A Son's Tale

“You aren’t fine,” he said, his gaze so understanding Morgan almost broke down again. “But I’d like to stay. At least until you’ve seen the fallout from the press conference.”

“You’ve been on the phone several times. I figured you had something going on and…”

“My dad asked me to keep him up to date.”

Hearing that a perfect stranger cared threatened her composure all over again. Strangers came to your aid when things were really bad.

And the world really did have good in it because strangers came to your aid.

Her thoughts rolled around one another, presenting themselves and then rolling off again. She couldn’t focus. She could only feel.

And other than an inexplicable sense of comfort from having her college professor sitting with her, Morgan felt nothing but out-of-control bad.

* * *

HALF AN HOUR LATER Morgan was thirty minutes closer to flying out of her skin. Her parents were back. Grace was frying bacon in the kitchen. The smell nauseated Morgan. George sat at the dining room table with a phone to his ear, whether on one conversation or many, she had no idea. Every man he had out looking for Sammie was to report to him directly. He had charts and maps and was keeping a detailed account of every move everyone made.

Her phone hadn’t rung since the press conference an hour and a half before.

Was this the fallout, then? Nothing? This man who had Sammie really didn’t want money? He only wanted to make them suffer as he had? To hurt as he had?

His wife was dead.

What did that mean for Sammie?

Her stomach swarmed, her joints felt too weak to support her, and Morgan had to fight not to give in to the thick cottony fog encasing her mind. She had to stay coherent. To believe in Sammie. For Sammie.

“You said your dad lives with you.”

Caleb Whittier stood at the living room window, watching the street. He was looking out for her and she knew she was never, ever going to forget this man.

The crush she’d had on him in class seemed so menial now. The man had become her angel, holding her suspended just slightly above a hell that would burn her to ashes in seconds were she to fall.

r /> “That’s right, he does.” Cal turned around, his face darkened with stubble, his eyes slightly puffy from lack of sleep, and still his smile was warm and nurturing and filled with a peculiar understanding—as though he not only saw her but felt her, too.

“Does he work?”

“Yes, but he’s on vacation this week.”

For years she’d wanted to know more about this private man who was so generous with his time and advice. And right now, she could hardly focus on his words.

“On vacation? So he’s not at home?” She’d thought his father was at home. That Cal had called to tell his father he wouldn’t be home. But maybe she was wrong. The night before was a bit of a haze to her right now.

“He’s at home. His fishing trip was…canceled.”

Something about the way he said the word was a little different. Morgan couldn’t bring forth the effort to be curious. She nodded. “Where does he work?”

“Green Pastures.”

“The nursing home?”

“Yes.”

“Is he a doctor?” No, wait, they visited nursing homes; they weren’t usually on staff there. Were they? Did Sammie need a doctor? Was there still time for a doctor to help him…?

“No, my father is a janitor.”

A janitor? She looked at him. Had she heard him right? Cal was so…genteel. So self-possessed. Like he’d been raised in wealth. She’d just assumed he was like her.