Page 3 of Secret Crush

"Yeah. Dad knew too. There was nothing any of us could do to bring Vicki back. Come home."

John hung up and took the elevator to his office and picked up his report, then went to stand outside a conference room that overlooked Atlanta. Peter's call changed everything. John's boss, Special Agent Smith, waved him in.

This was it. John's throat was parched.

A part of him had failed. He'd never see Mitch Morgan in handcuffs.

Smith leaned back in his office chair, near the wall, and took his time. John stayed still and noticed the dead flowers on a cabinet in the corner of his office. Smith nodded at him. "You're on now, John. Go."

John's mind was in a daze. His skin felt clammy. He was supposed to give his report on white-collar crime statistics and an oral report on what happened at the Hudson estate.

His father's old friend had been taken down in this investigation, but no one had ever uncovered any evidence on Mitch Morgan. Now, he'd never find it. Dad was dead.

He rubbed his forehead. Then he slid the report across the table. "I can't do this right now."

"What's the matter, Morgan?" His boss clasped his hands together.

John swallowed and gazed into the older man's brown eyes. Special Agent Smith already hated him. John bet that his boss knew and expected the spoiled heir to return to his life of privilege. Pressing his lips together, he said, "My father is dead."

Smith's nose curled and his tone was the same he used when interrogating someone. "Your father owns more than half the corporate businesses in this country, and much of that came from illegal activities."

"We've never found evidence."

Smith pressed his hands on his desk. "He needs to pay for his crimes."

"You can't prosecute a dead man."

John placed his hands in his pockets as he quoted the law and perspiration trickled down his spine. "I have to go."

In his dark suit, Special Agent Smith stood and then crossed his arms. "Don't bother coming back."

Now that Mitch Morgan was dead, Peter was the heir, but John would likely inherit billions of stolen dollars. The House of Morgan was richer than 99.9 percent of the world's population with stock in oil production, electricity, computer intellectual property, banking, and every other investment a hundred years of savvy ancestors had made. John turned around at the door. Smith wasn't worth his time. He shrugged. "Does this mean I'm fired?"

"It would if I had anything on you." His boss glared at him as his face reddened. "You're useless to me now."

John's shoulders tightened. The FBI had been his purpose for years. He didn't know what to say. He held his jaw tight. Smith had never liked him on his team, but who understood Mitch Morgan better than his own son? They both knew where they stood. Despite the animosity, he couldn't be fired, not by Smith, not without cause, and there was none. John left. He'd be better off finding out about Frank's interrogation.

No one said anything to him on his way to the elevator. As he waited to leave the building, he texted Peter.I'm coming home. I'll text my arrival time when I get to the airport.

Peter texted right back.Take the private jet.

John shook his head. He walked into the elevator, hit the button for the first floor, and let his mind wander. He remembered his sister's tears the month before she died. He vowed to never let something like that happen to anyone else he loved.

The House of Morgan, which was how they were raised to say family, changed with her death. Despite being the spitting image of his dad, John would never be like his old man, though he'd go to his funeral.

It was a farce he needed to experience for himself.

As the elevator doors opened, he took one final look around the FBI headquarters in Atlanta. The pristine white building once commanded him to believe in justice at all costs. He coughed and realized he no longer believed that. He wasn't sure of his own purpose anymore, but Peter was right on one thing. He had nothing left at the FBI.

John put on his sunglasses to block the blinding sun and hurried out the door.

Today he'd go home. Then he'd figure out what he was supposed to do next. Vengeance left him empty and unfulfilled.

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