A Son's Tale. Tara Quinn Taylor

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      CHAPTER THREE

      SHEWASLIVINGa nightmare. She’d wake up any second.

      Longing for the quilt on her bed, to be able to pull it up over her head and warm her freezing body, Morgan sat in the chair at the police station and waited for her parents to arrive.

      She’d already answered all of the officers’ questions.

      “Let’s go over things one more time, Ms. Lowen.” The female detective sitting across from her in the little room with only a table and four chairs emanated sympathy. About ten years older than Morgan, Elaine Martin didn’t look any more like a cop than she did. She wasn’t even in uniform.

      “The smallest things can make a difference,” Detective Martin said. “Tell me again everything you can remember about this morning.”

      “I got Sammie up at seven, just like always.”

      “Did he get right up? Or did you have to nag him?”

      Was the woman calling her a nag? Did she think Morgan wasn’t a good mom? That she’d somehow failed her son? Failed to see that someone was watching him? Out to get him? Or…

      “Ms. Lowen? You okay?”

      Morgan focused. Detective Martin’s brow creased with concern.

      No, I’m not okay. How can I possibly be okay? My son is…where? What are they doing to him? God, was Sammie even still alive? Or…had he run away? Was he that unhappy with her? Was he in with a bad crowd and she’d somehow missed evidence of that fact? “Yeah. I’m fine.”

      The detective covered Morgan’s hand with her own. “We’re going to find him,” she said. “Stay with me, okay?”

      Morgan nodded “He got right up. He always does. Sammie’s like me. A morning person.”

      “Then what?”

      “I got his breakfast. Rice Krispies with milk.”

      “Did he eat it all?”

      “Yes.”

      “Does he always?”

      “Yes.”

      “What about toast? Or fruit?”

      “No. He hates fruit.” And she didn’t make him eat it. Did that make her a bad mother? Did they think Sammie’s missing was her fault? That she had something to do with this? They were asking her so many questions over and over and…

      “Just cereal,” she said, meeting Detective Martin’s gaze again. “He went upstairs to dress. I heard him brushing his teeth. He left the cap off the toothpaste just like always. And he spit six times…” Her eyes welled up. She’d limited Sammie to six spits and, bless his heart, he always complied.

      She smiled, not seeing anything but her son’s skinny little face, his lips puckered up. “He loves to spit. Sometimes I think that’s why he loves baseball so much. Of course, he loves basketball even more and you can’t spit on a basketball court… .” She stopped. She was rambling. Did that make her look guilty?

      She searched for signs of accusation in the detective’s expression and couldn’t determine if there were any there or not.

      “What was he wearing when you left the house?”

      “His oldest pair of cutoff shorts. The ones with the ripped pocket. They were going to get to play around with oil on canvas today and I didn’t want him to ruin any of his good clothes.”

      She couldn’t afford to replace them. She and Sammie lived on a tight budget. They had his whole life. Was that why this was happening? Because she couldn’t provide well enough for her son?

      “And a Phoenix Suns T-shirt,” she said. He had four of them. “The oldest one. It’s his favorite sports team. They play basketball…out in Phoenix. We’ve never been there.”

      “What was he wearing on his feet?” Detective Martin’s voice was a gentle reminder that this was all real. She wasn’t having some horrible nightmare.

      “Sneakers. The ones with the rip in the toe. They’re black. Converse.” The Converses had been a Christmas gift from her mother. He’d worn them out by March. She’d bought him a new pair of sneakers. A bargain brand. They looked the same to Morgan but Sammie loved Converses. He said all real basketball players wore them. And so he’d continued to wear them even though they were worn through.

      “You said he doesn’t know his father?”

      Morgan shook her head.

      “Are you certain about that?”

      “Yes, of course. Sammie’s never met Todd. He knows we were divorced and he thinks his father is dead, that he died before Sammie was born, which is why Sammie has my last name.” She’d told him Todd was dead. She hated lying to her son but felt that in this case, she had no other choice. Because the alternative, the truth, was unthinkable. No one told a little boy that his father just didn’t want him. That he wasn’t worth the money it would have cost Todd to have Sammie in his life.

      “I’d know if Todd wanted to see our son.” She could bet on that. If Todd wanted something, Todd got it.

      “But what if he thought you wouldn’t let СКАЧАТЬ