Remaking Morgan Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  REMAKING MORGAN | Pine Hills Police Book 6 | Terry Odell

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Acknowledgments

  A Note From the Author

  Sign up for Terry Odell's Mailing List

  Further Reading: In Hot Water

  Also By Terry Odell

  About the Author

  For Feebie and rescue pets everywhere, and all the wonderful people who adopt them.

  REMAKING MORGAN

  Pine Hills Police Book 6

  Terry Odell

  Copyright © 2019 by Terry Odell

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Chapter 1

  MORGAN TATE’S HEART sank as she pulled into the driveway of the ramshackle Victorian home she’d inherited. The misty drizzle didn’t do anything to enhance the house’s appearance. Leave it to Uncle Bob to saddle her with a money pit.

  After four long days on the road, worrying about Austin and what she’d find in Pine Hills had her stomach churning like a washing machine on spin cycle. Seeing the house had her dreams for Austin slipping down the drain.

  Austin’s talents needed nurturing, and arranging a way for him to leave Dublin, Ohio, to escape with her had been a dream. His mother had promised to get Austin to his music lessons while Morgan was away—if she wasn’t too boozed up to handle it. Inheriting this house had seemed like a dream come true. Show his mother Austin was better off with her for now, in a new town in a nice neighborhood.

  She stared at the dilapidated structure, wondering how she could put her plan to work.

  You’ll figure it out.

  Morgan had never met her uncle. Their relationship had been birthday and Christmas cards, which had stopped when she was ten. Tempted to drive away, Morgan turned off her car before she chickened out and hightailed it back to Dublin, where Austin needed her.

  You’re in Pine Hills, Oregon, because Austin needs you.

  She should call Edmund Hathaway, the lawyer who’d handled Uncle Bob’s estate. With a deep breath, Morgan brought up the lawyer’s contact information in her phone and made the call. As expected, she got his receptionist, the stodgy Mrs. Braithwhite.

  “Mr. Hathaway is at lunch, Miss Tate,” the woman said.

  “Please tell him I’m at the house. I haven’t been inside, but it’s not looking good. Nothing like the picture on the web. Will the terms of the trust still stand if the house is uninhabitable?”

  “I’ll check and have him call you,” Mrs. Braithwhite said.

  Morgan thanked her and ended the call.

  According to Mr. Hathaway, the place had been vacant for the last five years. If the place was uninhabitable, what did that mean for her plan to start a new life in Pine Hills? A way to get Austin into a healthier environment, a place where his talents could grow.

  One step at a time.

  Cursing her hands, painful after so much time holding a steering wheel, Morgan fished the keys to the house from her purse, zipped her windbreaker up to her chin, and pulled the hood over her head. Wouldn’t matter. At the slightest bit of humidity, her hair frizzed into a million wild corkscrews.

  Her heart pounding in anticipation, she slung her purse over her shoulder and strode for the porch steps. She halted at the bottom to assess their condition before barreling up. The second step was half gone, its wooden plank split in two, dangling into the space beneath. Clutching the rail, Morgan tested each step before trusting it to hold her weight.

  The key slid easily into the lock. Morgan gave it a twist and pushed the door open. Although it was early afternoon, the cloudy skies shrouded the interior in dull gray. She reached for the light switch. Nothing.

  She frowned. Mr. Hathaway told her he’d have the utilities turned on for her arrival.

  Morgan had never visited, and had no idea what condition the place had been in while Uncle Bob lived here. She’d been shocked to learn Uncle Bob had left everything to her. Apparently, she was his only living relative.

  She stood in the entryway, assessing what was supposed to be her home for the next year. No broken windows, a plus. Hardwood floors, another plus. They’d need work, but a couple of area rugs would suffice for a while. The turret living room with its three lofty windows held a lone, sorry-looking green couch. Not another stick of furniture in the room. Definite minus.

  An old card table comprised the entire dining room furniture.

  In the eat-in kitchen, the door of the avocado-green fridge stood open, revealing a whole lot of empty. The gas stove was of the same vintage.

  She braved a peek into the oven. Yuck. Whoever’d used it last hadn’t cleaned it in months—or ever. One of the burner covers was missing. Several cabinet doors hung from their hinges. A quick survey revealed a lone, dusty can of pork and beans, way, way past its expiration date.

  Was there furniture in the bedrooms? Would the bathrooms function once the water was turned on? If she had to stay here for a year, did today count as day one? Could she rent another place until she had bare-bones furnishings and functioning utilities?

  Why didn’t you think of this before you committed to this arrangement?

