by David Bell
And I’d seen her face only briefly, so maybe the woman on the Facebook page wasn’t the same woman I’d met. Maybe she wasn’t the same woman who’d kissed me and then abruptly left with the most mysterious parting words ever. Maybe I just wanted to believe something else was going on, something that would explain her bizarre behavior.
But none of that was right. I knew what had happened. I’d seen Morgan’s face as close as anyone could see a face. It was imprinted on my brain. I tried, sitting there in the underground police station, to summon the taste of her kiss again, and I thought I could, bringing forth the tang of the Bloody Mary like it had just happened.
I knew who I saw. I knew what had happened.
Officer Travis handed back my license. I was clean. I’d never received so much as a ticket for a moving violation in my life.
Jansen came back into the room and nodded at Travis. Apparently they were able to communicate that way, because Travis asked me to leave the room and wait in an outer office, which I did. I sat in an uncomfortable chair while other cops came and went, ignoring my presence.
I took the opportunity to call up Morgan’s Facebook page again. I scrolled through the posts. I just saw her last week. Does anybody know what’s happening? What are the police saying?
The airport cops made me wait longer than I expected. I thought about calling my dad, but what exactly would I say to him at that point?
About twenty minutes passed, and then Jansen opened the door and summoned me back with a quick wave of his hand. His face was a mask of indifference, as though I’d just shown up to pay a parking ticket and not to report a missing person.
“Have a seat there, Joshua,” Travis said. I did what he asked, and he sat behind the desk with his hands steepled together under his chin.
“We talked to the Metro Nashville Police Department,” he said, “and it does appear that this Morgan Reynolds from Facebook was reported as a missing person just yesterday. That’s why she was probably showing up on the local news, and that’s why her friends are concerned. Nobody’s heard from her for a few days, so the word is getting out on social media and in the press. She’s not answering calls or texts. I looked it up and saw the alert.”
“Maybe she has relatives in Nashville. Did they talk to any?”
“Metro Nashville is looking into all of that.”
A chill ran up my back, oppressive and clammy.
“She is an adult,” Travis said, “and if she doesn’t want to answer her phone or talk to her friends, she really doesn’t have to. But she should check in so they can stop worrying. There’s no evidence of a crime. Yet.”
“But something is preventing her from talking to people and letting them know she’s okay.”
“It could be a misunderstanding. Like I said, maybe she’s heading home from a trip and forgot to tell people. I looked more carefully and—” He paused and shifted in his seat. His mouth twisted in a way that indicated displeasure. “This kind of thing happens on social media, you know? Somebody doesn’t show up where they’re supposed to once or twice, and everybody goes crazy with the announcements. Then someone goes to the cops. Like I said, adults have the right to not let people know where they are. And the police can only do so much if that’s the case.”
“But the police think she is missing.”
“Sure. But you say you just saw her. So maybe she’s back.”
“Yeah, but— So we do nothing? The police do nothing?”
“Nashville PD are on it. She’s in their system, and you saw her on the news. They’re taking care of that missing persons case.”
I didn’t like the way Travis sounded. He suddenly possessed the demeanor of a guy who wanted to wash his hands of the problem on his desk.
“That case?” I asked. “Why are you saying ‘that case’? Isn’t it the same case? I met Morgan Reynolds in the airport. She’s missing.”
“We’ve looked at the CCTV footage,” Travis said, continuing. “We saw a woman matching the description you gave getting off that flight at the time you indicated. Heck, we saw her walk right past you without even turning her head to look your way.”
I felt a little needle stick me in the heart when he told me that. I was glad they didn’t feel the need to show me the scene in slow motion. I’d been there. I knew what had happened.
“Okay,” I said, “but you have to admit she’s acting strange. She’s wearing a hat and sunglasses. It’s like she’s hiding.”
“There’s no law against dressing that way,” Jansen said. “And it’s not that weird. This is Nashville. Everybody thinks they’re a star.”
“So, what does all this mean?” I asked. “Are you just saying I’m crazy?”
Travis paused. He looked over at his partner and then his eyes settled on me.
“Here’s the thing about your involvement, and what you think you saw.”
“I did see it. Her.”
“Well, we checked the passenger list,” he said. “Ordinarily, we can’t access it, but because of the situation, we got authorization. I’m not sure who you saw, but there was no one named Morgan Reynolds on that flight. According to the airline, she was never on that plane.”
16
I have to give those airport police officers credit—they were patient with me. Maybe it was a slow day at work. Or maybe they were just nice, sympathetic guys who felt bad for me because I might have been led up the garden path by the Keg ’n Craft’s version of a femme fatale. In any case, they put up with me for another fifteen minutes as I threw a variety of alternate and progressively less believable theories at them to explain Morgan’s behavior.
But when I suggested maybe she was suffering from amnesia or had had some kind of psychotic break, they decided we all needed to get on with the rest of our lives.
Travis stood up from behind his desk, hitching his pants as he did. He gave me a patient look, one that was almost fatherly and served only to remind me of the clock ticking against my flight to Tampa.
