With all she had left to give, Morgan tugged her scarf out of her jacket. The effort pulled tears from her eyes. The pain was enough to make her scream, but her voice was gone. Blood dripped from her jacket onto the wood as she crawled to a post at the end of the dock. She tied her scarf around it, letting its end fall into the water.

He would see it, hopefully. And if he wanted to live in this frozen, fucked-up world, he would grab hold.

Winded from the exertion, Morgan lay back down. Her mind slowed. Sleep was taking her, the forever kind that made her feel as if she were floating above the snow and the evergreens and the frozen fishing pond that had swallowed three bodies. What would the Reynoldses think when they all woke up, she wondered. Would they be shocked? Or, perhaps they had known all along who she was and they were simply waiting for her and Bennett to destroy each other.

Eleanor had certainly known. As had Christopher. And Bennett. They had all known, she realized, and they’d simply watched and waited for her to crack.

Well played.

They’d find her, eventually. Then, they’d divvy out the cash in the call box and it wouldn’t even make a difference to any of their lives.

A faint smile tugged at Morgan’s mouth as she thought of what she would have done with it. She would have bought her mother’s bakery back; a stair lift for her grandpa so he could have his own space in the basement; money in the bank for her dad so he could quit killing himself with long shifts at the factory. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. It was too late for all of that now.

Her head rolled on her neck so completely that the ice on the dock kissed her cheek. She thought of Garrison staring at her from the floor. I found you. He had found her, the key to everything, and more. She felt a pain so sharp it took her breath away then, and for the first time, Morgan saw nothing when she closed her eyes.

44 HUDSON

“He knew too much.”

Those were the first words out of Christopher Reynolds’s mouth on January 3, when Hudson and Kole stood behind the two-way mirror in Wesson PD’s investigations bureau, listening to the events of December 19 finally unravel.

“When you say ‘he,’ are you referring to Officer Garrison, who you shot in cold blood on December nineteenth, or Gary Hernandez, whose skull you bashed in with a torque wrench circa July 2000?” asked Detective Kasper, who sat across from the old man. Christopher Reynolds was barely recognizable in an orange jumpsuit. He’d shed his high-falutin’ attire like an expensive snakeskin, and sat with his forearms on the stainless-steel table, wrists linked by handcuffs.

“It’s a fair question,” Kasper pressed when Christopher had the audacity to look annoyed. “For the record, Mr. Reynolds: Who knew too much?”