  Onward. The upstairs awaited. More creaky stairs, but at least these were all intact. She ran her fingertips along the dust-covered wood rail of the staircase, with its turned balusters. Definitely a plus-column feature.

  She opened the door to the first bedroom. Room might
be a more appropriate description since there was no bed. This room, also part of the turret, lay above the living room and overlooked the street. Morgan stepped inside, turned.

  Her heart leaped to her throat. Blood pounded in her ears. She’d have sunk to the bed if there’d been one to sit on.

  The words I WARNED YOU! NOW YOU’RE DEAD! written in red-brown paint—at least she hoped it was paint—stood out in stark contrast against the dingy gray wall. She whirled. Was someone here?

  She took a few slow breaths, finding her phone in her purse as she told herself to stay calm. After snapping a few pictures of the graffiti, she rushed down the stairs and worked her phone for directions to the nearest police station.

  COLE PATTON CURSED under his breath as the paper he was wrestling into a file folder one-upped him with a paper cut. He startled at the harsh double-beep from his desk. An internal call. A reprieve from filing duty? He tilted the file folder to mark his place, then marched to his desk and lifted the receiver.

  “Patton.”

  “Got a citizen for you,” Doranna, the front desk clerk said. Nothing in her tone gave away what the nature of the call might be. In Cole’s year on the Pine Hills Police force, he’d never heard Doranna use any other tone, be it for a robbery or a lost cat.

  “Be right out.” Cole replaced the handset in the cradle.

  He made sure his uniform shirt was properly tucked in, adjusted his nametag, and grabbed a clipboard with its stack of report forms. In reception, a woman—late twenties, early thirties, he guessed—sat in one of the four chairs. Her hair was a mass of tight, dark brown curls, glistening with water droplets. She wore black slacks, a gray pullover, and black leather slip-ons. A damp blue windbreaker lay on the chair beside her. Not someone he recognized, and in a town as small as Pine Hills, Cole had run into a good number of its citizens while running his patrol routes.

  Her foot tapped impatiently.

  Cole strode her way, schooling his features into a neutral expression. Smiling, he’d learned, could be interpreted as trivializing a citizen’s problem.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Officer Cole Patton. What can I help you with today?”

  She raised her gaze, focused deep brown eyes to meet his.

  He readjusted his take. She was scared, not impatient.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” she said. Despite the fear in her eyes, her tone conveyed confusion.

  He sat in the vacant chair beside her and wrote the date and time on the intake form. “Let’s start at the beginning. Your name?”

  “Morgan Tate.”

  “Your address?”

  “I’m not exactly sure of that, either.” She gazed at her lap for a moment, then met his eyes again.

  Damn, her eyes reminded him of a fawn’s. He shifted his gaze down a fraction to her cheeks, the color of his morning latte after stirring in the whipped cream. Wide mouth, full lips with a peach-colored shimmer.

  “Go on,” he said, keeping his tone professional. Concerned. Interested.

  “It’s complicated. I inherited my Uncle Bob’s house on Elm Street. Six Four Two.” She gave a quiet chuckle. “It’s turning into a nightmare. Not like the movie. Just ... weird.”

  “I know the house,” Cole said. “It’s been empty for some time.”

  “Five years. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Ms. Tate, are you reporting a crime?”

  She shook her head, sending her curls whirling around her face. “No. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. Not right now.”

  Cole could usually categorize the people who filed reports before they were a minute in. Morgan Tate wasn’t fitting into any of his boxes. Definitely not what Scott Whelan, another of the front desk crew, called Lonely Old Ladies. Nor was she a badge bunny. Or someone just trying to be a good citizen. If not for those fawn eyes, Cole would have taken her report as quickly as possible and sent her on her way.

  “What makes you think there might be a crime involved?” Cole asked.

  Morgan tugged at a curl and let it spring back. “Maybe I should show you.”

  “Please,” Cole said.

  She fished around in a voluminous leather purse and brought out a cell phone. “I was checking out the house because I’m supposed to live there for a year. I’m moving here from Ohio.”

  Cole waited for Morgan to continue.

  She tapped and swiped for a moment, then tilted her phone so he could see the screen. “This was on one of the bedroom walls. I thought maybe you—the police—would know if anything had happened in that house within the last five or so years.”

  “May I?” Cole gestured toward the phone.

  Morgan handed it over.

  Cole read the threatening words. Definitely enough to upset anyone. “It’s not fresh, is it?”

  Morgan’s eyes widened. “You mean, did I touch it to find out? Hell—I mean, heck no. I stayed long enough to take the pictures and came straight over.”

