A Son's Tale

He glanced at a big, dark analog clock that dominated the wall behind his desk. It was still a few minutes before noon. “And they just filed this morning? That’s some fast work.”

“That’s my father for you. I’m sure Young Stoddard, my father’s attorney, asked for an audience with the judge when he filed the papers this morning. Daddy doesn’t like to go through clerks and assistants. Sammie played right into Daddy’s hands by running away. He was on the news. Wasted thousands of dollars in city employee resources. An Amber Alert was issued. Which makes our situation serious.”

He didn’t release her hands. Instead, he gave them a soft squeeze. “Your father may have a lot of money, Morgan, but he’s not God. He’s not even a politician. So he gets a look into your life with Sammie. You’re a great mother. It should be an open-and-shut case.”

If only life were that clean. Easy.

If only a woman were judged on her heart, her intention, not solely her deeds…

“My mother called to warn me. And to deliver a message from my father. He said that unless I cooperate and give up custody without the battle, my father is going to dig up dirt on me until he wins.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE kidding!” Cal inwardly cringed. Morgan had just told him that her father was set to cremate her alive, and that was the best he could do?

Cal wasn’t used to having students in his office with problems he couldn’t solve.

“Do you really think he’d do that?”

“I think he’ll do whatever he has to do to get his own way. How far will he go? I’d like to believe he wouldn’t totally undermine me, but I’m just not sure… .”

“What kind of parent would cut his own child off at the knees?”

“One who believes that he’s doing what’s best for everyone involved,” Morgan said, her tone softening just a bit. “You saw my father in action, Cal. He makes up his mind and he pushes forward, regardless of the cost—to himself or anyone else. He’s certain he’s always right. And equally sure that it’s his job to think for the rest of his family.

“He believes I’m going to buckle and he’s going to get his way. And if I don’t, if I call his bluff, he’ll have been pushed into a corner and he’ll move forward. Because he’s George Lowen and that’s what he does.”

“Is he willing to create dirt where none exists?” he asked. He’d not only been reading Morgan Lowen’s essays for four years, he’d been listening to her critical insights in class. The woman was gifted. And full of heart.

She always saw the deeper meaning and championed the moral choice.

“He won’t have to make stuff up. My mistakes are several years old, but they’re there. I have very few secrets from my father. He sees to that.”

He sat back, holding on to one of her hands as he did so.

“He has you followed?”

“Not that I know of, but it wouldn’t surprise me. My father has a way of knowing everything he wants to know.”

“That’s almost creepy. And could be considered stalking.”

Shrugging, she sat back, too, her shoulder touching his. Not a big deal. But he noticed.

And didn’t mind.

“I’d bet a month’s pay that he knows how many open accounts I have and with who, if I’m paying my bills on time, that sort of thing. I’m certain he knows what I’m paying in rent.”

“That can’t be legal.”

“The internet makes all kinds of things available if you know how to go about getting it. My father can afford to hire the people who know how to get it.”

“Have you called him on it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And nothing. He denied doing any such thing. We fought. Or rather, I did. He remained calm and adamantly assured in his right—or as he put it, ‘his duty’—to keep tabs on his own daughter if he chose to, which he said he did not. And while he calmly lied to me, I built up to yelling at him. I was asked to leave until I could be more respectful. And I’m certain that if he was watching me, he didn’t stop.”