“Mr. Olander, I think it’s time for you to go.” Morgan stood. In her heels, she was nearly six feet tall, and she leveled him with a firm gaze.

But he didn’t leave. Instead, he leaned forward, slapping both palms on her desk. He was obviously accustomed to using his bluster to browbeat people. But in her prosecutor years, Morgan had been threatened by hardened killers, and she’d dealt with men much more intimidating than Mr. Olander—which was why she wore a Glock on her hip.

Her previous client attack in the courthouse had been a bizarre and isolated event. The man had had mental issues. He’d been unable to control himself, even knowing surveillance cameras would capture the entire scene. Mr. Olander was smarter.

Their gazes locked for four heartbeats as Olander sized her up. Morgan didn’t blink.

One giant hand swept toward her.

Morgan moved backward as Mr. Olander struck out. Her hand went automatically to the weapon on her hip under her blazer. But the blow hadn’t been aimed at her. Instead, he swept the contents of her desk toward the wall. Morgan’s notepad and blotter skidded across the floor. The ceramic mug hit the whiteboard and shattered. Coffee dripped down the dry-erase board.

The childishness of the act sent a burst of anger through her.

Keeping her gaze on his, she chilled her voice and put on her best interview-an-alleged-killer face. When she had faced accused murderers as a prosecutor, the suspects had been handcuffed to a table and law enforcement officers had been watching her back. As a defense attorney, she had no protection. “This meeting is over.”

His gaze fell to her hand, still hovering over the butt of her weapon. He backed off, his weight shifting backward, but his scowl said his temper had not defused.

Mr. Olander studied her for a few heartbeats; then his mouth pressed into a disdainful line. “Fine. Bitch.”

With a curt nod, he spun on the heel of his work boot and stomped out of her office. Morgan wiped her palms on the sides of her legs. Relief loosened the muscles of her thighs. Needing air—and wanting to be sure he left the building—she followed him into the hall.

Lance was in the hallway, leaning on the wall just outside her office door. His posture was deceptively relaxed. His eyes practically bored holes into Olander as he passed. Olander quickened his steps and skirted around Lance. As a former cop, Lance was trained in defense and arrest tactics, and every inch of him was poised to attack. Lance was the alpha male, and Olander recognized his own inferior status in an instant.

But when the older man went out the front door, he slammed it hard.

“You’re back.” Morgan took a deep breath. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Mr. Olander?” Lance asked.

“Yes.” She turned to Lance, warmth filling her. “How long were you out here?”

“Long enough.” He assessed her, then leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. “We got back about five minutes ago.”

“You were listening at the door.” Morgan went back into her office, crouched, and began picking up broken pieces of ceramic. Lance brought the trash can closer and fetched napkins from her credenza. They cleaned up the mess together.

They stood, and Lance slung an arm around her shoulders. “Normally, I wouldn’t eavesdrop, but I was concerned. He was a belligerent ass.”

“I know.” Morgan tossed the shards into the trash can. She appreciated that he respected her ability to do her job.

“But the sound of shit literally hitting the wall was too much. I was this close to barging in and throwing him out of the building.” Lance demonstrated his patience by pinching his forefinger and thumb nearly together.

“I appreciate your self-control, and the fact that you stood outside the door.”

“I had my ear pressed to it,” he admitted. “But you handled him just fine.”

Sharp peered into the office. He looked bleary-eyed. “Is everything OK?”

“Mr. Olander came to see me,” Morgan said.

“Get anything interesting out of him?” Sharp squeezed his eyelids shut a few times, as if to clear his vision.

Morgan summed up her meeting in a few sentences. “The most interesting part of the conversation was that while Erik’s mother professed her son’s innocence, Mr. Olander never made the claim. Not once.”

“I don’t know if innocence is all that important to Mr. Olander.” Lance filled Morgan in on what they’d found at the farm.

Goose bumps lifted on Morgan’s arms. She was so disturbed, she didn’t even admonish them for breaking and entering. “If the weapons were illegal, maybe Erik’s wife knew about them. Maybe that’s why she was killed.”

“That would make sense,” Lance said. “Sharp left a message for his contact at the ATF.”

Morgan picked up her coat and bag. “Now I’m going home, but I won’t be long.”

“Thank you.” Sharp exited her office.

Lance’s gaze followed him. “He looks dead on his feet.”

“He needs sleep.” Morgan’s phone buzzed. She read the screen. She needed to schedule Lance’s wedding present for delivery. The wedding—and all the last-minute details that needed to be addressed—hadn’t entered her mind since Olivia had disappeared.

“Everything all right?”

She turned the phone away from him. “Yes.”

His brows lifted.

“Maybe you’re not the only one keeping a secret. Are you going to tell me where we’re going on our honeymoon?”

“Nope.”

Morgan shoved the phone into her pocket. “Then I’ll see you soon. Take care of Sharp. Text me if you need anything from home.”

Morgan needed energy. On the way home, she detoured to the bakery for fresh donuts. Fifteen minutes later, she was in her foyer, being happily bombarded by three kids and two dogs. Kisses and hugs with all five of them improved her mood. Since it was Saturday, Ava and Mia were still dressed in their pajamas. Ava took the box of donuts and ran. Sophie, clad in her Halloween costume, leaped into Morgan’s arms.

Settling her youngest on her hip, Morgan walked into the kitchen. “No donuts until after breakfast.”

“Yay. The pancakes are done.” Sophie pushed away from her mother, and Morgan set her on the floor.

Grandpa stood at the stove, using a spatula to remove pancakes from the new griddle. Bacon sizzled in another pan. The girls scrambled onto stools at the island, and Grandpa set plates of pancakes in front of them. “Easy on the syrup, girls.”

Hoping the kids would be sloppy, Snoozer and Rocket took up strategic positions beneath the kids’ stools.

Grandpa met Morgan’s gaze, his eyes asking the question he wouldn’t voice with the children in the room. Morgan shook her head, and he frowned.

Gianna sat at the island. Her face was pale.

“How do you feel?” Morgan poured a mug of coffee.

“OK. I can cook.” She shot Grandpa a look.

“Just sit there and take it easy.” Grandpa ate a piece of bacon and passed the platter to Morgan. “I enjoy cooking now and then.” Grandpa sat down to his own breakfast.

Having given up nagging him about his diet, Morgan took a slice of bacon. Her phone chimed with an email. It was from the caterer. Morgan had forgotten to call her the day before. She couldn’t even think about the wedding today.