Say You're Sorry (Morgan Dane Book 1) Page 27

  “You still play?”

  “I coach a team of unruly kids. I haven’t actually been on the ice since I was shot.”

  Morgan followed him inside. The door opened into a living/dining room combination. The kitchen was straight back, and the hallway that opened off the living room probably led to the bedrooms. The house was neat, almost stark, with minimal furnishings and no decoration. In the living room, a small couch and a recliner faced a TV. But the big surprise was the baby grand piano that took up the entire dining room.

  As Morgan followed him back to the kitchen, a creeping and cold numbness slid over her. Her hands started trembling again.

  “Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?” Lance turned to stare at her, his gaze searching, assessing. “Tea or coffee?”

  “No.” Morgan pictured Bud’s face as the surgeon gave him the news. “I wonder how Nick is.” Emotions too conflicted to identify surged in Morgan’s chest. Anger, frustration, helplessness, all boiled together into a toxic stew. “Do you have anything to drink?”

  “I’m not sure. Let me look.” Lance opened and closed three cabinets. In back of the lazy Susan, he found a bottle of whiskey, still in its box. Obviously a gift, the bottle had a red bow tied around its neck. “Since I started working for Sharp, I gave up most alcohol as part of his get-Lance-healthy campaign. He’s not opposed to organic wine or beer. The guys on the SFPD gave me this as a good-bye gift.”

  He splashed a tiny amount into a glass and handed it to her. She took a small sip. The whiskey burned a path from her tongue to her belly. Finally, some warmth.

  “Do you mind if I take a shower?” he asked.

  “Not at all.” She took another swallow of whiskey. “I’ll be here.”

  He disappeared down the hall.

  She reached for the bottle, poured a more generous shot, and tossed it down. Slowly, the numbness receded, like floodwater after a storm. Her phone rang. She fumbled in her pocket to draw it out.

  “Yes?” She held her breath.

  “This is Bud’s sister. He asked me to call you with an update. He’s with Nick now. His blood pressure has come up a bit. So that’s good news. I have to go now. Bud needs me.”

  “Thank you for calling,” Morgan said.

  Bud’s sister ended the call. Morgan wandered to the piano. She sat and placed her glass of whiskey on a conveniently placed coaster. She’d taken lessons as a little girl, but now the only song she could plunk out was “Chopsticks.”

  Lance returned. He was wearing a pair of athletic shorts and a snug T-shirt. A towel hung around his neck. He rubbed it over his head, making his short blond hair stand straight up.

  “Nick is holding on.”

  “Good.”

  She played a few notes. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.” He joined her on the bench.

  “Play something.”

  He nudged her over a few inches. She’d been around him enough to know that he favored classic rock so the opening chords of “Hallelujah” shocked her. When he opened his mouth and sang, she was even more surprised. His voice was deep and smooth, inflective and filled with emotion.

  She joined him on the chorus but lost her voice as they reached the cold and broken verse. Something cracked deep inside her. She let him finish solo. By time the final notes faded to silence, tears streamed down her face.

  She turned and faced him. “This isn’t right. Teenagers shouldn’t die. Tessa should be alive, and Nick should be thinking about which movie to take her to this weekend. How did this happen?”

  She picked up her whiskey, wishing it would hurry up and numb her.

  “This isn’t the way to handle it.” Lance reached for her glass. “How about some food? An omelet?”

  “I’m not hungry.” She pulled her drink out of his reach. “Maybe I don’t want to handle it. Maybe I’m tired of handling everything. Maybe I just want to stop thinking for one night.”

  She got up, went into the kitchen, and poured another shot. Lance followed her.

  Her mind turned endlessly, like a merry-go-round that never stopped. Images of Tessa, bloody and shredded and covered in dirt; pictures of wounds; autopsy reports; crime scene photos. The slideshow ran 24/7, as if it had been burned into her retinas.

  She tipped the glass back. The next shot slid down her throat and into her belly. She welcomed the heat. A few seconds later, it soothed and smoothed her raw edges. It was merely a Band-Aid over a gaping wound, but if a Band-Aid was all you had, you used it.

