“It’s easier to take their hate out on me and Nick than face it.” Bud turned toward his house. Someone had spray-painted KILLER in bright red paint on the front of his garage. “I guess I’ll go scrub that off.”

“I’m sorry, Bud.” Morgan touched his arm. “Do you want some help?”

“No.” He shook his head. “You’re already doing more than anyone could ask. The work will give me something to do.”

Bud disappeared inside his house. Morgan and Lance walked across the street.

“What are you doing for Bud?” Lance asked. “You should stay out of this.”

“No chance of that now.” Morgan’s long legs covered the driveway quickly.

“What do you mean?” Lance drew even with her.

She paused. “I’m defending Nick.”

What?

Lance reached for her arm and spun her around. “Are you insane?”

She was throwing her career away.

“No. Naive maybe.” In her flat-soled shoes, Morgan was barely a head shorter than Lance. But with her chin up and her shoulders back, she seemed taller and more imposing. Her face held a mask of determination he’d never seen before. Her blue eyes went from pretty to piercing. If this was her courtroom face, it was intimidating as hell.

“The town has already tried and convicted Nick. When the neighborhood finds out you’re on his side, they’re going to turn on you too.”

“I don’t think so. They know me. They’ve known my family for fifteen years. They respect my grandfather.”

“Morgan, they think Nick murdered the proverbial girl next door. Mr. Palmer summed it up. Everyone will have to choose. You will be part of the opposing side. You will be the enemy.”

“So I should turn my back on Nick because I might become unpopular?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what did you say?” Morgan asked.

Lance faced her. “I’m worried about you.”

She nodded. “I can understand that, but what kind of person would I be if I didn’t help Nick?”

“Do you really think he’s innocent?” Lance asked.

“I do. Evidence isn’t everything.” Morgan looked over her shoulder at the Zabrowski house. “A group of facts can have more than one logical explanation.”

“You once told me you could never be a defense attorney because you couldn’t live with yourself if you had to help criminals get away with crime. I understand that you think Nick is innocent. Even if you prove it, what will you do after the trial? Bryce will never hire you after this. You’ll be out of a job.”

“I know.” Morgan sighed. “But I can’t let that stop me.”

But Lance wasn’t sure she understood the rage she’d encounter when her choice to defend Nick became public knowledge. People were going to be very angry—and angry people were dangerous.

“You need to see this.” Lance pulled out his phone and played the video of the fight at the lake.

Morgan paled. “Where did you get this?”

“From a kid who was at the lake party last Thursday night, but it’s on YouTube.” Lance explained about his search for Jamie Lewis. “Your client has a temper.”

“Shit.” Morgan hurried toward the house, calling over her shoulder. “Who is the boy Nick is fighting with?”

“His name is Jacob Emerson.” Lance rushed to catch up with her. “Where are you going?”

“I need to file an injunction to have that video pulled from YouTube before it’s all over social media and the news. Our entire jury pool will be tainted.” She opened her front door and went into the house.

Lance thought the chances of an impartial jury pool had sailed halfway to China already. He followed Morgan into the house.

“Morgan, you’d better look at this,” Art said from his recliner.

A BREAKING NEWS banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen while the video of the fight between Nick and Jacob Emerson played.

So much for preventing the contamination of the jury pool.

Chapter Thirteen

Jail, day 1

Naked, Nick shivered as he hustled into the room, a bundle of clothes under one arm.

The door behind him closed with a surreal and metallic clank, muffling the moaning and shouting of the booking area. With almost everything made of block and steel, sounds echoed with a harsh intensity that made him jump constantly for the whole first hour at the county jail.

The small room was built of cinderblock with a locked steel door on each end. There was one small, wire-reinforced window in each door. Every few seconds a guard looked in. The room smelled like bleach and piss. A puddle of urine surrounded the stainless steel toilet in the corner. Nick needed to pee but couldn’t figure out how to do that without getting piss all over his feet.

But, on the bright side, this holding area was empty.

For the first time since he’d been brought to the building, Nick could almost draw a full breath. Even though he knew the camera in the ceiling corner was watching, the absence of other inmates was a sweet, albeit brief, relief. Inside his belly, nerves hummed like a swarm of bees.

Soon he’d be entering the general population. Worse yet, he’d been assigned to D-pod, where the most dangerous inmates were held, since he was accused of committing a violent crime. Nick wasn’t the only not-yet-convicted killer being held behind bars here.

Innocent until proven guilty was pure fiction.

He’d spent all afternoon going through the intake process. He’d been strip-searched, deloused, and showered. The delousing powder had gotten in his eye, turned it red, and made it tear. The process had been the most humiliating and frightening experience of his entire life. His humanity had been stripped away. He’d say he felt like an animal, but zoo animals were treated with greater respect.

He hurried to the steel bench bolted to the wall, set down the orange uniform he’d been issued, and dressed. He was grateful he’d worn white boxers. All other colors were confiscated. If he’d chosen plaid this morning, he’d be going commando. Somehow he knew the lack of underwear would have made him feel even more vulnerable.

Instead of the jumpsuit he’d expected, the uniform was more like scratchy hospital scrubs. He stepped into the pants and shoved his feet into the rubber sandals he’d been issued. They were like the soccer slides he’d worn in middle school. The shirt was several sizes too big. Cold seeped through the thin fabric.

Sitting on the chilly, hard bench, he concentrated on breathing. Every thought that ran through his head terrified him. He needed to calm down. This was no place to show fear. He pictured a chess match in his head, calculated move after move—order instead of chaos.

The door behind him opened, the metallic clack sending a bolt of fear right into his bowels. A big white man walked in, carrying his own orange uniform. Everything about him was huge, from his head-size fists to his giant, tattooed chest and arms. His beard was thick and blond, as was the hair on his chest. He dressed in a calm, unhurried, and resigned manner that suggested this experience was not new to him. Nick tried not to look scared, but from the amused expression on the newcomer’s face, he hadn’t succeeded.

“I’m The Man.” He pronounced the word like a royal title. Then he sat down on the bench across from Nick and gave him a casual glance. “Your first time?”