Say You're Sorry (Morgan Dane 1)

“Your mother is sweet.”

“She certainly likes you.” Lance suspected his mother had the wrong idea about his relationship with Morgan.

“I’m glad.”

Lance piled the shoes in the back of his Jeep. “This is the ritual. She does OK in the daytime, but at night she gets online and orders all sorts of other things. I take everything back the day after it arrives. I return what I can and donate the rest. She tries, but she just can’t help herself.”

“When you said she was a hoarder, I pictured a cluttered house.”

“It used to be a firetrap, but there was a breaking point when I graduated from college and came home. During the term, I’d come home every weekend, but those last weeks, I got tied up with finals and papers. I hadn’t been here for a month. I couldn’t even get into the house. She’d blocked all the exits except the back door. My absence had exacerbated her symptoms. She worries all the time. I can’t miss a day of visiting. When I was in the hospital, even though Sharp came every day to give her an update on my condition, I had to Skype with her each morning to prove I wasn’t dead.”

“What happened when you came home from college?” Morgan asked.

“Sharp and I got her into an inpatient facility.” Lance still remembered his shock at his mother’s appearance—unshowered, in dirty clothes, fingernails chewed ragged, cuticles picked bloody. He hadn’t known how she’d been able to fake it during their daily phone calls. “They got her back on the meds and balanced her moods. While she was gone, Sharp and I emptied the house.” Which had required renting a Dumpster. “Now I have to enforce strict rules. If she wants to keep a new purchase, she has to get rid of something of equal size. Two cats are the maximum, but she can have all the spoons and thimbles she likes. I know it sounds weird, but the system has been working for years.”

Lance closed the cargo door. They climbed back into the vehicle, and he started the engine. When he grabbed the shifter, Morgan put her hand on his.

“I like your mom.” She smiled. “No one’s perfect.”

“Some are less perfect than others, but thank you.”

“She’s kind, she’s alive, and she obviously loves you very much.” Morgan squeezed his hand. “In the end, that’s what really matters.”

“I know.” Lance focused on the word alive. Morgan had lost two parents and a husband.

“After my father was killed, my mother ran away from the memories. She moved out of the city and dragged us all with her. We didn’t want to leave our friends, our lives, but there was no reasoning with her. Ian went to college in the city, so he stayed. My sisters and I had no choice.” Morgan paused for a breath. “My mom never recovered from his death. A few years later, she had a massive heart attack. I always thought she died of a broken heart. Thank God for Grandpa.”

“I’m sorry.” Lance turned his hand over and interlaced their fingers. Their teenage relationship had been short and superficial. Morgan’s mom had been alive then, though Lance had only met her once or twice. After they’d broken up, he and Morgan hadn’t kept in touch.

When she turned away to stare out the window, her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Your mom is sick. Don’t hold that against her. Grief can break even the strongest person.”

Chapter Twenty

Jail, day 3

Nick hunched over his breakfast tray. Although his stomach pinched with hunger, he waited for the older inmates to grab their trays. Like high school, much was inferred through your choice of where to sit for a meal.

At first, he’d been afraid that every inmate was forced to choose a gang, but it seemed that only a rough third of the population of D-pod were actually gang members. The Man’s information wasn’t exactly correct. If tattoos were accurate, the Aryan Brotherhood, the Bloods, and the Mexican Mafia were all represented, but they gave each other space, as if some sort of wary truce had been achieved.

Since surveillance cameras and guards watched 24/7, maybe they’d all agreed that attacking each other here was pointless.

The other forty-odd inmates had their own smaller social groups. A small gathering read the Bible and prayed before breakfast. There was a study group. Nick hadn’t expected that. And one popular, geeky guy gave out free legal advice, which seemed to have earned him respect and maybe even gratitude, among the other inmates.

For now, Nick was still keeping to himself and observing as much behavior as possible before he would inevitably be forced to interact with the others. So far, there’d been mostly silent assessment.

He’d already learned that first-timers were called fish.

He grabbed a tray. He took the empty end of the prayer group’s table. He kept his head down and ate, barely tasting the oatmeal, hard-boiled egg, and milk on his tray. The portions were small, and his stomach was not nearly full when his food was gone. Other inmates traded food, and there must have been a place to buy food because an older guy was cooking ramen in a microwave—another surprise.

Nick hadn’t expected this much . . . freedom.

An odd word for the inside of a county jail, but although the men were all locked up, they moved about the room at will. No one was locked in a tiny cell. It seemed that as long as you obeyed the rules, both the official and unofficial sets—and no one was out to get you—this was how it would be.

But the way the other inmates studied Nick told him he wasn’t going to be so lucky.

He ate quickly, feeling vulnerable out in the open. Depositing his tray back on the cart, he retreated to his mattress on the floor. He felt better with his back to the cinderblocks.

A few stragglers sat at empty tables. One guy cleaned tables. Another mopped the floor. Two guys played a game of chess, and a small group banded around them to watch. Nick almost wanted to go over and see if he could get in line to play, but he watched from a distance. He still attracted too much attention. There was a tension he couldn’t describe building in the room. And it seemed to swell whenever one of the other inmates made eye contact with him.

The walls were depressing. The food was depressing. On top of fear, sheer hopelessness weighed on him like a steel blanket. Halfway through the morning, a short, stocky white guy with a full sleeve of multicolored tattoos approached. He sat on the closest steel bench and faced Nick. Had he been assigned to interview him?

“So, you’re the beast?”

“Beast?” Nick asked, confused.

“You raped a girl, right?” the man asked, his eyes creasing with disapproval.

“No.” For the first time, Nick made purposeful and prolonged eye contact. Anger kept his voice and gaze steady. “I didn’t.”

The man considered Nick’s answer. “What’s your story?”

Nick sensed a test. “My girlfriend was raped and killed. The police and the DA pinned it on me. I just want to get out of here, find the one who did it, and do her justice.”

“Half the men in here claim they’re innocent. Why should I believe you?”

Nick shrugged, exhaustion sliding over his body in a wave. He’d been afraid to close his eyes. Hell, he was afraid if he blinked, someone would kill him. But lack of food and sleep was wearing on him. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep up the hypervigilance. “If you don’t want to, there isn’t anything I can do about that.”