Morgan’s face was pale, her features pinched with pain. Enough of the Emersons. He wasn’t going anywhere. There would be plenty of time to worry about him later. He rubbed her hand, and she smiled at him through the pain.
A doctor approached Morgan. “Let’s have a look.” He lifted the bandage and checked the wound. “That’s a nasty cut. You’re going to need some serious stitches.”
She nodded. “But better my arm than my neck.”
The thought almost made Lance sick.
“I was impressed at how you slipped out of his grip,” Lance said.
Although he should have expected her to act heroically, considering how she’d broken Dean Voss’s wrist earlier. But even after seeing her in action, he had trouble reconciling her feminine appearance with her abilities.
She was a girly girl who could kick serious butt. He’d have to get used to that fact.
“I’ve told you before that my dad and granddad trained me in self-defense, but remind me that I need to practice now and then. I’m lucky I remembered.” Morgan gritted her teeth as Lance and the young doctor helped her to her feet. “I knew if I could get out of the way, you’d take care of the rest.”
Lance squeezed her fingers.
“Let’s get you down to the ER.” The nurse guided Morgan toward a wheelchair.
Lance held onto Morgan’s hand. He didn’t care where they were going.
He wasn’t letting go.
Chapter Forty-Two
Morgan held her bandaged arm against her body as she slid into Lance’s Jeep. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight.” Lance closed the car door, rounded the vehicle, and got into the driver’s seat. “Are you in pain?”
“Nope. Not yet.” The painkillers the hospital had given her made everything fuzzy. Her mouth tasted like she’d eaten cotton balls.
“I’ll have you home in fifteen minutes.”
Morgan didn’t remember the drive. She must have dozed off. The next thing she knew she was home and Lance was helping her into the house.
Her grandfather held the door open. Gianna was waiting in the hall.
“She’s fine,” Lance said. “Just a little spacey.”
“If you can get her to her room, I can take over from there.” Gianna followed them down the hall.
“I only hurt my arm. My legs are fine. I can walk.” But Morgan wobbled more than walked.
Lance half carried her to her bed. “Looks like she doesn’t tolerate painkillers any better than alcohol.”
She stretched out. “I can hear you.” But she couldn’t sit up. Her head felt like a water balloon.
“Thanks for saving my girl,” her grandfather said from the doorway.
Lance’s answer surprised her. “Wasn’t me. She saved herself.”
“Not exactly,” she mumbled. She knew she wouldn’t be here without him.
He straightened and shifted away from the bed.
She grabbed for his hand. Her eyes welled with tears. Gratitude and something more filled her with contentment. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” He leaned down and kissed her hand before setting it on the bed. “Get some rest.”
Morgan must have fallen asleep. When she opened her eyes again, morning blasted through the blinds. She threw an arm over her eyes. Pain sliced through her arm. “Ow.”
She sat up. She was still wearing her slacks from the night before. But someone had removed her bloody blouse and replaced it with a soft flannel button-up. Her feet were bare, a blanket drawn over her. She eased her shoulders higher on the pillow. Her mouth was desert dry.
“Hey, how do you feel?” Gianna stood in the doorway.
“Like I ate chalk.”
“Want some water?”
“Yes.” Morgan shook her head. “And coffee.”
“Lance left a few pain pills for you if you need them.”
“I’ll stick with over-the-counter if possible. Clearly, I have no tolerance for anything stronger.” Morgan swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“Take it slowly, OK?” Gianna suggested.
“I will.” Morgan eased to her feet. The room remained stationary. She walked to the bathroom. But when she came out, she decided being upright was overrated and went back to bed. Her head ached.
Gianna brought her water and coffee.
“It’s like I have the worst hangover ever.”
“The coffee should help.” Gianna handed it over. “I guess there’s no worry about you becoming an addict. You wouldn’t be awake enough.”
Morgan drank. The coffee went down her throat like liquid gold. “Where are the girls?”
