Say You're Sorry (Morgan Dane 1)

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.

“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.