“What’s wrong?” Gianna asked.

Morgan set down her phone. “Nothing. Just a few calls I was supposed to make about the final wedding details.”

“I can make the calls for you.” Gianna buttered a slice of toast. “It’ll give me something to do, since Art won’t let me cook.”

“Are you sure?” Morgan asked.

“Positive.” Gianna bit into her toast.

“Well, you did plan half of the reception anyway. You have a real flair for party planning.”

“I loved every minute of it.” Gianna sighed wistfully.

“All right, then,” Morgan said. “The caterer needs a final head count. I’ll make a list of everything else.”

Morgan was relieved to delegate the reception details to Gianna. And Gianna seemed equally as happy to accept the responsibility.

Would they even want to go through with the wedding if they didn’t find Olivia in the next two weeks?

Morgan ate, spending a precious thirty minutes with her family—and downing two more cups of coffee—before heading for the shower. The meal and a fresh suit revived her. When she returned to the kitchen, Grandpa was scanning the leftover donuts.

“The kids and Gianna are watching cartoons.” He selected a chocolate cruller and dunked it in his coffee.

“Great, because I could really use your help today.” Morgan summarized their investigation. “Would you read the trial transcript and case files for an old murder?”

Morgan would concentrate on Erik Olander and let her grandfather pick through Cliff Franklin’s case.

“I’d be happy to. Email me everything you have.”

Morgan removed her laptop from her tote and opened her email.

What would she do without Grandpa?

Morgan’s father had been killed in the line of duty as an NYPD detective. Morgan’s older brother had been in college at the time, but her mother had moved her three daughters out of the city. She’d claimed the move was to get away from the violence, but everyone knew she’d been running away from memories. Grandpa had moved to Scarlet Falls with them. Mom had died shortly after, and Grandpa had stepped in to finish raising them.

Years later, when Morgan’s husband had died in Iraq, she had quit her job as a DA and moved back in with Grandpa. He’d been her rock.

His hand trembled as he opened his iPad and confirmed receipt of her email. His hair was pure white, and he needed a cane to walk. The thought of him aging twisted her insides into knots.

“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Morgan stood, rested a hand on his shoulder, and kissed him on the cheek.

“You would be just fine. You’re stronger than you know.”

Tears filled her eyes.

“Aw, don’t cry. I’m not dead yet.” He patted her hand. “I have no intention of going anywhere anytime soon. But someday in the distant future—very distant—you will have to manage without me. I have no doubt you’ll make me proud.”

“I know.” She swiped a fingertip under her eye. “I’m just wired.”

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” he said. “My body might be giving out, but my brain still works.”

Grandpa had decades of experience as a detective. He’d helped with several cases over the past year.

“I will.” Morgan packed up her laptop. “I have to go back to the office.”

Stepping into her pumps, she gathered her coat and bag. After a quick stop in the family room to kiss the girls goodbye, Morgan went outside and hopped into the Jeep.

She checked her messages. Neither Olivia’s agent nor her editor had responded yet. Frustrated, Morgan headed for the office. How would they find Olivia if no one would talk to them?

Sharp had dealt with a lot of tragedy and trauma in his life. It had taken him decades to let a woman into his life. If the worst happened, Morgan sensed he would not recover from losing Olivia.

Chapter Sixteen

Screech.

Startled, Olivia woke to a sprinting pulse. She had a moment of déjà vu, wondering if she’d been awoken by a noise or if it had been her imagination. She had no idea how long she had been underground or why he had taken her. Had he sent her parents a ransom demand? They didn’t have much money.

When she heard nothing for several breaths, she slowly stood. Her legs were wobbly. Pain blasted through her foot, but she limped across the room and back. She needed to move.

She stood on one foot and leaned on the wall, breathing hard. The effort of walking had stolen her wind. She tried to draw in a deep breath and failed. The effort triggered a wheeze.

No. Not just the effort.

Her asthma had been triggered by the cold air. The temperature had fallen last night, and the cellar was damp.

This was not good. Not good at all. She had no medicine. She needed to find a way out.

She caught her breath, leaned on the wall, and drank some water. Tremors burst through her and she coughed, choking on the water. Liquid dribbled down her chin. She wiped it on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. The cold drink set off another bout of shivers. She’d already consumed two full bottles of water and one protein bar. Not knowing how long she’d have to survive on her meager supplies, she was rationing.

How long had she been in the ground?

She’d examined every inch of the cellar. There was no way out other than the double doors. The cellar had been designed to store food over the winter. Carrots and potatoes didn’t need an emergency exit.

Above her, something squeaked.

Her skin prickled with alarm, and she listened intently. The high-pitched squeal of rusty hinges sliced through the quiet. She flinched at the harsh fingernails on blackboard tone. Fear catapulted her heart into her throat. Footsteps on gravel approached. Her heart rate spiked. Her lungs tightened, making her breathing rapid and shallow. Her grip on the water bottle tightened.

A little voice—one that sounded a lot like Lincoln’s—said, Don’t show him your fear.

She focused on deep breathing and let her imagination conjure up a picture of his steady gray eyes. But it wasn’t enough. Fear still dried her throat and drove her to the back of the cellar. Her hand touched her swollen cheek, remembering her captor’s blow.

The crunch of shoes on dry dirt came closer. On the other side of the doors, it sounded as if something heavy was being moved. With another squeak, the doors opened, revealing a dark silhouette against a pale-gray sky.

Twilight. But was it morning or evening?

He shone a light into the cellar. The brightness blinded her, and she put a hand up to shield her eyes. Heavy steps fell on the wooden stairs. The light moved off her face, and she lowered her hand to watch him descend. He carried a white bag down the steps.

She flinched as the scant light in the stairwell fell upon the oddly proportioned features, creating shadows that made his face even more terrifying. The Michael Myers mask sent an unreasonable spark of horror through her. She should be glad he wasn’t showing her his identity. As long as she couldn’t identify him, she had a chance. Hopefully, he wanted her for some reason that didn’t require her to die.

But her response to the mask was instinctual. The character represented murder and pain and terror.

He lifted a hand, the palm facing her in a stop gesture. Behind him, she saw that he’d left the doors open. Could she rush around him and escape?