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

A flash of anger lit her eyes. “Think what you want of me. McFarland lied to the judge knowing the truth would likely come out before his trial. Do you really think he intends to show up for it?”

Sharp brooded. She was right, not that he was going to admit it to her. McFarland’s case wouldn’t be tried for months. He had the money and motive to run.

“He’s committed two violent felonies.” She tied her belt around her waist with an irritated snap. “Repeat offenders don’t change. He’ll do it again. I don’t want any future victims on my conscience.” Her chin came up, and their gazes met. She searched his eyes, her face smoothing out again. “And neither do you.”

Damn. She was right about that too. Working for the defense had its drawbacks.

“I will pass the information along to Ms. Dane.” Sharp opened the door, signaling that their discussion was over. He didn’t have time to waste. Morgan needed to know the truth, after he had verified that it was accurate. “Thank you, Ms. Cruz.”

“Olivia,” she corrected. The corner of her mouth curved. She pivoted on a skinny heel, stepped over the threshold, and turned toward a white Prius parked at the curb.

“Goodbye, Ms. Cruz.” Sharp closed the door on her low laugh.

He hurried into his office. Two phone calls and ten minutes later, he had verified that Roger McFarland did indeed have a felony battery conviction in Florida.

Morgan’s new client was a perjuring scumbag with a capital S.

Maybe she would fire him. The last thing Sharp wanted to do was play an active part in keeping McFarland out of jail. The dude deserved to be behind bars. But Sharp understood why Morgan had taken him on as a client. He’d produced a fat retainer. Her fledgling practice had already represented several charity cases. She had three kids to send to college. She both deserved and needed to be paid for her work. Why did it seem like only guilty people had enough money to pay for a good lawyer?

But then, in his five years as a private investigator, Sharp had worked more than a few distasteful cases. But somehow it seemed worse for Morgan to defend scumbags. She was too classy to deal with slime like McFarland. But now Sharp needed to pack away his judgy attitude and let her know that her case was in the crapper.

He dialed Morgan’s number. After she didn’t answer, he called Lance.

“Where are you?” he asked as soon as Lance answered.

“Outside the courthouse making some calls.”

“Where is Morgan?”

“Inside, talking to McFarland before the case is called. I passed the ADA in the hallway. He was headed toward Morgan. If they wheel and deal, we might be able to get out of here early. The sooner she finishes with McFarland, the better.”

“Agreed.” Sharp gave Lance a rundown on what the reporter had to say.

“I’ll go find her. Talk to you later, Sharp.” Lance ended the call.

Restless, Sharp paced his office. He had reports to type, invoices to send, and bills to pay. The sound of a car door closing caught his attention. He looked out the window.

A Mercedes sedan was parked in the driveway. A woman got out and walked toward the building. Her head was down as she looked at her phone, but something about her seemed vaguely familiar. He went to the foyer and opened the front door.

She slid her phone into her purse and looked up. Under short, spiky red hair, her face was pale and her mouth tight. Their eyes met, and recognition nearly tripped him.

It couldn’t be.

But he knew it was. After all these years . . .

“Hello, Lincoln,” she said.





Chapter Three

“I hired you to make this go away.”

In the corridor outside the courtroom, Morgan Dane stared at her client. Roger McFarland was the owner of McFarland Landscaping. Square from the flat buzz of his red hair to his fireplug body, he wasn’t a particularly big man, but he was solid in a way that suggested he’d moved plenty of earth in his thirty-five years.

She lowered her voice as three lawyers rushed past them. “I’ve told you that these charges are not going away.”

McFarland dismissed her comment with a wave of his meaty, calloused hand. “I’ll pay whatever fines are necessary. Just keep me out of jail.”

With a bank account that was nearly as inflated as his ego, McFarland was accustomed to buying his way out of trouble. When he’d first come to her office and she’d agreed to take his case, he’d seemed remorseful, almost ashamed of his behavior. In hindsight, she strongly suspected that had been an act.

“You are charged with attempted murder,” Morgan said. “We’re still in the discovery process, but the evidence I’ve seen so far is strong.”

How could she convince him that money wasn’t enough? He’d crossed a line.

“That’s why I wrote you such a big check.” McFarland folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. One thing was certain—McFarland would not be going on the stand. He didn’t have the sparkling personality to sway a jury. He looked like he broke knees for the mob.

And enjoyed it.

A former prosecutor turned defense attorney, Morgan had worked a couple of high-profile cases over the last six months, but she was still adjusting to working the other side of the courtroom.

“And it’s my job to tell you the truth,” she said.