Dark Room (Pete 'Monty' Montgomery 2)

Six months later…

Morgan stared out the passenger window of Lane’s car, watching the sun reflect off the East River as they crossed the Williamsburg Bridge and headed into Brooklyn.

It was hard to believe that half a year had passed since her foundation had been ripped out from under her, and her world had been turned upside down—again.

She glanced down at her engagement ring—a square-cut diamond, simple, classy, and elegant. Lane had slid it on her finger on the first day of spring. The perfect time for new beginnings, he’d said.

They hadn’t set a wedding date. Not yet. She wasn’t quite ready. Not when there was so much still unresolved, both emotionally and legally.

The charges against Arthur had yet to be filed. Monty was pushing for second-degree murder, but he had his work cut out for him.

The team of defense attorneys Arthur had hired was the best. Following their advice, he’d stayed totally silent while his attorneys’ motions were flying. Motions to dismiss. Motions to change venue. Motions to you-name-it—they were all flooding the court. Indicting him on anything more than covering up a crime was going to be tough, since all the physical evidence implicated Lenny, who was being charged with second-degree manslaughter. Between his age, his standing in the community, and his plea of self-defense, Arthur’s attorneys were confident they could keep Lenny’s sentence to a minimum, with no jail time. The story they were going with was that Lara had been killed by a bullet accidentally fired when Jack brutally assaulted Lenny, after which Lenny had shot Jack out of fear for his own life.

Part truth. Part lies. Altogether believable.

It didn’t matter what Arthur said. Morgan knew the truth. So did the rest of the family. And they each fought to cope in their own way. But Lenny was a broken man. It was Rhoda who held him together. She kept the deli open and running—for his sake, for her own sake, and for their customers’ sakes. It kept her hands busy, her mind occupied, and her customers happy. Besides, Jonah was working longer hours now that summer vacation was here, and it did Rhoda a world of good to spend time with her grandson.

Jonah valued the relationship building as well, particularly the one with his biological mother. His parents fully supported his efforts, and did everything they could to make Karly feel like a welcome addition to Jonah’s life.

Despite everything that had happened or maybe because of it, Winshore was thriving, since the unintended publicity of the current scandal brought in new clients by the droves. Hard work was the best medicine Morgan could ask for. It kept her focused and gave her a sense of purpose.

So did Lane.

He was the one who ultimately convinced her that while the past would always be part of her, it didn’t have the power to control her—not unless she let it. Life, as he taught her, was like art. Rarely black-and-white. Mostly shades of gray.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Lane observed now, accelerating slightly and turning onto Atlantic Avenue.

“I’m wondering what this meeting is all about.” Morgan shot him a questioning look. “Are you sure Barbara didn’t say why she wanted to see us?”

“Positive.” He kept his eyes on the road. “She sounded rushed. When I told her you were in the shower, she just asked if we could run over for a half hour. I knew you’d say yes, so I said it for you.”

“But we told your parents we’d be up at the farm in time for lunch.”

“We will be. Besides, I wouldn’t worry about being missed. Devon and Blake are already up there. My parents will be hovering over Devon like EMTs, making sure she’s eating, taking it easy—the works. Monty will probably have the truck engine idling, in case the baby decides to show up three weeks early. Believe me, they’ll be plenty busy.”

Morgan smiled. “You’re about to become an uncle. That’s pretty exciting.”

“Yup. I can’t wait.” Lane slowed down and made a right, then another, until he swung onto Williams Avenue.

“This isn’t the way to Healthy Healing,” Morgan observed in a wooden tone.

“I know.” He continued driving toward the very building she most dreaded and had avoided revisiting all these years.

“Lane…” she managed.

“It’s okay.” He reached over, squeezed her hand. “Trust me.”

She’d opened her mouth to reply, when he pulled up in front of their destination—and her mouth snapped shut, her eyes widening in astonishment.

The three-story brick building had been totally restored, its white plaster-trimmed windows numerous and expansive, its twin banisters flanking a bluestone path and stairs,

and its fence enclosing a small playground/ backyard. The front door was solid cherry, and over it hung a brass plaque that read: THE LARA WINTER WOMEN’S CENTER.

Morgan stared. “I don’t understand.”

“You will.” Lane pressed a key into her hand. “It’s a gift from me to you.”

She glanced from the key to Lane, comprehension slowly dawning. “You bought the building?”