* * *
“You have trouble all over you,” Lydia said to Morgan. “A problem in Après?”
“No, ma’am, it’s personal.”
“Sit down then. Let’s hear it.”
“You’re aware of what happened when—before I—”
“Take your time,” Lydia said when Morgan broke off. “This is to do with the man who killed your friend and stole your identity.”
“Yes. The agents in charge of the investigation came to tell me he killed another woman a few days ago.”
She said it all fast, got it out while her stomach churned.
“You’ve got his picture in that envelope?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s see it.”
She fumbled, had to use both hands, but got one out, rose to hand it over the desk.
“Mrs. Jameson, I understand if you don’t want to bring this trouble to the resort, to the staff, the guests, your family. I understand.”
“Handsome. Slick-looking, though. Slick’s never been my type.” She set the photo down, folded her hands on it, then looked up at Morgan. “You’ve worked here about a month now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I rated you as someone quick on the uptake—one of the reasons you got the job. Fast learner. But if you think the Jamesons are so weak-kneed and careless as to let you go over something like this, I was wrong about you.”
It all just flooded through her, a tsunami of emotion, stress, relief. Bursting into tears, she dropped into the chair again, covered her face with her hands.
After one quick knock, Miles opened the door. “Grand, I—Well, hell.”
“Give the girl a handkerchief.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Come in here, close the door.”
“Maybe I should just—”
“Now!” As she spoke, Lydia opened a drawer, took out a box of tissues. “Give her the tissues, get her some water. Don’t be a jackass.”
“I’m sorry. I just—”
“You cry it out. You’re entitled. That murdering son of a bitch killed another woman in Tennessee.”
Lydia gave him the details more coherently than Morgan had managed to give them to her. And though he already knew, Miles said nothing.
“She thought we’d fire her over it.”
“Then she’s stupid.”
“She’s not stupid, she’s overwrought, as anybody with sense can see.”
“I’m sorry.” Struggling for composure, Morgan mopped at tears. “I’m sorry.”
“What’ve you got to be sorry for?”
Morgan lifted her drenched eyes to Lydia. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. I wish I did.” She pulled out more tissues. “God, I’m a mess. I can be sorry for that.”
“Apology accepted. Miles.”
“Sure. Jake—police chief,” he added in case Morgan didn’t know, “already spoke with me. We’ll make copies of the photo, make sure Security has them. Reservations, checkin, restaurant and bar managers, and so on. Grand, we need to lend her one of the staff vehicles. You should see the pile of crap she’s driving. A breakdown between here and the Nash place is inevitable.”
“I’m going to get a new car. I’m going today. My grandmother wouldn’t take no on it.”
“Olivia Nash is a woman of sense. I expect the same from her granddaughter. You’re also part of the Jameson family now, and we take care of our own. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m very grateful.”
“Continue to do good work, as you have been. That’s thanks enough. Miles, walk Morgan to her car.”
Morgan rose. “I’ll do good work, and I’ll still be grateful. Thank you.”
“Let’s go this way.”
He led her to the left, past more offices, and paused at a restroom. “Go in and do something with your face.”
“That bad?”
“Bad enough.”
She went, saw he hadn’t lied, and did the best she could.
“Better?” she asked when she came out.
“Close enough. Somebody from Security will walk you to your car after closing every night. Jake said you have an alarm system on the house. Use it. Don’t buy another piece of crap. You need four-wheel or all-wheel drive.”
Something about the blunt, no-bullshit-taken tone brought some strange sort of comfort. “I know.”
“Have you ever bought a car before?”