  Right?

  “Morgan . . .” Lance pressed closer. His body nearly touching hers. He took her arm and turned her to face him. His hand settled on her bicep.

  If she’d thought the whiskey made her hot, the proximity to him sent her temperature off the charts. Lance had the power to make her forget everything. To shut off her brain and simply feel.

  She put the glass down and splashed more whiskey into it. “I’m going to prove Nick is innocent, even if he . . .” She didn’t want to verbalize her worst fear. In the beginning, she’d been terrified that she was going to fail Nick, and he would go to prison for murder. His life would be over. Prison was dangerous, but she’d never expected someone to try to kill him in his first five days in the county jail. But did she want to solve the case for Nick or for herself?

  If Nick died, she’d risked everything for nothing.

  The community hated her. She’d lost her job before she’d even started.

  This was hardly the first case where she’d bucked popular opinion. Her whole family was devoted to serving justice. Her entire life she’d been raised to respect the law. Those who didn’t obey it deserved to suffer the consequences. She’d spent years doing her best to put criminals behind bars. This case was no different. The police had arrested the wrong man. A killer was still out there, and Nick was in intensive care, maybe dying, because of their mistake.

  She thought of Nick playing chess with her grandfather or blowing bubbles for the girls on the front lawn and couldn’t reconcile those images with a boy on the brink of death.

  Not fair. Not fair. Notfairnotfairnotfair.

  Tears burned in the corners of her eyes. She tipped the glass and took another mouthful of whiskey. The taste mellowed on her tongue, and her thoughts grew fuzzy.

  “I know you’re hurting tonight, but whiskey isn’t the answer,” Lance said. “I should know. I tried that route last winter. Made everything worse.”

  Morgan sipped. Alcohol might not be the answer, but frankly, she was out of ideas. “Then what is the answer?”

  Would Nick still be alive in the morning?

  He hadn’t done anything to deserve what had happened to him. Morgan couldn’t believe he could intentionally hurt anyone. “Do you believe Nick is innocent?”

  “I’m not convinced he’s guilty,” Lance said. “But I don’t think we’ve found the truth yet.”

  “Is my judgment skewed? Do I just want him to be innocent so badly, I’ll do anything to prove it?”

  Warmth bloomed on her skin. Setting her glass on the counter, she pulled away from Lance’s touch and took off her suit jacket.

  “I don’t know.” Lance took her arms firmly in both hands. “But whatever happens, none of it was your fault. You’ve already given me serious doubts about the DA’s case. We’ll solve this case. We will find Tessa’s killer.”

  “Even if Nick . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  But Lance understood her. “Yeah. Even then.”

  Her palms landed on his shoulders. Though he wasn’t 100 percent convinced Nick was innocent, she should be glad to have him on the investigation. She needed someone close by who was objective. Someone to keep her in check.

  Tomorrow. She’d think about the case tomorrow.

  Right now, the last thing she wanted was to be in control. She wanted to blot out all her thoughts and simply feel. The whiskey helped. She leaned closer and inhaled the cedar scent of his skin. Rising onto her toes, s
he settled her mouth on his.

  With all of the things that felt wrong in her life, this wasn’t one of them. His mouth tasted of mint. She delved deeper, her tongue sweeping into his mouth. She needed more. Skin. His skin. Up against hers.

  She tugged at the hem of his shirt.

  Her hands slipped under the fabric and up the hard muscles of his back. He was solid and so utterly, deliciously male. The more she touched, the more she tasted, the more she wanted. She opened her eyes. His had gone deep blue, the want in them stealing her breath as he returned her kiss with equal heat.

  His fingers grasped her hips and pulled her against him. A groan slid from deep in his chest, and a hard length pressed against her belly.

  A tiny voice in the back of her mind warned that she wanted this particular man far too much and that the heat building between them was spiraling out of control.

