lightly on the table in a steady rhythm, a subtle signal of her growing impatience.

Mr. Morris hesitated again, clearly wrestling with the knowledge he held. His eyes flicked worriedly towards his wife who was now quietly watching him, waiting for him to speak up.

"He's involved in some things… things he shouldn't be," Mr. Morris finally muttered, his eyes darting back to Rachel, as though pleading for understanding.

Rachel’s eyes narrowed, her mind working quickly to process this new information. “I see,” she said, her voice flat and measured.

She took a moment to observe Mrs. Morris who kept quiet through it all, her hands clasped tightly on her lap, her gaze fixed on the cold, bare table. A dozen questions bubbled in Rachel's mind, but she knew better than to ask them all at once.

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