“School.” Gianna said. “The bus came a half hour ago.”
“Where’s Sophie?”
“Your grandfather has her outside with Snoozer. He didn’t want her to wake you.”
The caffeine cleared the cobwebs in Morgan’s head. “Wait. It’s Wednesday. You have to get to dialysis.”
“Will you be all right by yourself? If not, I’ll call a cab and your grandfather can stay with you.”
Morgan drained her mug. “I’m fine now that I’m caffeinated. Seriously, I have a cut on my arm. That’s it.”
“You were pretty out of it last night.” Gianna hesitated at the door.
“The drugs are out of my system now. I’m fine.” To prove it, Morgan got out of bed. Her head felt like someone had just bowled a strike in it, but she faked a smile as Gianna left her bedroom. The second they all left the house, she was getting right back in bed.
“Mommy!” Sophie ran at her.
“Sophie!” Grandpa called. “Remember Mommy’s arm.”
Sophie slid to a stop, her sneakers squeaking on the wood floor of the hall.
“It’s OK. You can hug me.” Morgan crouched down, holding her injured arm up high.
Sophie gave her a gentle hug and a kiss on the cheek before spinning around and rushing back to the door. “Grandpa is taking me to school.” She hefted her Hello Kitty backpack onto her shoulders. Taking Grandpa’s hand, she tugged. “Come on. I’ll be late.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Grandpa’s eyes were worried.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Morgan said. “I’m going to get another cup of coffee.”
“I’ll be back in an hour,” Grandpa said.
Gianna took Sophie’s hand and the three of them went out the front door. Morgan heard the deadbolt sliding home.
As soon as the house was empty, she went back to her bedroom. But now that the coffee was buzzing through her system, she couldn’t sleep. Giving up, she went to the kitchen, refilled her mug, and took it back to her bed.
The previous night, when Phillip Emerson had put a knife to her throat, she’d realized that life was short.
Despite all the people she’d lost, it had taken a threat to her own life to bring her to her senses.
For the last two years, she’d been squandering her life. Her children were the only things that gave her any joy, and that wasn’t right.
She opened the nightstand and took out the letter that she’d been avoiding for two years. Tears burned the corners of her eyes as she read her husband’s handwriting on the outside of the envelope. Morgan.
“I’m sorry,” she said to John’s photo as she slid a finger under then flap. “I couldn’t read this before.”
Tears blurred the page as she read the words her husband had written to her before he’d left for Iraq. The letter he’d left with his commander in case he didn’t make it home. The fact that she’d never been able to read it before now suddenly felt selfish. The note was short. John had never wasted words. He hadn’t been a poet, just a good man. He’d always gotten to the point and said what was on his mind. His final letter was no different.
Morgan,
If you’re reading this letter, then I didn’t come home. I’m sorry for that. It was a lot to ask of you to be my wife. Just know this: I loved you and our girls with all my heart. Even from six thousand miles awa
y, I have no doubt the four of you will be the very last images in my mind. However short our time was together, your love is the precious thing that I will take with me.
I didn’t give my life for a lofty idea of patriotism. I gave it so people like you, Ava, Mia, and Sophie would be safe and free. I did my duty. Now I want you to do yours. Honor my life by living yours. Don’t waste a second on the idea that you being happy would somehow be disloyal to me. Live. Laugh. Love. Don’t hold back. Make me proud.
Love you always, John.
She wiped the tears from her face, folded the letter, and put it back in her drawer. She’d transfer it to the safe deposit box so the girls would always have it. But she would never read it again.
She lifted his photo from her nightstand. “You’re right. I’ve been walking around half living. It isn’t fair to the girls, and it isn’t fair to me. Thank you for making me see that.”
Carrying his picture, she walked to the girls’ bedroom and placed it on their dresser. She would never forget him or the love they had, but it was time to let him go.
It was time to live.
