Say You're Sorry (Morgan Dane Book 1) Read online

  “So you’ll expedite the tests that put my client in jail, but you won’t do the same for the tests that might get him out? I will go to the press, Bryce. It won’t reflect well on you if you’re willing to let Nick rot in jail to protect a privileged, wealthy young man.”

  “This won’t affect the grand jury hearing tomorrow. My evidence is solid. Your client will be indicted.” Bryce glared.

  “We both know you’ll get your indictment because a grand jury hearing is completely one-sided. I don’t get to present evidence,” Morgan acknowledged. “Furthermore, we both know those pictures don’t have to prove Nick is innocent or that Jacob is guilty.” She stabbed the air in the direction of the phone. “Those photos are reasonable doubt.”

  “I talked to Chief Horner today,” the DA said. “He said you want Dean Voss’s DNA tested as well. Grasping at straws, Morgan?”

  “Not at all,” she answered. “Just conducting a thorough investigation.”

  Lance felt the zing of that comment bounce around the room.

  He admitted that the case had appeared pretty open-and-shut at the beginning. Originally, even he had thought Nick looked guilty. He’d lost faith in the criminal justice system over the years. Too many criminals walked on hard charges. But maybe this time the system would actually work the way it was intended.

  Morgan’s body shifted forward an inch. “Did Chief Horner tell you about the accusations against Dean Voss last year? And that he was on the yearbook committee with Tessa?”

  She never raised her voice, but her posture and tone had become commanding in a way he hadn’t expected. She slid into the offensive in a perfectly ladylike fashion. It was like watching Perry Mason disguised as Donna Reed. Lance imagined she often took opposing counsel by surprise.

  “I’ll have the test expedited.” The DA’s eyes went flat. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Morgan’s direct attack either. “Be careful, Ms. Dane. You’re stirring up more than a few hornets’ nests. You’re bound to get stung.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jail, day 5

  Nick retrieved an evening chow tray from the cart. As he turned, Shorty gestured to him. Nick walked over, and Shorty motioned to the empty spot on the bench next to him. “You can eat here if you want.”

  No one had bothered him much since his beating two days ago. Nick had added staying far away from cell doorways to his growing list of habits. He’d also spotted other blind spots and avoided them as well.

  Nick sat down, hoping no one would attack him in full view of the surveillance cameras.

  “I’m not that hungry. You want an extra biscuit?” Shorty asked.

  Nick hesitated. Trying to analyze the subtext was giving him a headache. If he took the biscuit, did he owe Shorty something in return? If he didn’t take the offer, would Shorty be offended?

  If there was one thing he’d learned since he’d arrived here, it was that jail operated on a system of respect. The worst thing a man could do was show disrespect to another. Every man had a place on the hierarchy, a spot he’d earned. Insults, even perceived ones, threatened that established pecking order.

  Chaos resulted.

  Plus, Nick figured if he stuck with honesty, he wouldn’t have to remember what he’d said. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t help but wonder why you’re making it. If I accept it, does that leave me with any obligation?”

  Shorty tossed the biscuit onto Nick’s tray. “You’re a smart kid. We trade food all the time, but this is a one-time peace offering.”

  Spurning the biscuit would be offensive and signal that Nick held a grudge. Had the beatdown been a test?

  “In that case, I accept,” Nick said. The meatloaf tasted like cardboard, but hunger drove him to eat every bite. At home, he would have bypassed the soggy green beans, but today Nick ate every scrap of food on his plate.

  The two guys on the opposite side of the table joked between themselves. They didn’t give Nick a second look. He realized that he was no longer being eyeballed. Had he passed whatever test he’d been put through?

  They finished eating, shoveling their food with the concentration of the perpetually hungry.

  Shorty lowered his voice. “Do you have your PIN yet?”

  Nick shook his head. He was still waiting to be issued his prisoner personal identification number, which he would need to do everything from make phone calls to purchase items at the commissary.

  “That sucks,” Shorty said. “We’re making a spread tonight. I could spot you.”

