A Son's Tale

DRESSED IN A SHORT denim skirt, black tank top and black sandals, Morgan had been on the way to Professor Whittier’s office when her cell had rung, causing an instantaneous flood of panic to surge through her. Phone already in hand, she opened it, weak with relief when she saw that her caller was not Julie. Or anyone else at Sammie’s school.

Sliding the flip phone beneath the blond hair hanging past her shoulders, she pushed the call button.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Morgan? Sweetie? We need to talk… .”

* * *

IF HIS DOOR WAS CLOSED she was not going to disturb him. If he wasn’t there, she wasn’t going to leave a message, or in any other way indicate that she’d stopped by.

She shouldn’t be there. Cal Whittier was her English professor. Nothing more.

But he’d left the note for her to come by.

Probably just something to do with the half class she’d missed on Friday.

The day seemed forever ago.

In some ways it had been.

She entered Cal’s building. Looked at the bank of elevators, any of which would take her up to the fourth floor. People were there. Waiting to cram inside the small space together.

She took the stairs.

He’d given her the note. Asked her to stop by.

She climbed a flight, her pack digging into her back. And then climbed another. Toward Cal.

At the moment, it was all she knew. To reach for Cal. And once she was with him, she’d begin to think.

* * *

ON THE LANDING at the top of the third flight of stairs, Morgan paused, pulled out her phone and hit speed dial.

“He’s in class, sitting right up front, looking at the teacher,” Julie’s voice announced after half a ring. It was the fourth time she’d reported in that morning. She’d kept one of the surveillance screens tuned into Sammie’s classroom since he’d arrived.

“Thank you.” Morgan’s reply was soft. Apologetic.

“Call as often as you need to. I’m on this.”

Morgan was very lucky to have such a good friend.

* * *

CAL HADN’T MOVED since his conversation with his father ended. He was still in his seat at his desk, his tie firmly knotted, glancing at unopened files on his desk. He needed answers but they weren’t in those files.

He wasn’t sure where they were.

Cal didn’t like that.

His life was neat. Orderly. It made sense.

He liked it that way.

Wanted it that way.

Intended to keep it that way.