What I've Done (Morgan Dane #4)(22)

“I’ll occupy the reporters,” Morgan said to Sharp. “You can take Eliza out the back door, circle around the building, and get her to her car quietly.”

“That should work,” Sharp said. “I’m going to follow her home too. If Haley is released tomorrow, I want to address any security concerns in case the press decides to camp in front of the house.” He stepped farther into the room and closed the door behind him. “I want to thank you for doing this, Morgan. I know you aren’t feeling well. You should really be home in bed. I feel guilty for asking, but I don’t trust anyone else.” Sharp paused for a breath. “Ted and I went to the academy together. We started in patrol with the SFPD the same day. I was the best man at his wedding. I was at the hospital when Haley was born. One day, we were both on patrol when we stumbled into a convenience store robbery. Ted took a bullet in the neck.” Sharp stopped, swallowing hard. When he continued speaking, his voice was harsh, barely recognizable. “The bullet severed Ted’s carotid artery. Even if there had been a surgeon on-site, his chances of surviving that shot would have been slim. He bled out in minutes.” Sharp looked up.

“Did the robber die?” Lance had been shot in the thigh in the line of duty. He’d nearly died. The injury had ended his police career, but he was very lucky that he’d survived. His memories of the event were as fragmented as a broken mirror. He occasionally had nightmares, but he wondered if it would have been even harder to watch your partner bleed out.

“No.” Uncharacteristic bitterness tightened Sharp’s lips, the resulting lines around his mouth aging him. “Ted took one unlucky bullet to the neck, while the meth head survived five bullet wounds. I shot him four times. I only remember pulling the trigger once.” Sharp swallowed. “I promised Ted that I’d always look after his family.”

Lance’s heart bled for him. He could imagine the responsibility, regret, and grief all too well.

Morgan came out from behind the desk and put a hand on Sharp’s arm. “You don’t owe me any explanations, not after everything you have done for me over the past six months. I will do everything in my power to help Haley.”

“Thank you.” Sharp seemed to choke on the words.

“Now, get Eliza out of here.” Morgan went to her own office to collect her coat and bag.

Lance grabbed his leather jacket and put it on. “Ready?”

She straightened her shoulders. “Yes.”

Sharp and Eliza headed for the back of the office as Lance opened the door. Reporters swarmed them as soon as they hit the sidewalk. They were all yelling at once. Lance couldn’t tell who was asking which question.

“Ms. Dane! Did Haley Powell kill Noah Carter?”

“How will your client plead tomorrow?”

Morgan stopped and scanned the reporters. “Please. It’s too soon for specific questions. All I can say is that Haley is innocent, and we’re going to prove it.”

“Was Ms. Powell covered in Noah Carter’s blood?” a reporter called.

Another shouted, “Is it true that she’s claiming to have amnesia?”

Morgan spoke into a cluster of microphones. “I can’t speak about details of the case.”

But someone had. Important investigation details had been leaked to the press. Had it been an accident or an intentional attempt to taint the potential jury pool? Lance had no difficulty seeing Esposito orchestrating it. He didn’t know why the ADA had come to Morgan’s aid when McFarland had attacked her, but the act hadn’t changed Lance’s opinion of him.

A figure stepped out of the crowd. Lance expected a reporter getting aggressive, but instead it was a young man. Fury twisted his features. Lance’s instincts went on alert. He moved closer to Morgan, ready to block her with his body if necessary. At just under six feet tall, she wasn’t a small woman, and she was more than capable of defending herself under normal circumstances. But tonight, she was already injured.

And just because she could defend herself didn’t mean Lance was going to step aside and let the man attack her.

The young man rushed at them.

Lance stepped between the approaching man and Morgan. The man shoved his hand under his jacket. Lance’s hand went reflexively for his weapon. The teen pulled out a spray bottle.

Lance had no idea what was in the bottle, but he wasn’t letting it anywhere near Morgan. But he didn’t want to shoot the man. He blocked the attacker’s path like a defensive lineman.

The man raised the bottle. Liquid streamed out and hit Lance smack in the center of his chest. He bent his knees and launched himself forward, catching the man around the waist and tackling him. They hit the ground hard. On the bottom, the attacker took the brunt of the impact. Plastic cracked, liquid splashed, and noxious fumes filled the air.

Lance’s eyes teared. His lungs burned.

As he choked, he flipped the man over and pinned his arms behind his back. Eyes watering, Lance yelled, “What was in the bottle?”

“Fuck you,” the man wheezed over his shoulder. His eyes were shut, the lids red and swelling. Had some of the liquid hit him in the face? Lance’s skin burned, and the fumes alone were enough to blur his vision.

“Do you want to go blind?” Lance yelled, leaning some weight on the man’s back and patting his pockets for weapons, drugs, or a wallet. He found nothing. “What was in the bottle?”