Page 33 of Ruthless Possession
"We should call your mom," Matthew suggests. "Let her know what's happening."
Morgan shakes her head. "She'll just worry. And Dad's already involved."
"Speaking of which," I say, checking my phone, "your dad should be texting soon with an update from the school."
My phone buzzes in my hand. Isaac's message is brief: All quiet. No sign of Harris. Heading home now. Will check in later. I show Morgan the message.
The afternoon dissolves into a mess of maps and phone calls. Matthew calls a contact at the bus station while I field Greyson's hourly check-ins. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Morgan traces potential routes out of the city on a map, her pen digging so deep it tears the paper. With each dead end, Harris and Charlie feel less like they're hiding and more like they've simply vanished.
By evening, Morgan's agitation fills the living room. She grabs her keys from the hook by the door. "I'm going to check the diner, the park near the school. Places she might go if she got away."
Matthew moves to block her path, his expression gentle but firm. "The club's already been to all of them, Morgan. Twice. We need to stay here in case they circle back."
Her shoulders slump and she lets the keys fall back into the bowl. "I can't stand not doing anything."
I step up beside her, my hand on her arm. "We are doing something. We're holding the fort. And we will find them."
"I just feel so helpless."
I move to her other side, creating our triangle. "We'll find her," I promise again. "We'll find them both."
Night falls, and with it, a deeper sense of urgency. Greyson calls with an update. Harris's phone has been turned off for hours. No credit card activity. No bus or train tickets in his name.
"He's gone to ground," Greyson says through the speaker. "Either that or he's using cash and a burner phone."
"What about Charlie?" Morgan asks, her voice right after the call ends. Morgan sinks onto the couch, her hands loose in her lap, staring at nothing. "What if we don't find her in time?"
"We will," I say, though I share her fear. Men like Harris are unpredictable. Dangerous.
Matthew sits beside her, his arm around her shoulders. "Greyson's got the whole club looking. Techy's monitoring everything. We'll find them."
Morgan nods, but I can see the exhaustion in her eyes.
"I think we need a break," Matthew says, standing and pulling Morgan to her feet. "Let me make you dinner."
I watch as he leads her into the kitchen, his voice low and soothing. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly seeing her respond to him, her steps becoming less wooden.
"What can I do?" I ask, moving to join them.
Matthew hands me a cutting board and a knife. "Chop vegetables. I'm making pasta."
For the next hour, we create a rhythm with Matthew at the stove, me at the counter, and Morgan setting the table. It feels almost normal, except for the way our eyes keep darting to the windows, the way we all jump at every creak of the house settling.
Dinner is quiet at first. Then Matthew begins telling stories about his training, the ridiculous situations he and I found themselves in overseas. I join in, adding details, exaggerating for effect. Slowly, the tight lines around Morgan's eyes begin to soften.
"There was that time in Bahrain," I say, watching her carefully, "when Matthew tried to order in Arabic and ended up asking for three chickens and a wife instead of dinner?"
Morgan's lips twitch. "He didn't."
"I absolutely did," Matthew confirms, grinning. "The waiter looked horrified."
A small laugh escapes her, the sound like music after the day we've had. "And you wonder why I worried about you."
Matthew reaches across the table, his fingers brushing hers. "We're here now. That's what matters."
After dinner, we move to the living room. I build a fire while Matthew finds an old movie we used to watch together in high school. Morgan settles between us on the couch, her body gradually relaxing as the evening progresses.
