What I've Done (Morgan Dane #4)(25)

He hoped this was the worst thing that happened in this case, but experience told him it was just the beginning.





Chapter Ten

Grateful to be home, Morgan pushed open her front door. Lance followed her through the opening. Three pajama-clad little girls and two dogs bolted toward them. She braced herself for the impact of their enthusiastic greeting. Lance stepped in front of her.

“Stop!” her grandfather’s voice boomed from the next room. “Easy on your mom.”

The girls slid to a halt. Lance dropped to one knee and intercepted the dogs. Morgan’s Frenchie, Snoozer, snuffled his face, and Rocket the bulldog mix wagged her stump of a tail.

“That’s not necessary,” Morgan protested.

“Mommy!” Three-year-old Sophie’s eyes were wide as she stared at Morgan’s face.

Morgan knelt on the floor. “It’s just a bruise, honey. It’s no worse than that one you had on your knee last week.”

Her daughter leaned in and kissed Morgan softly on the goose egg. Typically, greetings from Sophie were like catching a cannonball. Morgan’s face must be truly intimidating.

Five-year-old Mia was quieter by nature. She slid into Morgan’s embrace and gave her a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t hurt Mommy,” Ava said. At six, Morgan’s oldest tried hard to be more mature than her sisters. Sometimes too hard.

Morgan shifted to free up one arm. She waggled her fingers at Ava. “I need one more hug.”

Ava rushed in. Holding her girls, Morgan closed her eyes and inhaled the sweetness of bubblegum-scented conditioner in their still-damp hair. Sophie was the first one to wiggle free.

The little girl looked up at Lance. “Are you hurt?”

“Not at all,” he said.

With a happy grin, she launched herself into his arms. He caught her, and she wrapped all four limbs around him and smacked a kiss on his cheek. Leaning back, she squished his face between her hands. “Will you put us to bed?”

“You betcha.” Lance shifted her to his hip and turned to the other girls. “Who’s ready for a story?” He knelt down and opened his arms. Sophie scrambled around to his back. He gagged as her forearm wrapped around his windpipe. Mia and Ava abandoned Morgan. Lance scooped the two older girls into his arms and carried the three giggling children down the hall toward the room they shared.

After the girls and Lance disappeared, Morgan shed her coat and set her tote on a chair. She removed her phone from a side pocket and went into the family room, where her grandfather, Art Dane, sat in his recliner. The smile that tugged at her face ached, but she didn’t care. Watching Lance with her kids always made her happy. She’d been dealt terrible tragedies in her life. She’d learned to appreciate the good moments, and tonight she felt very lucky.

She’d found love a second time. Her line of work showed her how rare truly good men were. Yet she’d been blessed with two of them in her life.

She plugged her phone into a charging cord on the end table and leaned down to kiss her grandfather on the cheek.

Make that three good men.

She wouldn’t have gotten through John’s death without her grandfather.

Grandpa set down his iPad and swore under his breath. Before he’d broken his leg the previous autumn, he’d have been on his feet to greet her. Extensive physical therapy had enabled him to walk with a cane, but he was never going to recover 100 percent.

“I’d like to get my hands on that creep that hit you.” He used the electric control to lower the footrest of his chair and sit upright. “My much younger hands.”

“I’m OK.” She tried to sound chipper to reassure him.

“You have never been able to snow me.” There was no fooling the retired NYPD homicide detective. He saw through her game face, just as he’d seen through every lie she’d attempted to tell in high school.

He shook his head. “I don’t know how you can look so happy with that black eye.”

“The man who gave it to me will serve time.”

“Small favors.” Grandpa huffed.

Morgan’s cell phone buzzed. Straightening, she went to the table and glanced at the phone. She didn’t recognize the number. Disconnecting the charger, she answered warily. Good news didn’t generally come at nine o’clock at night. The call would be harassment—or worse.

“Morgan Dane,” she said.

“Hello, Ms. Dane. I apologize for the late hour. My name is Max Garcia. I’m the district attorney of Eastbridge County in New Jersey.”

“How can I help you?” Morgan eased onto the couch.

“I won’t waste your time. I have two openings for assistant district attorneys. Bryce Walters and I are good friends. We went to law school together. He mentioned your name. Your recent work has been very impressive, even if it has been on the wrong side of the law.” Max laughed.

“Bryce Walters, the Randolph County DA, recommended me?” Morgan asked, floored.

“He did. He thought you might miss working on the state’s side of the courtroom.” Max paused. “I know my call is a surprise, but I’d like to interview you for the job. Eastbridge is a midsize county. We’re actually a suburb of Philadelphia. You’d be challenged here. I understand you have a family. Our schools are top rated, and”—he paused for effect—“we’re only a twenty-minute drive from the beach.”