Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)(41)

Morgan opened her bag and reached for the photo. While she was in there, she checked the location of her pepper spray—open side pouch, right where it belonged. She showed him the picture. “She needed a new battery. Also had her oil changed and tires rotated.”

Harold glanced at it. “Jerry handles the customers. I stay in the back.”

He took another step forward.

“Always?” Morgan moved backward. She couldn’t help it. He repulsed her on a cellular level. “You’re not in the back now.”

“You think you’re so smart. You know I’m on the sex offender registry.” Anger glittered in his eyes. “That’s why you’re here. If anything bad happens in this town, the cops always come looking for me.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“No, you’re not. But you’re a nosy, lying bitch.” His lips peeled off his teeth, more snarl than smile. He pressed closer.

The smell of grease clogged Morgan’s throat. She retreated farther. Her back hit the side of the building.

She was trapped. Her lungs tightened.

It’s fine. It’s broad daylight. Lance is around the corner. He’ll be back any second.

But no matter what she told herself, her primal instincts wouldn’t listen. Under her coat, sweat broke out between her shoulder blades. Do not show fear. It would encourage him. As she forced her spine straight, her insides curled into a fetal ball.

“The woman is missing.” She stuffed the photo in her bag. Her fingers closed around her pepper spray, and she stepped sideways to go around him.

But Harold mirrored her movement, staying between her and the Jeep.

“Hey,” Lance yelled.

Morgan exhaled, her muscles relaxing.

Harold got one look at Lance and backed off. “I don’t know anything about a missing woman.”

The tendons on the side of Lance’s neck had gone rigid. He stalked closer, planting himself between her and Harold.

“You worked on her car.” Lance’s statement was cut-the-bullshit.

“This is harassment.” It was Harold’s turn to back up as Lance got in his face.

“Fine.” Lance raised his hands, palms out as if he’d given up. “We just wanted to talk to you. But if you’d rather talk to the sheriff, that can be arranged. I’ll call Sheriff King now.”

He took out his phone.

“Wait.” Harold glanced at the auto shop. “I remember her, but I didn’t even talk to her when she came in here. Jerry doesn’t let me in the office. I stay in the back or I’m fired.”

Brotherly love had its limits.

“Maybe we don’t have to call the sheriff.” Morgan put her hand on Lance’s shoulder. The muscles under her palm were hard as concrete. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t come back.” Harold spat in the dirt at his feet.

Lance didn’t turn his back on Harold as he opened the passenger door for her. He kept one eye on Harold until he went back into the auto shop.

Behind the wheel, Lance faced her. “I can’t believe you don’t want me to call the sheriff about him.”

Morgan stared at him. “Of course we’re going to call the sheriff. Harold worked on Chelsea’s car. He noticed her. He remembered her. He had access to her address.”

“But you told him—”

“I said maybe we didn’t need to call the sheriff.” She set her bag at her feet. “I don’t want him to run. I want him to think he’s safe.”

“Well played.”

“I’ve had lots of experience not showing my utter contempt and disgust in the face of criminals.” Morgan fished her phone from her purse and called the sheriff. The receptionist patched her through to his office.

“Yes, Ms. Dane?” Sheriff King sounded irritated.

“Hello, Sheriff. We just left the auto shop where Chelsea Clark had her vehicle serviced last month. The mechanic who worked on her car is a registered sex offender.” She gave him the information on Harold Burns. “I wanted to call you right away in case you wanted to interview him.”

“I’ll send a deputy out to talk to him today,” King said, then spit out a grudging, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She ended the call.

The sheriff could pressure Harold in a way Morgan and Lance couldn’t. But would he?

“Do you want to stop for lunch before we drive to Grey’s Hollow?” Lance pulled back onto the road and drove toward the interstate.

Morgan plugged the GPS coordinates for the Grey’s Hollow train station into her phone. “Let’s grab something we can eat on the way. I don’t want to waste time. Looks like rain is coming.”