  A spread was a meal the inmates put together with food they’d purchased from the commissary like tuna, ramen, coffee, and candy. Nick had watched them have one the first night he’d been here.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather wait until I can contribute. I don’t want to mooch.” Nick had already seen one man smacked around for welshing on a debt.

  Shorty nodded. “Next time.”

  Nick wandered to the chess players and watched two games. Neither of the players was very good. Nick could have wiped the board with either of them, but he thought that wouldn’t be the best idea. Still unsure about his status, he remained a silent observer, limiting his involvement to a low-key congrats to the winner.

  A Spanish soap opera played on the TV on the wall. He had no idea who had the remote, if anyone.

  Even after Shorty’s olive branch and his seeming acceptance among most of the inmates, the hair on the back of Nick’s neck still bristled. He would never be able to let his guard down. The constant state of vigilance wore on his nerves. Did all the men in this place feel the same? The Man didn’t appear to be nervous. Was that an act? Sure, he was the size of an armored truck, and he had a group of like-sized buddies, but the AB was outnumbered six to one. Plus, there were several other gangs that looked equally deadly. The brothers with the BLOODS tattoos weren’t fucking Boy Scouts.

  The truth hit Nick with shocking clarity.

  They have nothing to lose.

  The Man had said he was being charged with manslaughter, and he was a repeat offender. Once his trial was over, was he going to state prison for the rest of his life?

  Their lack of fear wasn’t due to a lower threat level, but indifference.

  Nick’s breaths tightened. His palms began to sweat. What would happen if he was found guilty? He’d go to state prison for a minimum of twenty-five years. Best case scenario: he’d be forty-five years old before he could get out.

  Worst case: he’d get life without parole and never see the outside again. He’d spend the rest of his life in a concrete cage. He’d listened to the experienced prisoners talk about the state prison, about living in a four-by-eight with one hour of yard time a day.

  His vision dimmed as this real possibility swept over him. Hopelessness was a thousand pounds sitting in the center of his chest. It pressured his lungs and cut off his air until he choked.

  Stop it!

  “You OK, man?” Shorty asked.

  “Yeah. I’m cool.” Nick beat a fist on his chest and coughed. “Just need a drink of water.”

  He got up and walked to the water fountain, beating back the impending panic attack. How could he even feel sorry for himself when he was alive and Tessa was dead? He pictured her face, her smile, her eyes.

  Then the photo the cops had shown him of her dead body.

  Slipping in when he was vulnerable, grief swamped him. He missed her so much it hurt, and knowing he’d never see her again made him feel like he’d been stabbed in the heart too.

  He held onto the vision of Tessa, dead, and let his fury build. In here, anger was a much more useful and acceptable emotion. Anger made him appear strong.

  She’d broken up with him, but Nick just knew she hadn’t wanted to. The way she’d cried didn’t make sense otherwise. If breaking up made her miserable, why did she do it? Just days before they’d been really happy together.

  The more he thought about it, the less it made sense, and the more his chest ached.

  If he ever
found the man who’d killed her . . .

  He leaned over the water fountain and drank. Cool liquid slid down his throat but did nothing to chill the hot swirl of emotions in his belly.

  In the far corner of the space, a dozen inmates were working out. With no exercise equipment, they were creative about it. A pair took turns sitting on a bunk while the other bench-pressed him. Another guy sat on his partner’s shoulders while he did push-ups. But Nick didn’t trust anyone enough to buddy-up, and he prayed he wasn’t here long enough to develop any tight bonds. Some of these men had been here a long time.

  He turned back toward the chessboard. Two new players had started a fresh game. Watching seemed the safest option. Nick headed back across the room. He stepped aside as an inmate exited a row between tables. The man passed close. Too close, Nick realized, but it was too late to get out of the way.

  The man’s shoulder bumped Nick’s, and the rest played out in slow motion. A quick twist of the orange-clad body. The sharp sting of a blade sliding into Nick’s belly. A second and third hot slice of agony as the man punched the weapon into Nick’s gut again and again. The instinctive response to cover the wounds, to keep his insides from gushing out. The hot rush of blood between his fingers.

