Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
"Really?" she asks, hope trembling on her lips.
"Really."
She sags against me, like her whole body just lost the ability to hold her up. I pull her close, letting her use my strength when she chokes on a tiny sob, tipping her face up to mine.
Her cheeks are wet, her eyes shining. "I'm not going to prison like my dad," she cries softly.
"Jesus," Dillon mutters.
"Never," I promise, pressing my forehead to hers. I hold her against my chest for a long moment, giving her time to collect herself and process that she's safe. Dillon gives us the moment, not interrupting.
When Morgan finally pulls away, she's smiling brighter than ever.
"How can I help, Sheriff?"
"Call me Dillon."
She blinks wide eyes at him. "I can do that?"
He chuckles, scratching his beard to hide a smile. "Yeah, sweetheart. You can do that."
"Cool," she whispers. "How can I help, Dillon?"
"You were Burkett's maid for a while."
"Six months." She wrinkles her nose. "He leaves streaks in his underwear and then leaves them on the floor."
Well…that's more than I ever needed to know about the man.
"Six months," Dillon says, one brow arched when he looks at me. I just shrug. He asked me to bring her. He can discover for himself what he got himself into. "I need to know what you can tell me about him."
"He needs to wash his ass," she grumbles.
"Aside from that," he says quickly. "Any idea where he may have stashed the jewelry he said you stole?"
"He probably already put it back in the safe in his room," she mutters, scowling. "Or in the one in his office. He has one in the garage, too. There's a lot of other stuff in them, too."
"What kind of stuff?"
"Money, golf balls, a drone, alcohol," she ticks it off on her fingers. "More jewelry."
"What made you think that he'd done this kind of thing before?" Dillon asks, jotting notes.
"Oh, the golf balls. He's always bragging about how he won them at a charity auction and how they're worth a lot of money because they were from the first big golf tournament that some important golf guy won or something. But I remember reading in the paper about how someone broke into his house last year," she explains. "The golf balls were listed in the article as stolen during the break-in. I don't think very many people keep golf balls in a safe, so I think they're the ones that he won and then claimed were stolen."
Dillon nods thoughtfully. "What else can you tell me?"
"He thinks he's better than everyone," she mutters. "Even the people he calls friends. And he's probably going to die alone because he sucks as a person."
Dillon's lips twitch. "I meant anything else about the insurance scam, Ms. Lott."
"Oh," she says, her tone sheepish. "Nothing really. He didn't really speak to me because I wasn't a person."
"The hell you weren't," I growl.
"I mean, he didn't see me as a person," she amends, rolling her eyes. "To him, I was just part of the background, like a robot created to keep his house clean. He treats everyone who works for him the same way."
I want to throttle the bastard all over again. She never should have been treated that way. Hell will freeze over before she ever is again. If he doesn't go to prison, I'll make running him out of this fucking town my life's mission.
"You got enough?" I ask Dillon, linking my fingers through Morgan's. "I don't want her to have to keep thinking about this prick."
"Yeah." Dillon nods, tossing his pen down. "I think we've got enough." His gaze comes to mine. "We'll get Hamilton to sign off on the warrant to search his place and make sure it includes any safes. Once the prosecutor finishes the paperwork and we've recovered the jewelry, she'll be in the clear."
"And him?" I ask, not willing to let it end there.
"He's raked in over half a million dollars in fraudulent insurance claims from nine different companies in the last ten years," Dillon says. "Even if he tries to plea it down, he's looking at hard time."
"Good," I grunt. I hope the fucker rots.
Chapter Eleven
Morgan
"Here." I stop in front of Hudson's desk, placing a dollar bill on the corner of it.
He glances up from his computer screen, looks at the dollar, and then frowns at me. "What's this for?"
"I stole an apple from the barn to eat when I was sleeping in Jon's stall," I murmur. "I promised Flint and Walker that I'd pay it back. This is me, paying it back."
Hudson's brows furrow. "It was an apple, Calamity."
"I know," I whisper. "But I don't want to be like Roger Burkett, stealing and hurting people. And I don't want to be like my dad, either. Maybe it was only an apple, but I still stole it. Making it right matters."