“Look, Joshua,” Travis said, coming around and sitting on the edge of the desk. His black shoes were polished to a military shine, reflecting the light like a dark mirror. “We don’t know what’s going on with this woman any more than you do. I have no doubt you met someone in the Atlanta airport and spent time with her. I’m sure you kissed her and followed her here. Why she chose to blow you off or say she didn’t know who you were . . . Well, I think you just need to chalk this one up to a strange, brief encounter.”
“But if she’s missing—”
“Like I said, Nashville PD is searching,” he said. “And we’re going to file a report right here as well.”
“Was there anyone named Morgan on the plane? Anything like that?”
Travis sighed. “I can’t just pull everybody with a certain first name off a flight. And even if there was another Morgan, and I really only looked at last names, then she probably isn’t your Morgan. Maybe this woman on the plane just gave you a fake name to throw you off her trail. Maybe she had heard of Morgan Reynolds the missing person and decided to say that’s who she was. It’s kind of the equivalent of a woman handing out a fake phone number in a bar when she doesn’t want a guy to call her. Maybe you just ran into a jumpy, fickle girl. We’ve all been there, right?”
He looked at Jansen, who nodded in agreement. And then he looked back at me. I was supposed to nod too, and then we could all laugh and say things like, Women. Can’t live with them, can’t shoot them.
But his words failed to make me feel any better. In fact, they made me feel worse, since his tone of voice and paternal manner suggested I’d been misled, making me the amiable stooge who’d fallen for the whimsical games of a manipulative woman.
I hated to be taken for a fool, in business or in love.
Cards close to the vest.
I hated even more that Travis might be right.
> But I did know one thing with certainty—it made no sense to continue to talk to Travis and Jansen. They were finished with me.
I stood up and shook both of the officers’ hands. We nodded to each other solemnly before I gathered up my bag, and then they walked me back to the concourse. Again, we walked in silence, the only sound the clicking of their heavy shoes against the floor, but when we reached the public area, Travis pointed at the large digital clock hanging from the ceiling, its red numerals impossible to miss.
“Looks like this worked out for you,” he said. “You can still make that flight to Tampa. You can get back to your life. And if we need anything else, we’ll give you a call.”
They slipped away before I could argue, and I trudged down the concourse toward my gate with thirty minutes left. I avoided the bar, avoided anyplace that might sell alcohol. My shoulders felt heavy and weighted, my feet like lead. I’d never had a day like that one before. I vowed never to have another one like it.
I found a quiet place near my gate but away from the other passengers. I didn’t read the book I’d bought or scroll through my phone. I sat out of the way, staring into space, ignoring the comings and goings and noise of the terminal.
None of it made sense. And I had to accept that it never would. Maybe the cop Travis was right in his own paternal way—I’d run into a strange, unpredictable woman, and she’d taken me for a ride. Why did people get pleasure out of doing such things? Who knew? But those people existed. Maybe Morgan liked the attention. Maybe she was laughing at me right then.
Except . . .
Why had she left town in a way that alarmed so many of her friends and caused someone to go to the police? It was the only piece that didn’t fit with what Travis said, unless she simply wanted to take everyone for a ride. Everyone she knew, everyone she encountered on social media, and even a random guy she met in the airport. Me.
I wasn’t sure how many times the PA announcer called my name before I heard it. I’d disappeared so far into my own thoughts that the sound of my own name seemed to reach me as though it were coming through a distant fog. Like a bell tolling in the distance, signaling . . . hope? Or danger?
When I finally heard it, I shivered. It had to be the cops. Travis and Jansen, they wanted something else from me. Maybe they’d learned another key piece of information. Or maybe they’d learned news that would provide some much-needed clarity.
I wondered if I could just board my flight and pretend I’d never heard the page. What could the airport police in Nashville do once I was on my flight and heading for Tampa?
But I was too curious. And shaken. If they needed something from me, I’d provide it, no matter how painful and embarrassing. I saw myself as a good boy, someone who followed the rules and tried to help the authorities when they needed it.
I asked the first ticket agent I saw where the courtesy phone was. She pointed me in the right direction. As I walked across the concourse, I mused over the phone’s continued existence. It seemed like a relic of a bygone era, a time when people needed to be called on landlines instead of being texted or contacted by cell. When I picked it up, I expected to hear nothing, the dead air of an outdated instrument. But an operator waited, and when I gave my name, she told me to hold one moment. I heard a couple of clicks and remembered that I’d given the police my phone number when they’d first approached me. If they’d wanted to reach me, they could have called my cell, so . . .
“Hello?” I said.
“It’s me.” The voice on the other end was unmistakable. “Don’t hang up.”
It was Morgan.
17
I looked around the concourse before I said anything. No one was paying any attention to me. People shuffled past on their way to and from their flights. An airport employee pushed a dolly loaded with bottled water, the wheels squeaking and rattling. He hummed along to some music only he could hear, a contented smile on his face.