  No one came to help. Orange bodies slunk backward, unsure of the situation.

  Unwilling to get involved.

  An alarm blared. It sounded far away, muted by the throb of Nick’s pulse in his ears. Cold swept over him, in him. He dropped to his knees.

  The door burst open. Feet pounded on concrete. Men shouted. Nick fell sideways, his shoulder hitting the concrete.

  Hands rolled him to his back and moved his hands from the wounds.

  Pressure.

  He blinked at the ceiling. Fluorescent lights blurred and dimmed as shadows leaned over him. He knew they were guards by their shape and voices.

  More shoes beat on cement.

  Someone grabbed Nick’s chin. “Stay with me.”

  But he couldn’t. He drifted. Sounds and light faded. His heartbeat slowed. Pain consumed him, and the darkness that followed was a relief.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Morgan sailed out of the municipal building, her step brisk, her mind whirling. “I can’t wait to tell Nick tomorrow. We finally have a break in his case. I’ll stop by Bud’s house and give him the good news tonight. He needs some encouragement.”

  Nick’s dad needed hope, and she couldn’t wait to give it to him.

  “I wouldn’t build his hopes up too much.” Lance fell into step beside her on the sidewalk. Since they’d gotten word of Voss’s escape, Lance hadn’t stopped scanning their surroundings. “This won’t mean much until the DNA test comes back.”

  At six thirty in the evening, the visitors’ lot was mostly empty.

  “It’ll mean one of the prosecution’s key witnesses lied, and the video with Nick fighting Jacob just took on a whole new meaning. Nick’s account looks a lot more truthful than Jacob’s now. Bryce might not want to admit it, but between those photos and Voss’s camp near the murder site, I can poke a hundred holes in his case against Nick.” At the end of the walk, Morgan stepped off the curb. “Bryce relied on an abundance of physical evidence without the due diligence of making sure there wasn’t an alternate explanation for it.”

  Her phone rang as they reached the Jeep. Bud’s name was displayed on the screen. Morgan answered the call. “Hi Bud. I was just going to call—”

  “Morgan.” Bud’s voice was hoarse. “I just got a call from the jail. Nick’s been stabbed.”

  Morgan froze. “What?”

  “Stabbed,” Bud said. “By another prisoner. That’s all I know. I’m on my way to the hospital.”

  “I’ll meet you there.” Numb, she lowered the phone and explained. “We need to go to the hospital.”

  Lance opened the passenger door for her. “Let’s go.”

  The ride passed in a blur of landscape. “This isn’t right. It’s not fair. Nick was locked up with hardened criminals because he didn’t have enough money for bail and a defense. He had to choose.”

  Morgan closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool glass. She could feel the case breaking apart, the knots in the DA’s case unraveling as she picked at the evidence. But she hadn’t been quick enough for Nick. All her efforts hadn’t been enough.

  “If only I’d questioned Felicity earlier—”

  “Stop that!” Lance cut her off. “You’ve done everything possible. You’ve investigated a case when the police and the DA failed to do their due diligence. You’ve come up with two alternative suspects and destroyed the credibility of one of the prosecution’s witnesses. You have nothing to regret. This is not your fault. The blame here rests on the DA and Chief Horner. They were so sure they had an open-and-shut case.”

  She nodded, but she didn’t really agree. In hindsight, she could have done better. She could have realized the police were interested in Nick as a suspect before they’d actually arrested him. She should have checked on him after they’d found Tessa’s body. She’d known he’d be one of the primary suspects as the boyfriend of the victim.

  Lance reached across the console and grabbed her hand. “You are amazing. You’ve stuck by Nick when no one else would.”

  At the hospital, they parked in the ER lot and went in through the sliding doors. They found Nick’s father in the hallway of the ER, both hands pressed to his forehead. Ten feet down the hall, a sheriff’s deputy leaned against the wall. The fact that he was outside the room told Morgan that Nick was in bad condition. So bad that there was no chance he could escape or be aggressive.

