Free Fight Dirty by CJ Lyons Page A

sofa.
    Neat stacks of paperback novels, pushed beyond the reach of the mai d’s vacuum. Talking animals and knights riding dragons and fairy queens, judging from the titles and cover art. All with spines broken many times and pages rubbed raw. None with any explicit content, they all appeared aimed at a younger audience than Bre e’s fourteen.
    Her mother had described a girl gone wild, complete with drug use, shoplifting, and a pregnancy scare.
    Which was the real Bree?
    Morgan put the books back where sh e’d found them and went into the remaining room: Bre e’s bedroom. Another room mail-ordered complete with everything except personality. This time the product description would have read “Gir l’s princess fantasy done in shades of lavender and rose with cream-colored accents.”
    The bed was a four-poster, complete with frilly canopy. The walls were adorned with hand-painted cels of Disney princesses. The only hint of the roo m’s occupant came from the small mountain of stuffed animals occupying the bed.
    That and the evidence bags stacked against the far wall, their bright-orange labels clashing with the princess-pink wainscoting.
    There, Morgan found Bre e’s phone, iPad, and laptop. She grabbed them and their chargers. Jenna could work on them later—she was pretty good at computer forensics, even if she did fall short of Morga n’s cyberstalking capabilities.
    There was a final bag, this one brown paper instead of clear plastic. Brown paper—that meant the police had been trying to preserve biological evidence. She knelt before it, fairly certain she knew what sh e’d find inside.
    She flipped her knife open and sliced the orange evidence seal. The top of the bag had been folded over itself, each fold firmly creased as if whatever anonymous evidence tech wh o’d closed it hoped it remained sealed.
    Paper crackling beneath her fingers, Morgan unfolded the top and opened it wide. Puzzled, she stared into the shadows lining the interior before withdrawing the contents and laying them carefully on the bed.
    Who the hell killed themselves wearing Hello Kitty pajamas?

    They met at the cars twenty minutes later. Jenna took possession of Morga n’s electronic plunder, handing it off to Andre, who secured it in the rear of the Tahoe.
    “Anything from the mother?” she asked Andre.
    “Tears and blubber. Fell apart as soon as I got her alone. Only thing I can tell you is that she and Greene have separate bedrooms.” He shrugged. “No idea if that means anything or not.”
    “I called Nick. He can come tomorrow, around noon, take a crack at her. Hopefully before her happy hour starts.” Jenna eyed Morgan in a way that Morgan really didn’t like. Appraisal and judgment. “Greene didn’t give me anything, except more of his woe-is-me, I-have-to-work-so-hard story. According to his version of reality, h e’s an all-American guy with an all-American family who has been victimized by some evil cult.”
    “Might be true,” Morgan said, playing devi l’s advocate. “A lot of these privately run adolescent treatment centers basically forget about any actual curriculum and instead use coercive tactics to brainwash the kids.”
    Jenna didn’t look impressed. “I read that New York Times report, too. Innuendos about other programs won’t do us any good. We need concrete evidence.”
    “What about BreeAnn a’s room?” Andre asked. “Any help there?”
    “Apparently she was a pretty serious musician—or her parents wanted her to be.” She told them about the music room. “Other than that, everything was normal. If anything, a bit juvenile for her age. No signs of any age-inappropriate clothing or that sexy lingerie Caren was freaked out by.”
    “Confiscated and long gone,” Jenna said.
    Morgan exchanged a glance with Andre. “Or the mom lied about why she exiled Bree. Maybe there was something else going on, some reason she wanted Bree out of the house.”
    “Evidence,” Jenna chided. “Not