“Are you calling to tell me what’s going on with you?” I asked. “Or did you want to dick me around some more?”
“I’m not dicking you around.”
“It sure feels like it. It’s been a long time since I’ve been dicked around this hard. Maybe never. But I’m pretty sure this is what it feels like.”
“I don’t have much time,” she said.
“Why? Are you afraid someone will trace the call?”
“Who would do that?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head even though she couldn’t see me. “I have no idea what’s going on with you.”
In the background, I could hear the steady whoosh of what sounded like passing cars. I guessed she was at a pay phone. If anyone cared to trace the call, they’d learn only that she stopped by the side of the road somewhere and slid quarters into a slot, probably using the last remaining pay phone in the city of Nashville.
“Look,” I said, “your friends think you’ve disappeared. They’re worried. The police are looking for you. I think I saw you on TV.”
Morgan sighed. “I know all about that. I’ll take care of it as soon as I can. Some things are beyond my control right now. And I have other things to deal with.”
“So what did you call me for?” I asked.
“I called because I wanted to apologize. I know I acted like . . . I don’t know what. A total weirdo. A freak.”
“A lunatic,” I said. “A nut job. A psychopath.”
“Whatever word you want to use, I guess. There’s a reason why I did that, blew you off that way on the plane and then walked past you in the airport. I told you we’d never see each other again. I had every intention of honoring that.”
“My plane’s leaving soon,” I said. “My plane to Tampa for the meeting I already missed because of you. If you have something more to say, you should spit it out.”
“That’s just it,” she said. “Your job, all the things we talked about at the bar. I’m glad we said those things about having a larger purpose in life. I’ve been struggling with that a lot lately. And it was good to find someone else who felt the same way I feel.”
I kept my mouth shut. I agreed with her—it had felt good to connect, to talk about those things. But I wasn’t ready to say so. Not yet. “Go on.”
“I don’t know what else there is to say. I needed a little lift, and you gave it to me. That’s why I kissed you. That’s why . . . I’ll always remember you. And that moment.”
My defenses weakened. Something shifted inside me. The ice had cracked. It was floating away as it melted. Her voice—the barely there Southern flavor, the soothing tone. The unvarnished honesty. No one talked to me like that. No one.
“Why are you traveling under another name?” I asked. “Why are you hiding behind the hat and the sunglasses? Are you in trouble?”
“How do you know about the name? Oh, I get it. You’ve been to the cops, haven’t you?”
“I had to. I saw everything online about you being missing. But I don’t even know if the cops in the airport believe it was you.”
“Shit,” she said. “Word spreads fast.”
“People tend to take it seriously when someone disappears.”
“Okay, then. I have to get moving.”
A horn honked in the background. Was she alone? Was that just a car driving past? Or was someone with her, waiting, summoning her to go?
“Where are you?” I asked. “Are you really going to Wyckoff?”
“Look, just remember what we talked about. Don’t go to that stupid meeting in Tampa if you don’t want to. I know it’s with your dad, and that makes it complicated. But, believe me, it can all get much more complicated if you stay involved with something that isn’t working. I know all about that.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You quit your job. You’re free.”
She laughed, and I sensed a combination of frustration and h
umor. “Look, if you have to take Xanax in order to do your job, maybe it isn’t the right one.”
“You should call your friends,” I said. “Let them know you’re okay.”
“Yeah. I don’t know. I’m trying . . .”
“Morgan, if you’re in trouble . . . if you need someone to help you, let me do it. I can go back to the cops, I can call someone.”
“I meant what I said about never seeing you again. That can’t happen.”
“Why? Because you’re in danger?”
“Forget that job, Joshua,” she said. “Have a good life. A meaningful one.”
“Morgan?”
But the line was dead. She was gone.
Again.
18
Kimberly spent ninety minutes at the possible crime scene, Giles Caldwell’s house. She met the crime scene tech there, and together they walked through the premises, making sure all the evidence had been cataloged properly and accurately. Kimberly held out hope they’d stumble across something they’d missed, something that would provide the much-needed breakthrough. A blood spatter. A note. A shell casing.
But she knew she was dreaming.
If one of those things had been there to discover, it would have already been found.
“What do you think about the way this place is ransacked?” she asked the tech, echoing Brandon’s theory.
The tech wore a blue Windbreaker and pushed her large glasses up on her nose. “Incomplete,” the tech said.
“Meaning?”
“Not thorough.”
“Staged?”
The tech scrunched her face. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s odd nothing is missing but that ring.”
“Yeah.”
After Kimberly finished with the crime scene tech, she joined the other detectives and uniformed officers as they fanned out through the neighborhood, going house by house again in case they missed something or someone the first time. The early autumn sun was hot on Kimberly’s neck, and she felt her frustration grow with each dead end. It didn’t help that the mayor called her twice for updates, forcing Kimberly to put the brightest shine possible on their lack of progress. The second time she spoke to the mayor, the call ended with a long sigh from Elena Robbins, who then hung up without saying good-bye.