A Son's Tale

“Then how do you explain a receipt at the Starwood Steakhouse in Lexington, Kentucky, in June?”

Cal drew a blank.

And then he didn’t. “I was flying from Tyler to Nashville. We were rerouted due to inclement weather. We got meal vouchers. I went to the Starwood Steakhouse, which is in the Lexington Airport, by the way, for dinner while I waited for the storm to pass so I could get home.”

There was a pause on the line. And then Cal asked, “And what in the hell are you doing looking at my receipts? Am I under investigation for something?”

“I got a warrant. We have a twenty-five-year-old cold case on a missing child that has had inexplicable activity.” The detective continued. “And everyone involved is being looked at.” Cal’s heart sank. Not again. For the love of heaven, not again.

He’d bet his ass that they were looking at his father and him with suspicion while everyone else was just being given a fond and concerned glance. “You did your duty and informed me about the missing evidence, Detective, now leave us alone,” he said. And hung up.

Frank Whittier had, in effect, been punished for a crime he hadn’t commited. He’d become invisible so he could keep Cal with him, so he could make sure Cal was loved and treated well, so Cal would get the education he needed to have a career he enjoyed. And now Cal was going to make damned sure no one touched his father. Ever again.

* * *

“SAMMIE? WHAT ARE YOU doing in there?” She stood outside the bathroom door in their duplex, talking to wood paneling.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, sweetie. You need to eat some breakfast before we go.”

She’d wanted to run the brush through her hair again, too, now that it had dried. And to put on some eyeliner. But she’d already given up on both of those counts.

“I’m not hungry.”

Staring at her unpolished toes in their plain brown flip-flops beneath the hem of her cheap, cotton tie-dyed skirt Wednesday morning, Morgan took a deep breath. Maybe the monitor had been a bad idea, after all. Her son hadn’t spoken a kind word to her since Monday night.

This was the third time he’d locked himself in the bathroom where “she couldn’t hear him breathe.”

“You’re going to be late for school.” She tried again.

“No, I’m not.”

Surely he didn’t think he could just hide out in the bathroom and not go to school?

She had to get to her class and then to work at the day care.

The monitor in Sammie’s bedroom might have been a poor choice, but she’d had to discipline him. Her father had stated in his complaint that she didn’t give Sammie enough discipline, that she let him tell her what to do instead of the other way around.

And maybe she had. She was open-minded. She listened to her son. But she never gave in when his safety or health was involved.

Anyway, she’d had to do something more than just talk to Sammie after Friday’s misbehavior. Sammie had put his life at risk. She had to take firm action.

“Sammie, you and I have always at least been able to talk.”

No answer.

“I thought we were always honest with each other. What you did on Friday, that was a lie in action. A big one. I can’t just let it go.”

More silence.

“Did Ms. Dinsmore tell you who she is and why you’re seeing her?”

“She said I could call her Leslie.” With emphasis on the “I.”

Glancing at the large gold watch her mother had given her for Christmas, Morgan calculated distances. They had to leave within six minutes or Sammie was going to be late for school. And so would she.

Her son was ready, other than having missed breakfast, if you could call dressing in ripped denim shorts and a stained T-shirt dressed.