  She silenced it by sliding her hands between their bodies to caress the hard ridges of his abdomen. He hissed, his entire body stiffening.

  Lance eased back, his hands taking hers and pulling them out from under his shirt. “Let me make you some tea and maybe something to eat.”

  “I don’t want a cup of tea.” She curled her fingers into his T-shirt. “I want you.”

  Pure need flashed in his eyes. He wanted her back. He squeezed his eyes closed for a few seconds. When he opened them, the desire had cooled. “You don’t know what you want right now.”

  “Don’t tell me what I want.” Frustration flared in Morgan’s belly, thick and hot, two years of grief and pain finally edging into anger. Why was the world so damned unfair? She’d had a man she’d loved with all her heart ripped away from the family who needed him. How did she let go of that?

  There was another man in her life she could love, and he was standing right in front of her. And damn it, she did want him.

  She closed her eyes, leaned forward, and pressed her forehead to Lance’s chest.

  He wrapped his arms around her and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “I can’t explain your feelings, but I know mine. We both know what would happen tonight. This would become a way for you to exorcise your demons. We’re friends, and I care about you. You’re a beautiful, amazing woman. Making love to you would be a religious experience. Any man in his right mind would jump at the chance to share your bed. But I won’t have our friendship tainted by this. I won’t be something you get out of your system. I won’t be someone you regret.”

  Sure, she’d felt some attraction from him, but never the depth of emotion she’d seen in his eyes tonight.

  Tonight, everything had felt different, more intense. Was it just because of the stress of the day or were their feelings real? Lance was right. They shouldn’t make such an important decision under this much stress.

  He was working hard to make the right decision, and she was being selfish.

  “I’m sorry. You’ve done so much for me, and I just keep asking for more.” She leaned back, shame washing through her, wiping out the effects of the whiskey. “I’m just so tired of not letting myself feel anything.” She pulled out of his embrace.

  “I know.” He pulled her close again. “And I’m sorry.”

  Reluctantly, she stepped back. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “You didn’t.” Only because he’d stopped her.

  She rubbed her arms, missing the heat of his body. “Do you mind if I use your shower?”

  “Not at all. Do you want some clothes to put on?”

  “That would be great.”

  Lance led her into a guest bedroom. “There’s a shower in the hallway bathroom. Towels are under the sink. The sheets on the bed are clean. Call me if you need anything.”

  I need you.

  But the words died on her lips.

  He brought her a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. “These have a drawstring.”

  She took the clothes and showered. No matter how hot she turned the tap, she barely felt the water on her skin. She felt numb from the inside out.

  Whiskey was not her friend.

  The shirt hung to mid-thigh and the drawstring barely kept the shorts on her hips. Dressed, she slipped into the guest bed, setting her gun on the nightstand. But sleep wouldn’t come. She stared at the ceiling until the first gray streaks of dawn brightened the sky. Then she slipped out of bed. She stuffed her gun into her purse, stepped into her shoes, and left the house.

  The sky turned pink as the sun peered over the horizon. She encountered no other humans on the six-block walk to Sharp Investigations where her van was parked. She grabbed the change of clothes she’d started keeping in the back since the incident at the crime scene. Taking the key for the building Sharp had given her out of her purse, she approached the front door. She’d change before going home to see her girls. It would be hard to explain why she was wearing Lance’s clothes.

  A scraping sound lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. She spun, but the street was empty. Twenty feet away, a tall hedge separated Sharp’s lot from the property next door. Morgan backed toward the office, senses on alert. The hedge rustled. Backlit by the rising sun, a figure stepped out of the hedges. His shadow fell over the grass.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lance woke to a dark house. He’d worried about Nick in the ICU, crazy Dean Voss on the loose, and Morgan falling apart in his arms.

  Especially that last part.

  His hand brushed the empty, cold pillow next to him. It was a freaking miracle he’d resisted taking her to bed. Beyond the physical desire, she was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman, a beauty that went soul deep and an irresistible combination of strength and fragility.

  He didn’t know how she handled the amount of stress and responsibility on her shoulders. Looking after just his mother overwhelmed him at times.

