They’d checked on her after he’d been discharged. She’d still been holding her own.

“See how you feel standing up first, all right?” Sharp followed Sophie out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

“I’ll get you some clothes.” Morgan opened his dresser drawer and took out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. She brought them to the bed. Lance was sitting up with his legs over the side. She knelt in front of him, sparing him the agony of bending in half to get his pants on.

“I can dress myself,” Lance protested.

“I’m sorry about Sophie. I hope she didn’t hurt you.”

Lance swallowed. “She didn’t.”

“Liar,” Morgan said.

“Don’t make me laugh.” He laughed, then put a hand over his ribs. “I’m flattered. In the beginning I didn’t think I’d be able to win her over.”

Morgan pictured Sophie bouncing on the mattress. “Be careful what you wish for.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

The next day, Lance stood on the grass behind Sheriff King’s small hunting cabin. Next to him, Morgan held his hand. The day was bright and clear. The sun shone on the water and warmed the top of his head.

Having done her job and alerted within thirty minutes of being brought to the site, the cadaver dog sat on the sidelines while a state police forensic team dug careful shovelfuls of earth out from under the turf. The hole was three feet deep, and they were still digging.

Morgan had detoured to see the inside of the cabin. She hadn’t seen the sheriff’s body, but the bloodstain on the wall had been enough to convince her that the sheriff was dead.

That it was all over.

Well, almost.

They still didn’t know where Vic was or why he’d been killed.

Morgan shivered and zipped her parka to her chin.

Stella and Brody walked across the grass to join them.

Brody stared out over the lake. “How typical of King to off himself and leave us totally in the dark. No note, no explanation, no nothing.”

“I never would have guessed King was behind everything,” Lance said. “But when I think about it now, it makes complete sense. He had access to all the witnesses. He only killed those who could connect him with Mary. I have to assume Crystal was the person Mary called from the police station that night. So she knew Mary had been arrested.”

“And P. J. knew King had arrested Mary too,” Stella said. “We arranged for a local detective in Florida to interview Owen Walsh. When he arrived, a PI was in the room.” Sharp’s associate. “The PI had already convinced Owen to talk.”

Lance stiffened. His ribs ached. The last missing piece of his puzzle was about to fall into place.

“Owen is dying of stomach cancer. He seemed relieved to confess.” Stella turned to Lance. “Owen confirmed the story the janitor told Sharp about Owen and King beating Lou Ford. Ford died in the back of the sheriff’s station.” She took a breath, giving Lance a second to brace himself. “This part of the story is secondhand. King told Owen what happened when he called from Grey Lake asking Owen to pick him up. King drove Mary out to a rest stop in Scarlet Falls to kill her, but she got away from him. Your dad was driving along the road, saw the girl running, and stopped to help. King killed him, buried him here, then sank the car in the lake with Mary in the trunk. He called Owen to pick him up on the road near Grey Lake, and Owen drove him back to his car at the rest stop.”

So simple. Just a few sentences summed up his father’s death. It didn’t seem right. But all of the pieces fell into place perfectly.

Disbelief and anger did a slow tumble through Lance’s belly. They’d interacted with the sheriff on several cases over the past few months. King had faced Lance over and over with no sign of guilt. What kind of man could do that? A psychopath. No empathy. No remorse. King hadn’t shown any guilt because he hadn’t felt any.

Lance glanced out over the glittering surface of the lake. He was finally getting the closure he’d wanted for decades, but now that he had it, he couldn’t seem to process it.

He pressed his arm against Morgan’s. He had time, and he had her. The rest would work itself out.

Stella turned to Morgan. “You know Tyler Green was never your stalker, right?”

“Yes,” Morgan said. “He was in jail when the photos were left on our neighbor’s porch.”

“You’ll never guess what we found in King’s cabin. A canister of hornet foam spray and an empty gallon container of beef blood. The sheriff made his own blood bait for catfishing. He had a freezer full of it.” Stella shook her head.

“Why would the sheriff slit your tires and pour blood in your car?” Lance asked. “Other than the general knowledge that he was a cold-blooded killer. Everything else that he did had a specific reason, but those acts seem just plain nasty . . . almost vengeful.”

Morgan’s face went grim. “I can only think of one reason. He was angry that I told the DA he coerced a false confession out of Eric.”

“His ego couldn’t take having a woman rat him out,” Lance said.

Morgan shook her head. “Yet he always seemed to almost like me.”

Lance sighed. “King was clearly a psychopath. They mimic the emotions of others. They are very manipulative, charming even.” He thought of the sheriff’s polite act with his mother. “He was displaying the behavior he thought would make him blend in better.”

“That’s exactly how Ted Bundy convinced young women to trust him,” Morgan agreed.

“There’s more,” Stella said. “The hospital security tape shows a big man in jeans and a baseball cap outside your mother’s room, Lance. He kept his face shadowed or turned away from the camera, but it could have been him. And the night she was poisoned in the ICU, we have a video of someone we believe is him disguised as a janitor. He went into the room next to your mom’s and waited for the old man to code. Then during the commotion, it appears that he injected something into the bag of saline outside your mom’s room. He’d been researching your mother’s medication on his home computer. He had access to confiscated heroin and guns.”

The police and forensics units had been busy, but then the SFPD, the state police, and the county resources had all been on the job.

“He planned everything.” Lance felt numb. How could someone kill so many people just to cover up one mistake?

Psychopaths only think of their own needs and how to manipulate others to attain them.

“We found something,” one of the forensic techs yelled.

Lance moved toward the hole, but Morgan held him back with a hand on his elbow.

“Let Stella and Brody go first,” she said. “You might not want to see.”

He smiled at her. “I need to see this the same way you needed to see the inside of King’s cabin.”

Her grip on his arm tightened.

“It’s a skull,” someone shouted.

Lance took one look in the gravesite. The skull stared back at him from the dirt. Grief flooded him. That was his dad in the bottom of that hole. Even from outside the grave, Lance could see the fissure over the brow ridge. Blunt force trauma. King’s baton?

Lance swallowed hard, stood back, and let the team work. He’d waited twenty-three years. What was another couple of hours?

“Let’s sit down.” Morgan tugged him toward a carved-out log bench facing the water.