A Son's Tale

Todd had friends in low places, though, in spite of the moneyed crowd he now ran with.

She glanced up at Detective Martin, her entire body frozen with fear. “If Todd is behind this, he might turn my son over to associates from his old life for safekeeping until he gets the ransom.”

“We’re already checking on that. We’re also finding out who he knew in prison and if anyone is out or has contacts in the area.

“We also aren’t ruling out a nonrelation kidnapping.”

Morgan wasn’t sure which was worse—Todd or a stranger. “Even if ransom is paid, kidnappers don’t return victims who can identify them. And they don’t just take kids for ransom money.” She was killing herself and couldn’t stop. “I watch TV.”

Oh, God. Please don’t allow Sammie to pay for my sins… .

Elaine Martin squeezed her hand, quieting the screeching in Morgan’s mind enough for her to hear the detective when she said, “We get them back safely, too. And we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. At this point it doesn’t even look like Sammie’s been kidnapped. We just don’t want to leave any rocks unturned.”

The detective was right. Sammie was probably hiding out someplace, just to see if he could.

“I’m going to go see what, if anything, they’ve learned from Williams.” Detective Martin stood again.

“I should never have married that jerk,” Morgan said. “My father was right.”

He was also right outside the door. She could see him through the window that looked out into the reception room through which she’d been led. He was staring straight at her.

And she recognized that frown.

Her father was angry. Really angry.

And blaming her. Again.

Please, God, this time don’t let him be right.

CHAPTER FOUR

ONANORDINARYDAY, Cal would have emailed Joy back. He’d have tried to make things right for her. He was sad to see this one go. Joy was fun. Intelligent. Witty. Conversationally she’d kept him on his toes. In bed, they’d been plenty good enough.

He’d kind of been hoping that she’d become a semipermanent fixture in his life. He’d even thought about introducing her to his father some day.

On an ordinary day, he might even have called Joy.

Instead, Cal finished up a requisition request that was due that day for books for the fall semester, filed his class notes, found notes for Monday’s class and watched the time—and the phone.

Two hours had passed since Morgan Lowen had run from his class. She hadn’t called to apologize for interrupting class. To explain. To tell him that all was well.

She hadn’t called to relieve him—or anyone else in his class who might ask him—of any concern regarding her abrupt departure from the lecture that morning.

She’d been his student for four years, one of his favorite students, but beyond the teaching they’d talked a few times over the past several months, about her plans for the future since she was soon to graduate, about her son. About being a single parent, a student and working full-time. He’d meant it when he’d told her he’d help in any way he could.

He hoped she’d call.

Cal kept busy. He knew how to take his mind off from that over which he had no control. He’d perfected the art by the time he was ten.

Still, a child was missing. And Detective Ramsey Miller of the Comfort Cove Police Department had called him twice in less than twenty-four hours. It had been years since they’d heard anything from or about Comfort Cove.

And a child was missing.

Morgan Lowen—and Sammie—had nothing to do with Rose Sanderson, the mother from Comfort Cove, Massachusetts, who’d once been engaged to Cal’s father, and then accused him of kidnapping her daughter. Morgan and Sammie had no connection to Claire Sanderson, the little girl who’d been abducted, or to Claire’s sister, Emma.

The timing was coincidence. Bizarre coincidence. He knew that. Was completely, calmly certain of that.

But a child was missing…

His hands were typing before Cal had made a firm decision to access confidential student files. He typed his username. His password. Clicked a couple of times and then entered Morgan’s full name as he had it on his class register.

The wait was seconds but seemed interminable. The screen flashed. Renewed. He couldn’t see everything. Her social security number, for instance. But her classes were all there. Her grades. Her petition for graduation—she was due to collect a B.A. degree in early childhood development with a minor in business and another in English in less than six weeks, right after completing his class. He knew from their conversations that she wanted to open her own day care someday.

And there was her address.

He’d been mentoring her, educationally, for years. And more recently, since her trouble with Sammie in the spring, he’d thought they’d become more than just teacher and student. Closer to friends…with the professional distance mandated by their positions, of course.

She was a woman carrying a huge load, alone. She worked hard. Did all she could. She never asked for favors or special consideration. She never made excuses.

He tried to focus on the rest of his day. On lunch, and the afternoon and evening ahead. Papers he could grade. Calls he should make.

There was a mother whose child was missing.

Something Cal knew far too much about. He could still remember the sense of panic. The horror and disbelief. The pain that never healed…

No.

This was Morgan Lowen. Not Rose Sanderson. This was Tyler, Tennessee. Not Comfort Cove, Massachusetts. This was 2012. Not the 1980s.

He decided he was going to do a quick drive-by to make certain that she was okay. Then he’d head straight home. Due to his slow start that morning, he hadn’t left lunch prepared in the refrigerator for his father and chances were that the older man wouldn’t bother to fix something for himself.

Frank was a good cook. Better than good. If his father cared enough to get up and get out to the kitchen, they’d be eating much better meals than the ones Cal provided for them.

If Frank cared what he ate, or if he ate…

A child was missing. Frank would care about that… .

All thoughts of his father fled when Cal turned the corner of Apple Road and saw the cars parked outside the small duplex in the center of the block. Could be a woman having a Friday luncheon. Or a kids’ play group. Could be, but his gut told him it wasn’t.

People were walking the neighborhood. Calling out. Some had fliers already. He pulled up slowly, stopping his blue Ford Flex right behind a Cadillac Escalade—the vehicle he would have bought if he’d had the money.

A woman who looked to be about forty stood just off the sidewalk a couple of units down from the front door bearing the number he’d pulled from his computer. She had her arm around a young girl, holding her close, as she surveyed the street.

Moms would all be holding their kids close in that neighborhood tonight. There’d be no more summer nights playing tag on the streets. No more summer days playing tag, either. The fliers would be hung, and when they faded, they’d be rehung. People would watch carefully as they came and went. New locks would adorn doors that would remain tightly shut to the summer breeze.

Fear would become a family member.

No, this was Tennessee, not Comfort Cove, Massachusetts.