Chapter Forty-Three
Lance walked into the ice arena. The kids were already warming up. Coach Zack leaned on the half wall and watched as they circled the rink.
Zack turned. “Hey, Lance. Are those your skates?”
“They are.” Lance sat on the bench and exchanged his athletic shoes for the black hockey skates.
“Does your therapist know about this?”
“I’ve been approved for some light skating.” Lance tightened the laces. “So don’t expect anything exciting.”
But it felt damned good to step out onto the ice.
The kids raced over. He had a brief moment of panic that he’d get body slammed, but they gave him room, zooming around him and shouting encouragement.
“Coach Lance!”
“Awesome.”
Lance grinned. A year and a half ago, these same kids distrusted cops so much they’d barely speak to him. Their trust had come slowly. But when he’d been shot, every single one of them had visited him in the hospital.
He followed instructions and kept his ice time short, hanging up his skates to help Zack coach from the sidelines.
It was dark when he parked in his driveway and opened his garage door. He should have been in a good mood, but he wasn’t. He hadn’t heard from Morgan since he’d driven her home from the hospital the night before. But then, the case was over. They wouldn’t be spending much time together. Would their friendship go back to where it was before Tessa’s murder? Did he even want that?
Shit.
Lance was in the garage when Sharp’s Dodge Charger cruised to the curb. Sharp hurried up the driveway, a file tucked under one arm. “Wait until you see what I have.”
“You look excited.” Lance led the way into the house.
Sharp waved the folder. “Your instincts and Morgan’s were dead on about Vanessa Lewis’s fiancé.”
“I thought Kevin Murdoch was clean.” Lance turned on the lights and they walked into the kitchen.
Sharp opened the file on the counter. “Kevin Murdoch is clean.”
Lance peered over his shoulder at a photo of a fat bald guy. “Who is that?”
“Kevin Murdoch.” Sharp’s smile was all teeth.
“Then who is dating Vanessa Lewis?”
Sharp flipped to the next page. “Byron Dixon. Registered sex offender who moved from Florida three years ago and stole Kevin Murdoch’s identity. Dixon raped a thirteen-year-old girl and served eleven years in prison. A month after his parole, he moved here and used the new identity to evade the sex offender registry. Then he befriended and began to date Vanessa. He actually is an accountant and has been working out of his apartment doing income taxes and small business accounting.”
“Poor Jamie.” Lance was angry but not surprised. At last count, there were nearly seven hundred fifty thousand registered sex offenders in the U.S. It was too easy for them to slip over state lines and through the reporting cracks.
“Yeah. He must have done something, and when she heard her mother was marrying him, she couldn’t take it.” Sharp closed the file. “I called the Feds. They picked him up fifteen minutes ago. Jamie doesn’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“So if we can find her, she’ll be safe.”
“We’ll keep trying, but that kid is a ghost.”
“I’ll call her friend, Tony,” Lance said. “Maybe he can get word to her that she’s safe.”
“Just thought you’d want to know.” Sharp picked up the file. “Have you talked to Morgan?”
“No.”
“Then that explains your miserable mug.” Sharp shook his head. “Just call the woman. You know you like her. You just can’t get out of your own way.”
“Sharp, we’ve been over this. Relationships and my mom don’t mix.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit.” Sharp got in his face. “You’re afraid. Morgan’s different. I see the way you look at her. She’s the one that might count.”
Lance turned away from Sharp—and the truth.
“Goodnight, Sharp.”
Sharp huffed as he headed toward the door. “Don’t be a dumbass.”
After the door had closed behind him, Lance settled at his piano and indulged himself with broody music. He’d moved on to Coldplay when his doorbell rang. No one except Sharp ever stopped by. Lance went to the door.
Through the peephole he saw a tall figure with a Mohawk. Lance opened the door. Tony Allessi stood on the doorstep, and next to him was a tall, lanky girl.
Jamie Lewis.
“Come in.” Lance stepped aside.