  “Bud!” Morgan rushed forward.

  Bud lowered his hands, his eyes shell-shocked. “He’s in emergency surgery. Another prisoner stabbed him in the belly three times with some sort of homemade knife. A shiv, they called it.”

  Blinking back a tear, Morgan put her hand on Bud’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  He covered her hand with his. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

  Morgan didn’t say anything about the case. It wasn’t the time. “Did they say anything about his condition?”

  Bud swallowed. It looked as if it took some effort. “He’s lost a lot of blood. They don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

  Lance steered Morgan and Bud toward a waiting room. The guard stayed in the hall. “I checked with the nurse. The surgeon will come and talk to us when he gets out of the OR.”

  “Can I call someone for you, Bud?” Morgan asked.

  He pressed a hand to his lower back. “No. My sister is coming from Manhattan. She should be here in a couple of hours.”

  Morgan called home and told her grandfather not to expect her. Lance brought coffee, but the first sip turned sour in Morgan’s belly. Bud paced. Lance called Sharp and updated him. Morgan dropped into a chair to wait. Lance sat next to her. Hours passed in a tense, silent fog. Morgan lost track of the time, but pins and needles in her legs forced her to get up and walk the hallways multiple times. Bud’s sister arrived and paced with him.

  A shadow fell across the doorway. Morgan startled to attention as a green-scrubbed surgeon walked into the room, his surgical mask still tied around his neck.

  He swept the skullcap off his head. “Mr. Zabrowski?”

  Bud nodded, frozen in place in the middle of the room as if he was afraid to get closer to the doctor.

  As if he was afraid to hear if Nick was alive or dead.

  “I’m not going to lie to you. His injuries are severe. He suffered three stab wounds to the abdomen. The worse of which was the laceration to the liver. We’ve repaired the damage but he lost a lot of blood. He’s received several units to replace his blood volume.” The surgeon paused, his mouth grim. “The next twenty-four hours are critical. He’s young and strong, and he made it through the surgery without any major complications. He’s in recovery now.” The surgeon’s gaze swept the room. “Once he gets settled in the surgical intensive care unit, you�
�ll be able to see him.” He glanced around the room. “Immediate family only. Do you have any questions?”

  Bud shook his head.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in. Follow the signs to the SICU waiting room. A nurse will come out and get you after Nick is settled.” The surgeon walked out.

  Bud exhaled a long breath and then turned to Morgan. “I’ll call you. Thank you for everything. You’re the only one who believes in him.”

  Morgan took Bud’s hands and gave them a squeeze. Then Bud and his sister left the room.

  “Come on. I’ll take you home.” Lance put an arm around Morgan’s shoulder.

  But her hands began to shake. She rolled her fingers into fists and clenched them to stop the tremors, the stress and fear of the day finally breaking through her control. “No. I don’t want to go home like this.” She glanced at the time on her phone. “It’s midnight.” If she went home now, she’d wake Grandpa.

  She felt lost, her limbs loose and uncoordinated, ready to fly apart. The weight of Lance’s arm around her shoulder was all that held her together.

  “Can I go home with you tonight?” she asked.

  His fingers dug into her arm for a brief second. Then he relaxed. “Sure. Let’s go.”

  She let him steer her through the hallways to the exit. The cool night washed across her face. She inhaled, the crisp air a bracing shot of energy in her lungs.

  Lance drove back into town and parked in the driveway of a one-story house. He’d been to her house so many times, it felt odd that she’d never been to his. He pushed a button on his visor and opened the garage door.

  They got out of the Jeep, and Morgan stared at the neat ranch-style home. “You live close to the office. You could walk.”

  “I do if I’m going to be in the office all day, but that’s rare. Usually I’m running around all day. There’s a lot of legwork to the job.”

  She followed him into the garage. “Do you like it?”

  “I wasn’t expecting to, but yes,” Lance said.

  Hockey equipment filled half of the two-car garage.