A Sinclair Homecoming. Kimberly Van Meter
first time. What if there are other girls out there who’ve been victimized by the same psychopath?”
The anguish in Jennelle’s voice was real. The questions in her head and heart gave her no peace. Morgan suspected this was the root of Jennelle’s hoarding—trying to hold on to things as a surrogate for her dead daughter, who was ripped from her without warning.
“Sometimes answers don’t come to us in a timely manner but we can’t let those questions rule our lives,” Morgan said carefully. “There are many questions surrounding Simone’s death and there might be an answer someday but then again, there might not. It’s a cruel twist of fate, for sure, but tearing your own life apart and pushing away your remaining children will not bring her back. Was Simone close to her siblings?”
“Yes. All the kids were close. We all used to be so close.”
“And then she died.”
“Yes.”
“Your other children didn’t give you comfort?”
“There is no replacing one child with the other. Besides, no one was like my Simone. She was my baby.”
“How does Miranda feel about that?”
“She’s jealous.”
“Jealous? Or perhaps hurt?” Morgan suggested, and Jennelle closed her eyes, refusing to comment. Morgan jotted down some notes. “You are very angry with your daughter Miranda. Why?”
“Because she’s a wretched human being.”
“Okay. Why? I’ve spoken with Miranda and she seems very worried about you. Does that seem like the actions of a bad person? I can tell you that I’ve met and worked with bad people and she doesn’t seem to fit the criteria.”
The door that had opened briefly once again slammed shut and Morgan knew sharing time was finished when Jennelle said, “I’m tired. I did just have surgery. Surely, APS will take that into consideration.”
Morgan snapped shut her notebook and deposited it into her satchel. “Of course. I’ve enjoyed talking with you. I’ll come back tomorrow to finish my evaluation.”
Jennelle’s mouth tightened, but she shrugged as if she was helpless to stop Morgan.
Morgan gathered her things and let herself out of the room quietly.
The poor woman was eaten by bitterness and grief. She needed lots of intensive therapy to breach the walls she’d erected around herself to guard against the pain.
A walk in the park, it wouldn’t be.
But she wanted to help this family. For some reason this case mattered to her on a personal level.
Perhaps that wasn’t wise, but she needed to help this family heal. One thing was for sure; when she was busy with tough cases, it quieted the ghosts of her own past.
At least for a little while.
CHAPTER SIX
MORGAN SIPPED HER WINE, enjoying the warmth from the crackling fire as her younger sister, Mona, returned from the kitchen, carrying a variety of cheeses on a small plate. “I noticed you still keep that nasty Limburger around. I thought you hated that cheese?”
“I do,” Morgan agreed, reaching for a slice of regular cheddar with a cracker.
“Then why do you keep buying it? All it does is stink up your fridge.”
Morgan shrugged. “Habit, I guess.”
“Well, that’s a dumb habit. It stinks and you don’t even eat it.”
Morgan smiled but remained silent. She couldn’t help herself. She tried not to buy that stupid cheese but David’s voice was in her head and before she knew it, the cheese was in her basket.
“Only a sophisticated palate can appreciate the robust flavor of a European cheese. If you want to elevate yourself, you have to stop gravitating toward the white-trash fare.” The subtle sneer in David’s voice rang in Morgan’s memory and she forced a smile. Mona didn’t know about David’s peculiar opinions nor did she know about who he really was. What made it worse was that Mona had adored David.
“So what’s new?”
“Not much. Just the same old stuff.”
Mona wrinkled her nose. “Sounds riveting.”
Morgan laughed. “Not everyone lives the exciting life of an artist, sweet sister. Speaking of art, how did your latest gallery showing go? I’m sorry I missed it. I had a client run overly long and I couldn’t seem to get out of the office on time after that.”
Another lie. That was the night she’d driven to Anchorage in the hopes of attending a grief support group but she’d chickened out—as she always did—and lost out on supporting her sister for nothing. Morgan busied herself with sipping her wine as she listened to her sister chatter on about this and that, as well as a bit of gossip.
“I made a few sales, which will keep me in ramen noodles for the next couple of months if I don’t live too extravagantly,” Mona ended with a twist of her mouth. “I definitely have that starving-artist thing down. It’s not what it’s cracked up to be, for sure.”
“You could supplement your income with a second job,” Morgan suggested cautiously, and hoped her sister didn’t fly off the handle as she sometimes did whenever anyone in the family gave her grief about her career choice. “I mean, just a temporary thing to bolster your budget, of course.”
“An artist can’t split her creativity between the mundane and the sublime. C’mon, Morgan, you know there’s really nothing out there that I would enjoy. Can you see me working for a fishing outfit or behind a cash register? I would die inside.”
“Yeah, but paying your rent on time and being able to buy groceries is a nice thing,” she reminded her sister then raised her hand to stop Mona before she got on a roll. “You know I support your artistic endeavors so don’t lose your cool...all I’m saying is, you’re not a kid anymore and I know you’d catch less flack from Dad if you finally picked a career that paid in actual money and not just exposure and goodwill.”
“What would Dad know about being an artist? He’s a third-generation fisherman like every other guy in this town. I think you managed to snag the one and only man who had any sophistication and class. It’s probably because he wasn’t from here originally.”
Morgan refrained from comment and chose to sip her wine instead, not that Mona noticed.
“I mean, David was the kind of guy who knew what wine to pair with food and recognized that there was a difference between red and burgundy on the color wheel. The guys around here have one color palette—and it’s the eight basic colors of a crayon box.” Mona sighed and took a sip of her wine, ending with a grumpy, “I miss David.”
Morgan nodded and downed her wine, forcing a brief smile, and Mona’s eyes widened with sympathy. “Oh, my God, I’ve been such a selfish jerk going on about David when I know you’re still not over his death. That’s why you keep that stinky cheese, isn’t it? It was David’s favorite. How could I forget that? I’m sorry, sis.”
“You’re fine. I’m fine. I’m getting over David’s death. I really am.” Something caught in her throat and Mona became alarmed when Morgan choked a little. “I’m okay. It’s been a long day is all. I have a new case that’s a little sad and I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”
“New case? What’s it about?”
Morgan hesitated, then relented, saying, “Do you remember Simone Sinclair?”
“Of course. Why?”
Morgan shared only what had likely already made the rounds within town gossip. “Her family is having some real troubles and I’ve been called in by Adult Protective Services