Jamie stumbled. Tony grabbed her arm and tugged it over his shoulders. As he helped Jamie into the brightly lit kitchen, Lance could see that something was very wrong with the girl. Her skin was simultaneously deathly pale and flushed.
“Sit down.” Lance pulled out a kitchen chair.
Jamie fell into it.
“She’s sick.” Tony’s hand went to his Mohawk. “I didn’t know where else to bring her.”
Lance crouched in front of Jamie. She obviously hadn’t showered in some time. Her hair was greasy, and her eyes dull. He put a hand on her head. “She’s burning up.”
“I can’t go home,” she mumbled.
“Yes, you can. Kevin is history.”
She blinked.
“Kevin isn’t Kevin,” Lance said. “He’s a sex offender from Florida, and you don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“He said no one would believe a crazy girl.” She started to cry.
“I know.” Lance grabbed his keys. “Let’s get you to the ER and call your mom. Everything is going to be OK.”
The girl’s knees gave out as she stood. Lance scooped her into his arms and carried her out to the Jeep. He called her mother on the way to the emergency room. A nurse escorted Jamie into the triage bay while Lance and Tony headed for the waiting room.
Vanessa Lewis hurried through the sliding door. Her face was streaked with tears and fear. “Where is she? Is she all right?”
Lance stood. “The nurse took her back. I’m sure they’ll let you in.”
Vanessa gave her name at the counter.
“I can’t believe I let a monster near my child.” She dug in her pocket for a tissue. “He was so nice.”
“He’s an experienced predator,” Lance said. “This was not his first time. He knew what he was doing.”
The electronic door opened and a scrub-clad nurse called, “Mrs. Lewis?”
So did Lance. But it wasn’t going to happen overnight. Both Jamie and her mom would need time and professional help if they were going to get through this together.
Chapter Forty-Four
Two days later
Lance went into the office late Friday morning after stopping to check on his mom. Sharp was on the phone. The dog was curled up in a bed in the corner. Lance waved as he passed the doorway. Then he settled at
the card table in his office and stared at the single file in front of him: his father’s case.
He still hadn’t opened it. Yes, he wanted to know what had happened to his dad, but if Sharp hadn’t found any clues in twenty-three years, what were the chances any existed?
What were the chances that Lance would get sucked into a past that he’d thought he’d made peace with? He also considered the effect any digging into the past would have on his mom.
The front door opened and closed. Morgan walked past his doorway. Surprise pulled Lance to his feet. He hadn’t seen her since he’d dropped her at her house Tuesday night.
The dog bolted from Sharp’s office to greet her, and Lance wanted to do the same. He listened to her talk to the dog in a ridiculous high-pitched voice.
“What a pretty girl you are. Did Sharp give you a bath?”
The patter of dog toenails on hardwood followed Morgan’s footsteps down the hall.
Lance went to the war room. She was clearing the board and filing the evidence from Nick’s case. Instead of a suit, she wore jeans, a black sweater, and a pair of brown boots on her feet. A silk scarf in gray and turquoise was artfully knotted around her throat. The bandage on her arm peeked out from the hem of her sleeve. Her face was still pale, but her eyes were clear and blue and beautiful as always.
She was still talking to the dog. “Look at your new collar and tags.”
The dog sat at her feet and listened with a cocked head. The collar around her neck was purple, and a hot-pink dog tag stamped with the name “ROCKET” hung from its metal loop.
What would Morgan do now? With the charges against Nick dropped, she didn’t need to play defense attorney anymore. He was going to miss seeing her every day, but it was probably for the best. If they worked closely together, she would be too hard to resist.
He leaned on the doorjamb. “How’s the arm?”
She turned. “Itchy but otherwise fine.” She pulled the photos of suspects out from under their magnets and put them in the box.
“Can I help?” He started at the opposite end of the board. “What are you going to do with all this stuff?”
Say You're Sorry (Morgan Dane Book 1) Page 32
