A Sinclair Homecoming. Kimberly Van Meter

O’Hare, of course. Either way is fine with me.”

      He ought to keep things professional and with a certain amount of distance but he liked her name. It rolled off his tongue nicely. And he did feel less stiff when he used her given name. “All right, Morgan it is,” he agreed with a small smile in return, but he really needed to ask what was truly worrying him. “Can you help my mom? Please tell me you’ve seen worse cases.”

      “I will certainly try to help,” Morgan answered, but sidestepped his other question, probably because it wasn’t professional to answer and he respected that, even if he’d hoped for a reassurance. “A major key to successful therapy is the patient’s willingness to accept help.”

      “Well, she’s not exactly jumping up and down at the idea,” he admitted wryly. “But she really wants to move back home so maybe that will motivate her into accepting the help she needs.”

      “Perhaps. You’d be surprised how some people are tied to their past in an integral way. Letting go will feel like losing a part of herself.”

      “Wow. That’s deep.” He chuckled out of discomfort. Well, seeing as it was going to come up at some point, anyway, he decided to beat her to the punch. “Should we talk about the elephant in the room?” At Morgan’s quizzical expression, he said, “Simone’s death...it seems my parents can’t let her go.”

      Understanding dawned and she said, “Ah, that. Yes, well, grief is a powerful emotion and can cause all kinds of emotional as well as physical manifestations. Hoarding, phobias, even insomnia—their roots can often be traced to an extreme emotional upset in the patient’s past.”

      Insomnia. That was something he knew about. But it wasn’t because of his grief. He’d long since put to rest his feelings about losing his baby sister. “Well, some people aren’t as strong as others, I suppose.”

      “It’s not a question of strength,” she corrected him with a gentle smile. “Some people are so strong that they find a way to cope with the side effects but that doesn’t mean they processed their feelings in a productive and healthy manner.”

      Why did it feel as though she was talking about him? That was ridiculous. He was being defensive. “Well, at any rate...she’s ready for you. I just wanted to warn you before sending you into the lion’s den.”

      “Additional insight from family members is always appreciated. Thank you for trusting me with that information. Oh, and FYI, the coffee here will put hair on your chest. Very strong.” And then she left, coffee cup in hand, out the door and down the hall, inadvertently causing a flush of awareness to remind him that he was a man and she was a beautiful woman.

      Where’d that come from? Catching an eyeful of that pert behind twitching beneath her pencil skirt? He rubbed at his eyes, embarrassed by his inappropriate thought about his mother’s therapist. Maybe he’d jumped the gun in breaking up with Elizabeth. Having Elizabeth here might’ve been a distraction he seemed to need, he thought wryly, even if he knew he couldn’t possibly have brought Elizabeth to his hometown without creating mixed signals. Elizabeth...it would’ve been so much simpler if he’d felt the same way about her that she had about him. But when he realized the deeper emotions she’d craved weren’t going to happen, he couldn’t, in good conscience, keep seeing her.

      He exhaled and shook his head as his gaze wandered to the coffeepot. Well, maybe a cup of strong, bracing coffee would put his thoughts back on the straight and narrow. It was worth a shot.

      * * *

      MORGAN ENTERED JENNELLE Sinclair’s room with a ready smile, hoping to start off on the right foot with the matriarch but judging by the tight press of the older woman’s lips, an easy time of things wasn’t in the cards. No worries, she thought. She’d definitely weathered more difficult challenges than one stubborn, older woman.

      “Good morning, Mrs. Sinclair. How are you feeling today?” she asked, setting down her coffee cup and taking a seat beside Jennelle’s bed. “May I call you Jennelle?”

      “No, you may not. I prefer Mrs. Sinclair.”

      Morgan smiled. Jennelle Sinclair was going to be one tough nut to crack but then she’d known that from the start. At least Jennelle didn’t give her false hope of an easy case. “Of course. No problem. My name is Dr. Morgan O’Hare and I’ve been assigned your case by Adult Protective Services.”

      “And what case would that be?”

      “Well, you’ve recently had a health scare and the state of your home was a contributing factor—”

      “I don’t believe that for a second. That’s a bunch of rubbish.”

      “Well, no, actually, it isn’t. Your home has been condemned due to unsafe conditions and yet, you went back to the house, which then put your health at risk when the paramedics couldn’t quite get to you in time.”

      Jennelle looked away, angry brackets forming around her mouth when she couldn’t refute the evidence. “I guess you have all the answers. What do you need me for?”

      “Well, I am going to evaluate your mental health status to determine if you are competent to make decisions for your health and well-being.”

      “I never heard of such poppycock,” Jennelle exclaimed, two high points of color flushing her pale cheeks. “Of all the rude, intrusive and ridiculous statements. My mental health is just fine. So I’m a terrible housekeeper. Is that a crime nowadays?”

      “No, of course not. But it’s our job to make sure you’re not putting yourself in harm’s way.”

      For a long, tense moment Jennelle seemed to struggle with all the pent-up fire in her chest but her health simply wasn’t up to the challenge and she sagged against her pillow, wincing as she lost the strength to rage. “Do whatever you need to do,” she said with weary bitterness. “I’m tired of fighting a losing battle. You people are going to do what you want, anyway. My consent is hardly necessary.”

      Morgan frowned. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Sinclair. Perhaps within a few days you’ll feel better about the process. Change is always difficult but once you embrace the therapy, good things can happen.”

      Jennelle sent Morgan a withering glance, and Morgan withheld a private sigh. She was definitely going to earn every penny with this case. But there was something about the older woman that struck her as terribly sad, in spite of her bark. She settled more comfortably in her chair then said, “Tell me about Simone...” At the mention of her youngest daughter’s name, Jennelle softened and her shoulders relaxed but the overwhelming sadness remained in her eyes. When Jennelle didn’t volunteer any information, Morgan tried to help her along. “My younger sister, Mona, knew Simone in school. She said Simone was the prettiest and nicest girl in their grade.”

      At the kind words, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile curved Jennelle’s lips. “Yes, that was my Simone. Everyone loved her. She had a light that shone from her soul,” Jennelle said, choking a little. “Sh-she was the light of my life. I miss her so much. I don’t understand who would’ve done such a horrible thing to her.”

      Ah, there it was—the pain, the sadness, lurking ever so close to the surface, a demon of grief and impotent fury, twisting everything good and sweet into a pulpy, bleeding mess. What would it take to draw out that poison? Would Jennelle be willing to let it go? Some people clung to their misery, too afraid of the unknown to set it free. Only time would tell which camp Jennelle called home. Morgan commiserated with the older woman. “And as I understand it, her killer was never brought to justice?”

      “No, the trail went cold and then interest dropped. Simone’s case was shoved into a file and never touched again. I tried to resurrect the case, even posted a reward for information, but nothing came of it. Nobody cared anymore. They didn’t want to hear about Simone’s murder any longer, unless it was to gossip about it.”

      Morgan knew that much was true but hearing it from a family member plucked at her heartstrings. “Cold cases are hard to solve