Morgan turned her wrist and studied the top of the key. Three circles clustered together to rest above a diamond shape. It looked like a clover, something that belonged over in a place like Ireland or at least had come from there. But how did you get here, she wondered.

She flipped to the next page, determined to find out.

18 HUDSON

“––like a rat down a hole, you gotta flush him out.”

That was the conversation Hudson walked into, when he’d arrived at the bureau with two plates piled high with baked goods. Noelle had insisted he take them to work. He’d obliged, dropping another three plates off in the roll call room for patrol and civilian personnel.

Devine and Fletcher had been talking about Tobias Shannon, aka Hades, whose presence at Garrison’s funeral yesterday hadn’t gone unnoticed. A grainy picture of him standing by the entrance gate was printed on computer paper and taped to the dry-erase board next to a figure written in blue: $104,000.

The reward for information leading to the arrest of Garrison’s killer had jumped to over a hundred grand overnight. Hudson didn’t know the community of Black Harbor had that much dispensable wealth. As far as Black Harbor citizens were concerned, Brix Garrison had been a favorite. Establishments all over the city, from churches to bars to the bowling alley, were pledging money with the hopes of persuading someone to come forward. On one hand, seeing the number as proof that Garrison had been loved caused his throat to tighten, his chest to ache. On the other hand, it scared him.

It was a call for vigilantism. For a chance at that kind of money, what civilian wouldn’t see if they could hunt down a cop killer?

He wondered if Morgan had seen the updated reward. He hadn’t communicated with her since she ran out of his house two days ago. She’d effectively ghosted him. And oddly enough, when he’d tried looking her up in Onyx, he’d found nothing attached to the name Morgan Mori. No criminal record, no calls for service, not so much as a seat belt violation. She had no social media from what he could find. It was as if she simply didn’t exist.

It was after 10:00 P.M. now, and he was on his way to his mother’s house. Normally, they ate dinner around six o’clock on Christmas Eve—they being him, his brother, his mother, and his nephew—but since he had to work second shift this year, his mom had agreed to delay the festivities. Not that it was ever all that festive, but still. It was more of an effort than she made the rest of the year.