Say You're Sorry (Morgan Dane 1)

In one swift motion, Lance took the gun from her. She burst into tears. He unloaded the weapon as she sobbed.

Once the threat was over, Lance took a deep breath. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like a hit of speed. At least as a cop he’d had backup and body armor. As a private investigator, he was on his own in a sea of crazy.

Speaking of crazy . . .

With Mrs. Brown disarmed and subdued, Lance waited for the SFPD. Ten minutes later, a sheriff’s deputy arrived instead, which wasn’t uncommon. With a limited number of cars on patrol, the local force relied on the county sheriff for backup.

Lance handed over Mrs. Brown’s weapon, gave a statement, and was free to go. As soon as he typed up his own report, he would be done with the Browns and their messy divorce. Love made people nuts.

His phone buzzed with a text from Sharp. STOP AT THE OFFICE.

Either Sharp had been listening to his police scanner or he’d gotten a call about the incident. He knew everybody in local law enforcement.

Lance drove to the tree-lined side street in Scarlet Falls where Sharp owned a duplex and lived in the unit above Sharp Investigations. At nearly one a.m., all was quiet in the very small business section of town. Lance parked at the curb and climbed the wooden steps. Sharp’s office occupied what was originally the living room of the converted two-bedroom apartment. Lance had set up camp in the first bedroom with a card table, a single chair, and a laptop. The sole personal item was a wireless speaker. He hooked the camera to the laptop and downloaded his pictures from earlier that evening.

“You really need to buy a desk.” Lance’s boss stood in the doorway. In worn jeans and a plain gray T-shirt, Sharp was wiry and ridiculously fit for his age. Twenty-five years on the police force had left him with an indelible don’t-fuck-with-me expression.

“The table works for now.” So far, Lance had refused to commit to a permanent position at Sharp Investigations. He wasn’t ready to give up his dream of getting back on the force. “Next time one of your family members requests an adultery surveillance, you’re on your own.”

Sharp ignored the comment. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, Mom.” Lance followed his boss into the small kitchen.

Sharp filled a teapot and put it on the stove. Then he filled one bowl with dog kibble and another with water, opened the back door, and deposited the bowls on the back porch.

“Still feeding that stray?”

“She won’t come in.” Sharp spooned tea into a wire basket and dropped it into a ceramic pot.

“She?” Lance teased.

Sharp pretended to be a total hard-ass, but it was a lame act.

“You’re a sucker for big brown eyes.” Lance led the way into Sharp’s office. Two chairs faced a beat-up desk. A black couch spanned the far wall.

Sharp carried a teapot in one hand and two mugs in the other. “You’ve had a tough night, so I’ll ignore your smart-assery.”

Lance eased himself into the straight chair. “You know, most men would offer a friend a glass of whiskey after a traumatic event.”

Sharp poured green tea into two mugs and set one in front of Lance. “Alcohol is a depressant. That’s the last thing you need right now.”

Sigh.

“Now that I can see for myself that you’re not dead, tell me what happened.” Sharp took his place behind the desk.

Lance filled him in. “Just a typical Friday night.”

Sharp laughed so hard, he wheezed.

“It’s not funny,” Lance said.

“You’re right. It’s not.” But his boss’s voice shook.

“That was the worst job ever. I don’t know what bothered me more, the flying bullets or the melodrama.” Lance took a few deep breaths. “Not sure where we stand on the case.”

“Not much you can do when the client loses her frigging mind.” Sharp’s voice sobered. “Seriously, I’m glad she didn’t shoot you.”

“I don’t know about this PI thing. I still miss being a cop,” Lance said.

“I know that, and I know why,” Sharp said. “Do you think I don’t remember what day it is?”

Lance’s throat tightened. Twenty-three years ago, his father had vanished. Sharp had been in charge of the case.

“I understand the desire to protect and serve. I did it for twenty-five years. But being a PI is better in a lot of ways. You’re your own boss. You make your own decisions. No one can order you to stop investigating a case.” Sharp’s mouth tightened. That was exactly what had happened to him when leads on Lance’s dad’s case went cold. “But if that’s what you really want, then keep working on your recovery.”

“More crunchy-granola-woowoo crap?”

“Bash it all you want.” Sharp crossed his arms. “You’re better, and you know it. You were pushing too hard and not letting your body heal. Didn’t your physical therapist give you the go ahead to get on the ice?”

“I’m allowed fifteen minutes of light skating.” Lance had played hockey in high school, and eighteen months ago, he’d been volunteered to serve as an assistant coach to a bunch of disadvantaged kids through a police outreach program. The shooting had benched him. He missed hockey—and the kids—more than he’d expected.

His therapist had actually cleared him weeks ago, but he hadn’t set foot on the ice yet. As much as he wanted to play, it wasn’t worth the risk of an injury. One fall could wipe out all his progress. He’d stick with coaching from the sidelines.

Sharp rolled his eyes. “You know I’m right.”

He was. Damn it.

Besides, he could hardly make fun of Sharp’s lifestyle. The man could still run a seven-minute mile and do muscle-ups.

“All right, but I still wish this was whiskey.” Lance drained his cup of green tea. Three months ago, he would have stopped at a bar on the way home for a couple of shots. Tonight, he’d go home and make an antioxidant protein shake.

“Get some sleep.” Sharp got up and walked around the desk.

Lance stood. “A solid eight hours is next on my agenda.”

Did he know how to party or what?

But ten months after being shot, he finally thought maybe he could fully recover. That his police career might not be over. That he could get back to coaching and the active lifestyle he missed.

His phone rang and he read the display.

Morgan.

If there was one person who could tempt him away from his bed—or into it—it was Morgan Dane. He was treated to a quick mental vision of her in his bed, all tousled, no trace of her usual perfection, thanks to him.

He almost rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of his imagination. He’d known the Danes since high school. He and Morgan had dated during senior year. They’d liked each other back then with the usual awkward teenage crushes, but when they’d left for college, neither one of them had been devastated. Nothing had prepared him for the bulldozer effect she’d had on him when he’d run into her a few months before. Morgan seemed only interested in being his friend, and he was in no position to have a relationship.

So be cool.

He answered the call. “Morgan?”

“Did I wake you?” Her tone was breathless, which didn’t help.

At. All.

Lance stepped into the hall. “No. I was up.”

A glance at the digital clock reminded him it was nearly one a.m. Why would Morgan call him in the middle of the night? Concern brought his puppy love to heel.