Page 43 of See How They Hide

Michael called, “Mr. Morrison? FBI.”

Silence. But there was a smell Kara recognized.

So did Michael.

He motioned for her to go in to the right. Simultaneously, Michael entered and went left. They circled the main room looking for any threat. A deep chill permeated the entire cabin, as if the place hadn’t been heated for weeks. A black stove in the corner of the room was cold, the fire long died out.

Michael went to the kitchen and Kara walked to the back, checking behind each door as she went. Closet. Bathroom. Office.

In the center of the office a body lay very, very dead on the floor. The windows in the room had been cracked open, which had helped minimize the putrid smell as well as partially preserve the body, but decomposition had long ago begun.

She called out to Michael, brought up her phone and compared the DMV photo of Jesse Morrison to the corpse.

She was eighty percent certain they were the same person, but she wouldn’t swear to it in court.

Michael stepped in and swore under his breath. “I need to clear upstairs. Stay put.”

Great, she thought as Michael left again. She got to watch the body. She stared at what was left of the computer. Someone had destroyed it.

Michael returned a minute later, had Matt on the phone. “We’ll get the coroner to confirm, but I’m pretty certain it’s Morrison. He was tortured.”

Kara looked again at the body. She hadn’t noticed immediately, but now saw that fingers were missing from his hand.

She glanced away, then saw three severed fingers sitting on the desk. She wasn’t a squeamish cop, butdamnher stomach started to churn. She focused on Michael and breathing normally.

Michael was listening to Matt, then said, “Okay—we’ll wait for them.” He pocketed his phone and said, “Matt’s having Jim and Sloane drive up from Santa Fe. It’s a three-hour drive. They’re leaving now.”

“So that means we’re staying overnight?”

“Ryder is getting us a place,” Michael said.

There were answers here, Kara knew. They just had to find them.

“No poppies,” she said.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Michael said. “Matt said to search the house, except for the office—we need to wait for Jim and the coroner to process the body.”

George Stewart was standing on the threshold. “The sheriff just called. An anonymous caller, male, reported Morrison’s death.”

“When?”

“Not five minutes ago. But get this—when the sheriff listened to the call, he recognized the background noise. The caller is at a diner on the edge of town. Ten minutes from here.”

17

South Fork, Colorado

Riley and Andrew sat in a diner only five miles from where Jesse Morrison lay dead in his own home.

They hadn’t said more than a few words since they discovered his body. The coffee they ordered was barely touched.

When they first found Jesse, they’d run from the cabin, in a panic, as if the long-gone killer was still in the house. Then, without discussion, they went back together.

The smell of death had permeated everywhere in the cabin. They spoke quietly, out of fear or respect, or both.

“He’s been dead for at least two weeks,” Andrew said. “Could be longer, I don’t know.”

“He wouldn’t betray us,” Riley said. “Right? He wouldn’t do that.”

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