  Cole returned her phone. “Most likely kids playing pranks. I’ll check, see if anyone’s aware of anything connected to this ... message. I can’t recall anything related to that property since I’ve been here.”

  “That’s fine. I need to make some calls, find a place to stay, talk to the lawyer in charge of this nightmare.”

  Cole left her, wondering if she’d still be there when he got back. A quick run through the computer didn’t reveal any reports of crimes near the Elm Street address. He ambled down the hall, knuckled the half-open door to the detectives’ office, then stepped inside. Randy Detweiler, all six feet, six inches of him, turned from where he stood by the window.

  “Have a minute, Sir?” Cole said.

  Detweiler returned to his desk, motioning for Cole to have a seat. “What do you need?”

  “You know the empty house on Elm?” Cole asked.

  “The eyesore? Sure. Something go down there? Squatters using it?”

  Cole explained what Morgan Tate had told him. “I couldn’t find records of any crimes. Thought you might know of any incidents before my time. Can’t see anyone painting that on the wall if the house was lived in.”

  Detweiler appeared to be mulling it over, running through the data banks in his head. In his short time with the force, Cole had learned the man’s brain often rivaled the department’s computer systems. “Can’t say that I have. What color was the paint?”

  “From the phone picture, a deep reddish-brown.”

  Another moment of thought, much shorter. “Run over and cover our collective asses by doing a presumptive test for blood.”

  “Isn’t that kind of ... horror movie stuff?” Cole asked, thinking of the movie Morgan had inserted into his head. “Writing messages in blood?”

  “Our job is to make sure it isn’t,” Detweiler said. “Hence, my CYA statement.”

  “On it, Sir.” Cole stood.

  “I can’t remember anything untoward about Bob Tate, but I’ll run some searches.” Detweiler reached for his computer mouse.

  Cole went to Doranna’s desk, separated from reception by a glass partition, and dropped off his sketchy report. “Stick this one in pending for now.”

  “Will do,” Doranna said.

  Through the glass, he watched as Morgan paced in front of the chairs, her phone to her ear, her other hand alternating between a clenched fist and outstretched fingers. Cole opened the door to reception. He wasn’t eavesdropping, he rationalized. Morgan was making no attempt to conceal her words.

  A fist. “I can’t stay there tonight.”

  A pause as she listened, head nodding and shaking, hand opening and closing.

  “If I don’t?” she asked.

  Another pause, longer this time. Cole counted six more fist clenches.

  “I understand.” She lowered the phone.

  He stepped into the room. “Ms. Tate?”

  From the downcast expression on her face, whatever she understood wasn’t good news.

  Chapter 2

  FRUSTRATED AT WHAT Mr. Hathaway
had told her, Morgan dropped her phone into her purse. Officer Patton moved toward her. “Did you find something?” she asked.

  “No. One of the detectives said he’d dig deeper. He wants me to go to the house and look around.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” she said.

  Now that the initial shock had worn off, she needed to take better stock. Mr. Hathaway had reiterated the terms of the trust and answered questions she’d been too stupid to ask before.

  At the house, Morgan parked in the driveway. The misty drizzle had turned into genuine rain. Was this normal for April? Another adjustment she’d have to make.

  She waited until Officer Patton pulled up behind her before making a dash for the porch. He was several paces behind, cradling a camera to his chest and carrying a small case in his other hand. She spared a moment to take a closer look.

  At the police station, she’d paid little attention to his appearance other than he filled out his uniform shirt nicely and had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Eyes that seemed to say he cared about getting answers for her. Now, he wore a form-hiding black windbreaker and a ball cap, both displaying the words ‘Pine Hills Police.’ Judging his height against her own five-six, she estimated he was a shade under six feet.

  What was she doing? Memorizing him in case she had to pick him out of a lineup? No, he was a man, she was a woman. Assessment of others was hardwired.

  She unlocked the door, and when he didn’t interfere, she pushed it open. “It’s upstairs,” she said. “First bedroom on the right. Is it all right if I finish my tour while you do your thing? I need to take stock of what’s still in the house and the condition it’s in.”

  Mr. Hathaway had said she had to provide detailed documentation if she wanted to argue against having to live in the house in its current state per the terms of Uncle Bob’s trust.

  Would the officer think she was afraid to look at the bedroom wall? What difference did it make if he did? Just because he was a good-looking man in uniform didn’t mean she had to impress him.

  “As long as you’re careful and let me know if you see anything out of place,” he said.