Secrets Never Die (Morgan Dane #5)(54)

He knocked on the front door. Footsteps approached and stopped, and he pictured her looking through the peephole. The door swung open.

“Lincoln, how nice to see you.” The genuine smile on her face pleased him.

Olivia was in her midforties, with just a few crow’s-feet around her deep-brown eyes. She wore faded jeans and a loose tank that showed off her tanned, toned arms. Her dark-brown hair was tied back in a long ponytail.

“I should have called ahead.” But deep down, Sharp had been hoping to catch her in some activity or state that would make her less attractive.

Because you are an ass.

“It’s fine.” She stepped back and opened the door wide. “Please, come in.”

He offered her the jar as he crossed her threshold, as if a little honey could put a ding in the debt he owed her. “I bought a case at the farmers market yesterday. I thought you might like some.”

“Thank you.”

Taking the jar, she led him down the bamboo-floored hall to the kitchen. A small porcelain teapot and a single mug sat on the recycled glass island. Above it, bunches of basil hung upside down, drying. The scents filled Sharp’s nose, and he instantly craved Italian food.

“Your herb garden is impressive,” he said.

“Thank you. I’d never gardened before my aunt left me the house. I was appalled to learn how many chemicals are required to grow a pretty lawn. The herb garden is low maintenance, and I like to use my own when possible. Then I’m sure it’s organic.” She nodded toward a kitchen window that looked out into a small yard. “I’ve branched out into vegetables this year. But I’m currently engaged in a hostile battle with a very clever groundhog.”

Sharp wandered a circle around the center island. “How’s the book?”

“Done and sent off to my agent.” She sent him a wry smile.

“What will you do next?”

“Wait to hear from my agent, clean my garage, look for a new project.” Setting the jar of honey on the counter, she frowned at him. “You look pale. I hope your recovery is going well.”

Sharp felt the flush heat his face. “I’m fine.”

Her elegant eyebrow arched. She didn’t believe him. “You look exhausted.”

“I shouldn’t,” he admitted. “I’ve done little but sleep, eat, and go to physical therapy for the past three months.”

“You’re obviously pushing yourself too hard.” She stressed obviously like he was a moron. “It wasn’t too long ago that you were mostly dead all day.”

He couldn’t help but smile at The Princess Bride reference. But today, he was too tired for the verbal sparring that he usually enjoyed with her. Not to mention the fact that he wasn’t supposed to like her.

Her smile faded. “Seriously, you don’t look good.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Lincoln, give yourself a break. Not to be crude, but your insides were on the outside. You can’t expect to recover as if you’d sprained your ankle.”

She had a point. His hand went to the scar on his belly.

“Would you like some tea?” Before he answered, she was reaching into the cabinet for another mug.

“Sure, thanks.” Sharp scratched his arm. The discomfort of asking for yet another favor spread over his skin like a rash.

“You’re not here to discuss my herb garden.” Pouring tea, she seemed almost disappointed at the realization.

Or maybe he was seeing what he wanted to see.

“No.” Sharp got down to business. Murder was a much more comfortable topic of conversation. “I’m here to ask you about an article you wrote about twenty-five years ago.”

He pulled out his phone and showed her the article. She reached for a pair of glasses on the counter and settled them on her nose.

Her brows shot up as she read the screen. “That was the piece that launched my career.”

Sharp nodded. “I’m not surprised. It’s a stunning bit of research.”

The corner of her mouth turned up at the flattery. “But why are you asking about it now?”

“The name Joe Martin came up in an investigation we’re working on. You wrote about his conviction in an article.”

“That was a long time ago.” She waited for more explanation.

Sharp sighed. “You’ve heard about Paul Knox’s murder?”

“The retired deputy who was shot in his own home.” She nodded. “The police suspect his stepson.” Her eyes widened. “You’re working for his mother.”

Why was she always three steps ahead of him?

“How did you know?” Sharp drank his tea.

She lifted a shoulder. “His photo is all over the news, and Morgan would not be able to resist trying to save a teenager with evidence stacked against him.”

“True,” Sharp admitted. “Lance is the boy’s hockey coach. He knows the boy very well and believes he’s innocent.”

Olivia’s full lips pressed into a line. “Lance is prone to emotional decisions, and Morgan will support him regardless of her own opinion. Also, they are both far too sensitive when children and teenagers are involved. What do you think?”

Sharp snorted at her spot-on assessment of Lance and Morgan.

“Honestly, the evidence is rough,” he said. “But I trust Lance’s gut. He takes the time to get to know the kids he coaches. He takes mentoring them seriously. Plus, we’ve found some weaknesses in the sheriff’s case.”