Page 13 of Decoding Morse

Thia, Morgan, and I huddled beneath a security light and tallied motorcycles, twenty-three of them at first count. At least the parking lot was well-lit.

“That’s an awful lot of bikes,” Thia whispered, though the bikers couldn’t possibly hear us from where they stood.

I nodded.

“I love you, but I’m not the kind of white girl who dies first in the movie.”

“Noted. Let the record also show that I’m not thrilled about taking my teenage daughter into a biker hangout. We’re not actually doing this, are we?”

“Absolutely not.” Thia shook her head adamantly. “Is anyone packing mace? I have a rape whistle, but I’m worried that might not cut it.”

Morgan patted her small backpack purse. “I have pepper spray and a stun gun.”

I gaped at her. “Where did you get weapons? More importantly, how did I not know about this?” I was failing as a mother, wasn’t I?

“Uncle Joe.”

“Ah.” That checked out.

Joe lived in Florida and hadn’t accepted any of the invitations we’d sent for birthdays, graduations, or family get-togethers, but since Ted’s death, he’d stepped up financially. For Morgan’s eighteenth birthday, he’d sent her an electronic tablet pre-loaded with a $500 gift card for ebooks, and last Christmas, he’d enrolled her into self-defense classes. It shouldn’t surprise me he’d armed her for safety.

“You know how to use them?”

“Of course. The classes he sent me to covered weapons. I know how to shoot a gun, too. And I’ve watched several tutorials on YouTube.”

I had lost control over the situation... no, over my daughter.

Appreciation morphed into anger.

What a goddamn interloper. He hadn’t even come to Ted’s funeral, but he’d made sure our daughter knew how to shoot a gun. Without clearing it with me first? Who did he think he was?

Yet, I couldn’t be too mad since at least someone had ensured Morgan could defend herself. Ted and I had talked about sending her to classes, but his death had been the tidal wave that wreaked havoc on my world. I survived the experience, but it sent everything into chaos. Although I’d never met him, Joe had stepped in when I needed him most, arranging the funeral and handling everything remotely.

And now, thanks to Joe, my daughter was better equipped to protect us than Thia and I put together. Between the pain pulsing down my left leg and my absolute lack of weapons, I experienced an acute pang of inadequacy for my severe lack of preparation for this. Then again, nobody could have predicted this bizarre scenario.

Morse finished his conversation and headed in our direction.

“What’s the worst that can happen if we climb back in our cars right now and burn rubber out of here?” I whispered to Thia. “We upset an old friend? I can live with that.”

“You could die,” Morgan said, her tone eerily solemn as her gaze met mine. “We already lost Dad. I don’t want to chance losing you. At least hear Morse out.”

It was likely stupid to entertain advice from an eighteen-year-old who would avoid most of humanity if given the chance, but looking into her somber brown eyes, how could I say no? Morgan had always been an excellent judge of character.Besides, I trusted Morse, too. He’d always been protective and time clearly hadn’t wiped that instinct away.

“He does seem to believe your life is in danger,” Thia added with a shrug. “He picked up the bill for your daughter’s car repairs and didn’t even ask you out to dinner. If he wanted to lure you here for some nefarious reason, seems like there’d be easier ways than fabricating a death threat.”

She had a point. Yet despite her reassurances, when Morse reached us, it was Thia who threatened to mace him if he didn’t answer some questions.

“You better start talking right now,” she demanded. “Where the hell are we?”

“Ladies,” he swept a hand toward the building. “Welcome to the headquarters of the Dead Presidents Motorcycle Club.”

6

Amelia

MY MOUTH FELL open while I absorbed Morse’s proud announcement. I’d hoped he would tell me I was mistaken, but he’d only confirmed my suspicions. “A biker den? That’s your idea of a safe house?”

“Not just any biker den. This is the home of the Dead Presidents.”

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