"I can't even talk to her," Izzy whispered. "Can't tell her it'll be okay, because I don't know if it will be.¿Qué clase de madre soy?"
Cory stood, moving closer but not quite touching. "You're the kind of mother who's protecting her daughter. Who's fighting to make things safe enough for her to come home."
"The pageant's in two days." Her voice broke completely. "She's been practicing for months. Made up special dance moves for her angel wings.Por favor, Dios, what if I can't—what if she has to miss it because of me?"
This time Cory did touch her, just a hand on her shoulder. Steady. Solid. "We're going to solve this. For Chantal. For Martha. For everyone."
Izzy wanted to believe him. But all she could see was Tom Morrison—confused, possibly sick, definitely guilty—and faithful Janet trying desperately to save a husband who might be beyond saving.
Her phone lit up with team messages:
Ronan: Weather broke. Wheels up at 0600
Maya: ETA tomorrow afternoon
Kenji: Just in time for the pageant
Axel: No way we miss her debut
Looking at Cory's determined expression, at the evidence they'd preserved, Izzy felt a flicker of hope mixing with the despair.
"Vamos," she whispered to herself. "One more day to prove Tom Morrison is guilty and bring my baby home."
Because it had to be Tom. All the evidence said so. Even his own wife couldn't deny it anymore.
MedFlight might still be the big player, but now there was no question Morrison was the boots on the ground.
40
Cory staredat the evidence board they'd created on the operations room wall—Tom Morrison at the center, lines connecting him to every incident. Three hours since Janet's call about her suspicions. Two hours since Martha's devastating news. Outside, December darkness had fallen like a curtain, and snow was beginning to dust the windows.
His phone buzzed. Janet Morrison.
"Chief Fraser?" Her voice cracked with hysteria. "Tom's gone. He left a note—said I betrayed him by talking to you."
Cory straightened, catching Izzy's attention across the room. "Janet, slow down. When did he leave?"
"Maybe an hour ago? I was at the store getting groceries for our anniversary dinner—forty years today—and when I came back..." A sob cut through her words. "He was so angry about the jacket, kept saying I was trying to frame him. Said everyone's against him now, even me."
"Is he on foot? Did he take his truck?"
"The truck's gone. Cory, I'm scared. He's not himself. He hasn't been himself for weeks. Longer, maybe," she added in a whisper.
Izzy had moved closer, reading his expression. He mouthed "Tom's missing" and saw her jaw tighten.
"Janet, I'm coming over. Don't touch anything."
"Should I call 911? The FBI?" Janet's panic bled through the phone.
Cory's mind raced. The Feds would swarm the scene, take over, probably arrest Tom on sight—or worse, if he was armed and confused. They needed answers, not a shootout. At this point, he couldn’t even risk calling in his own people. The FBI would get wind of it instantly.
"Not yet," he said carefully. "Let me assess the situation first. Lock your doors and wait for me."
He disconnected and turned to Izzy. "Tom's in the wind. Janet says he left a note accusing her of betrayal."
Izzy was already moving, grabbing her jacket. "We need to?—"
"I need to go to the Morrison house. Assess the situation before we call it in." He paused, the next words difficult. "The FBI's already threatened us both. You should?—"
