“My mother requires a lot of maintenance. I need to stay close.” Lance turned at a mailbox. A narrow drive led to the small house he’d grown up in. After his dad disappeared, Mom refused to consider moving. It was as if she held onto the three-bedroom house and five acres as her last connection to her husband.
As if she still expected him to come home.
He parked in front of the house and looked over at Morgan. She didn’t seem disturbed by his story.
“Is there anything I might do or say that could upset her?” Morgan asked, always thinking of others, never herself.
“Not really.” Lance said. “But don’t be offended if she’s standoffish or nervous. She doesn’t like visits from strangers. The only people she’s comfortable with are me and Sharp.”
“All right.”
Lance got out of the Jeep. For a few seconds, he considered asking Morgan to wait outside, but that was cheating. Mom’s therapist wanted him to treat her as normally as possible. Bringing a coworker to the house was perfectly ordinary.
Morgan carried the pie as they walked to the front porch.
“Did I mention she’s also a hoarder?” he warned as he knocked on the door. No one answered, so he used his key and let them in.
“Mom?” he called out as they stepped into the living room.
He assessed a stack of shipping boxes by the door. Not too bad. Seven pairs of shoes. He’d last visited yesterday morning. These must have been delivered in the afternoon. Other than the new boxes, the living room was tidy.
A former computer science professor, his mom had turned to online teaching years before. She also did freelance website design, security, and maintenance. With her mortgage paid off, her expenses were minimal, and her salary enabled her to indulge in far too much online shopping. Lance kept close tabs on her credit cards, but it was still impossible to keep her completely in check. If he cancelled one credit card, she applied for ten more.
He pictured the clutter that had once filled the house. They’d barely been able to walk from room to room. Antidepressants, weekly group therapy, and Lance’s determination were the three keys to keeping Jennifer Kruger’s living conditions sanitary, safe, and relatively sane.
Morgan wandered into the living room and inspected the hanging glass cases full of thimbles and spoons. Several chests of drawers held more of the same. “Spoons and thimbles?”
“They’re small and nonflammable,” Lance said. His mother had needed to keep some of her treasures.
“Lance, is that you? I’m in the office.” His mom’s voice drifted from the bedroom wing of the house.
A doorway opened into the kitchen, while a short hallway led to the three bedrooms.
Morgan detoured to the kitchen with the pie while Lance headed for the hall and the extra bedroom that had been converted into an office when his mother had started working from home.
His mom sat behind the desk, hunched over a keyboard. On one side of her L-shaped desk, a computer was equipped with three monitors. A laptop was open on the second leg. A cat lounged beside the laptop. Another bathed itself in a patch of sun that streamed into the room and puddled on the floor behind the desk.
His mom smiled as he entered the room, leaned over her desk, and kissed her on the cheek.
On the outside, his mother looked ordinary. Her painfully slender frame, white hair she didn’t bother to color, and deep lines in her face aged her beyond her sixty years. The one highlight of her OCD was that she was routine dependent, and her therapist had designed daily hygiene rituals with her illness in mind. She was now incapable of sleeping past her seven a.m. alarm, skipping a shower, or not washing her clothes at exactly nine o’clock every morning. The end result was a seemingly put-together older woman who functioned with a precision that even drill sergeants would envy.
But the ever-present bright sheen of apprehension that clouded her pale blue eyes gave her away. No amount of medication or therapy would ever bring her back to the woman she’d once been.
In the blink of an eye, his mother’s expression shifted from resignation to fear. “Who is that in the hallway?”
Looking lawyerly—and gorgeous—in her navy-blue suit, white blouse, and heels, Morgan stepped into the doorway. She must have left the pie and her giant purse in the kitchen.
Lance gestured for her to come into the room. “Mom, this is Morgan Dane.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Kruger.”
He braced himself for a panic attack as his mother studied Morgan for a full minute without speaking. In his mind, Lance was already fetching antianxiety meds from the kitchen when the most extraordinary thing happened.
His mother smiled.
Rising, she came out from behind the desk and extended a hand to Morgan. “Please, you must call me Jennifer.”
What the hell?
When was the last time Mom had willingly touched a stranger?
“Let me make you some coffee?” His mom led Morgan toward the kitchen. The pair of cats weaved precariously around their ankles.
Feeling like he was having an out-of-body experience, Lance followed. His mom gestured toward the round oak table that had graced the gray sheet vinyl since the house had been built. He couldn’t remember the last time someone other than he, his mom, or Sharp had sat at it. Even the social worker who visited once a month usually set off an anxiety attack.
