Page 6 of Decoding Morse

I appreciated her concern, but this was getting ridiculous. “No. You’re not taking time off work to hold my hand. I’m a grown woman. I can handle this.” Tapping the appointment, I said, “There. All scheduled.”

“Promise me you’ll at least see if they can get you pain pills for the trip.”

“I’ll be driving.”

“Not at night, you won’t. Pain pills might help you sleep.”

But first, I had to suffer through the cruel and unusual punishment of a doctor’s appointment. “Fine. I will ask for drugs.”

“I’m proud of you for prioritizing your health.”

I flipped off her smart ass but kept the gesture on the side of my body where Morgan couldn’t see. Thia’s eyes bugged out comically, and she returned the gesture, flying both birds at me. Most days, we were the very definition of immature, and I loved it.

“I’m sending you a list of materials I need from Lowes,” Morgan said.

“For what?” Thia and I asked together.

“So I can fix the toilet. The how-to video I saved listed these as the necessary supplies.”

While my brain screeched to a halt, veered to the side, and jumped another train track, actual engines rumbled outside, drawing nearer before stopping in front of our house.

Bailey went crazy, yapping and trying to jump through the front window.

Morgan joined the dog, parting the curtain to peer outside.

“Uh, Mom, why are there motorcycles parked in our driveway?”

3

Morse

FOR AS LONG as I’d known her, Amelia had lived in a ’60s-era single-family home in a quiet Lakewood cul-de-sac. The moment it came into view, my shoulders relaxed. The house was still standing with no evidence of a disturbance, which meant Amelia had to be okay.

Video footage of the property popped up on my monitor every day. I knew about the small, raised garden bed she’d planted behind the house. Last spring, she’d added bright orange mums to the mix. I hadn’t known shit about flowers but had looked them up, so I’d be in the know.

Maybe I’d finally get the chance to see what they smelled like.

This was recent information I shouldn’t know about my deceased recruiter’s wife, but I couldn’t help myself. Amelia was my meth. She was the drug I couldn’t stop craving, no matter how hard I tried.

The lights were on. Amelia’s roommate’s car was parked in front of the garage, so I pulled up next to it and parked, stillclueless as to what the fuck to say. I was about to see her face-to-face for the first time in four years.

At Ted’s funeral. Even though he’s dead, she’s still his wife, dumbass, so keep your eyeballs in your head.

My attention stayed fixed on the front door as I threw my leg over my bike and removed my helmet. How could I convince her she was in danger?

Havoc, the club’s sergeant at arms, parked behind me. Rabbit—a brother who deliberately held no titles nor responsibilities other than his position as a mechanic—pulled in beside him. Rabbit was a special case. Life had fucked him over good, and the shit he’d seen had rattled his cage. That, we had in common. But where Rabbit showed his crazy on a stage for all the world to see, I kept mine locked behind the scenes.

I admired the hell out of the way he was always one hundred percent authentically himself. Of course, I’d never admit that out loud.

And when I’d called for help, he’d answered.

“How do you want to play this?” Havoc asked.

People often deferred to me to cover their surveillance needs, but leading an on-site operation... this was unfamiliar territory. We were out to sea, and I was so far out of my depth I could barely tread water.

But if I failed, Amelia would be the one to drown.

This would be so much easier if it was a code I could crack or a signal I could trace.

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