  His joints felt like rusty hinges after a night of very little sleep. All he wanted was a cup of strong coffee and a hot shower. There was no way in hell that Sharp’s green tea would cut through Lance’s brain fog.

  But as he got out of bed, he sensed the place was empty. He pulled on a pair of shorts and went to the guest bedroom. The door was ajar. He peered inside.

  Morgan was gone.

  Damn it.

  There was only one place she could have gone. Her van was at the office. Lance tugged a T-shirt over his head, stepped into shoes, and went outside. Voss was still loose and dangerous.

  The sun was peering over the horizon as he hurried to his Jeep. In front of the office, Lance parked at the curb and jumped out of his vehicle. As he walked toward the building, his heart skipped at the sight of her purse and a small duffel bag on the walkway halfway to the front door.

  Drawing his gun, he went inside. “Morgan?”

  “Back here.” The feminine voice from the kitchen made him nearly light-headed with relief. He picked up her purse and duffel and carried them inside.

  Morgan sat at the kitchen table. She still wore his clothes. Blood wept from an abrasion on her knee. The stray dog leaned against her legs. Sharp, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, was making a pot of tea.

  As Lance stepped into the kitchen, the dog bristled and growled, getting between him and Morgan.

  He stopped. “What happened?”

  “Someone was outside.” Morgan’s hand settled on the dog’s head. “I tripped and skinned my knee. She chased him away.”

  “Did you see who it was?” He set her things on the empty chair next to her.

  Morgan shook her head. “He was in the hedges next door. The sun was in my eyes as he stepped out. When the dog came running from around the back of the house, he ran back through the hedge.”

  “Did you call the police?” Lance asked.

  Sharp shook his head. “He didn’t do anything illegal.”

  Lance swore. “Did you check the surveillance footage?”

  Sharp reached behind him for an iPad. He swiped through a couple of screens and handed the iPad to Lance. “The sun was behind him. Average size guy,
dressed in jeans and a black hooded jacket. It looked like his face was covered with something.”

  “That’s not very helpful.” Lance watched the video. The figure was a barely detailed shadow, an outline of a man. He stepped out of the hedges. Before he’d taken two steps, a white blur charged him. The man turned and bolted. “That dog is a rocket.”

  “I’m going to send the image to a friend and see if he can get any more details out of it,” Sharp said.

  Morgan stroked the dog’s head. “If we assume the man was Tessa’s killer, that would rule out Robby Barone and his father. Robby is too small and his father is too large.”

  “What if the man had nothing to do with the case?” Sharp asked. “He could have been a prospective burglar casing the building next door.”

  “Or it was Jacob Emerson,” Lance suggested. “I’m sure the DA has already called his father. Maybe he doesn’t appreciate the prospect of being swabbed for DNA.”

  “Dean Voss is another possibility,” Sharp said. “Trying to kidnap a woman on a public street is pretty crazy. The SFPD, the sheriff’s department, and the state police are looking for him, but he’s slippery.”

  “Don’t forget Kevin Murdoch,” Lance added. “I know we haven’t turned up any dirt on Jamie’s soon-to-be stepfather, but I haven’t counted him out yet.”

  “There’s one person who is completely ruled out.” Morgan applied a Band-Aid to her knee. “Nick. And on that front, Bud messaged me that Nick is stable and improving faster than the doctors expected. They think he’s out of the woods.”

  “That’s a relief,” Lance said.

  Sharp set a cup of tea on the table in front of her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Lance tried to catch her eye, but she was entirely too focused on stirring a spoonful of honey into her tea.

  Suddenly, she stood without drinking any tea. “I’d better change and get home if I want to see my girls before they go to school.”

  Sharp handed her a Band-Aid, and she left the room with her duffel. The dog followed her. They heard the bathroom door open and close. A few minutes later, Morgan returned dressed in a pair of jeans and a light sweater. The dog remained plastered to her shins. “Thank you for rushing to my rescue, Sharp.”