But his mom was at the counter making coffee as if she entertained on a daily basis. She pointed to a high cabinet. “Lance, get some plates down.”
“OK.” He did as she asked, his emotions bouncing between suspicion and guarded relief.
“Can I help?” Morgan asked.
His mother waved away Morgan’s offer. “No. No. You’re our guest.”
Lance spent the next twenty minutes in an utter state of confusion as they ate pie and drank coffee like normal people. His mother finished an entire slice, the most he’d seen her eat in one sitting in years, and she wore the first genuine smile he’d seen in a very long time.
Who was this woman, and what had she done with his mother?
“Mom, we need to ask you for a favor.” Lance collected their dirty plates and put them into the dishwasher. His mother would run the appliance at seven o’clock this evening, whether it was empty or full.
“What is it?” his mom asked.
“Morgan is a defense attorney. Sharp and I are assisting with her investigation. We’re shorthanded, and we could use some help running background checks.”
“You want me to help you?” She perked up even more.
“Yes,” he said.
“Of course I will.” She rose, a flustered hand going to her throat as she scurried back to her office.
Lance rushed after her. Was she going to freak out? What had he done? “I don’t want to give you any stress.”
But his mom slid behind her desk. Did she really just crack her knuckles over her keyboard? “Did you bring me a list?”
“Yes.” Lance froze.
Luckily, Morgan kept her wits. From behind him, she said, “I’ll get it.”
When his mom looked up at him, her eyes were wet. Lance had a moment of fear before he realized it was gratitude shining from his mom’s face.
Sharp had been right.
His mother was thrilled to be helping.
“So you’re OK with this?” Lance asked.
She nodded. “I’m so glad you asked.” Her gaze went around the office. “The fall term just began. There isn’t that much I can use to fill my work hours.” She focused on him. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than help you and Sharp. I know I’ve been a terrible burden to you both.”
“Never a burden.” Lance rounded the desk. Resting his hands on her shoulders, he bent and kissed her on the cheek.
She turned, smiled up at him, and whispered, “She’s lovely.”
The waggle of her eyebrows shocked the hell out of him, and he couldn’t stifle the laugh that burst out of his chest.
Another first, his mother showing a sense of humor.
“We work together.”
The gleam in her eye showed she didn’t believe him. “Sure.”
Morgan brought a file into the office and handed it over. His mother opened it, flipping through the pages.
“Are you going to be all right, then?” Lance asked.
“Yes. Yes. I’m going to work on these all afternoon.” His mom’s attention was riveted on the file.
“How long do you think it will take?” Morgan asked.
“Depends on what I find.” His mom flipped through a couple of pages. “I doubt I’ll be finished, but I’ll have something for you by Monday.”
“Then we’ll leave you to it.” Lance straightened. “I’ll call later. If you find anything spectacular before then, would you call me?”
“I will.” His mom lifted her gaze. “Will you bring Morgan back?”
“Maybe,” Lance answered. “She’s very busy with the case.”
Mom’s smile faltered.
“I’d be happy to come back,” Morgan said from the doorway.
His mother beamed. She tugged on Lance’s sleeve. “Bring more pie.”
“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
On Sundays, Mom had group therapy. He’d need to do her grocery shopping and mow the lawn too.
Morgan waited patiently while he stopped in the kitchen to check Mom’s pill organizer and make sure she’d taken all her medication. In the living room, he picked up the boxes of shoes. The stack blocked his vision.
“Let me help.” Morgan grabbed the top box.
They went outside.
“That was a surprise.” He closed and locked the door behind them. “Normally she isn’t good with strangers.”
“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.”
“This is true.” The inmate nodded. “I’m Shorty.”
OK.
“I’m Nick.” What the hell? Not knowing what else to do, he reached out a hand.
Shorty shook it with only the briefest of hesitations.
What did an introduction mean? Had that been a test?
This was so confusing. He felt like he’d been dumped into a reality TV show with no description of the game he was supposed to play.
During the next few hours, three other inmates introduced themselves to Nick and asked for his story. Were they comparing notes? Nick kept his statements simple and honest and hoped that came through.
Not much else he could do. Everything depended on Ms. Dane.
Nick got up to use the toilet. He passed by a cell. A hand grabbed his uniform collar and yanked him off his feet into the dark space. He landed on his side, his shoulder smashing into the concrete. A body jumped on top of him. A fist slammed into his face. Pain exploded through his nose and mouth. Nick tasted blood. He wrapped his arms around his head to block the blows while he got his bearings. Adrenaline shot through his bloodstream, shocking his heart into a panicked frenzy.
Say You're Sorry (Morgan Dane Book 1) Page 17
