Another twist of my guts.
I texted him back.
Waiting for clients to show. They’re late. Will call after.
After hitting Send I called the Jensens. No answer. I waited for the mom’s voice mail to click over. “Hi. This is Randall. Just making sure everything is okay. No problem that you’re late. I don’t have another shoot after, so we’ve got plenty of time. I’ll wait here, but call me if you need better directions or something.”
Before I finished leaving a message, another chime came through. After hitting End on the Jensen call, I saw it was from Noah.
They probably aren’t going to show. Go ahead and leave. Meet me at your place. Please.
Before I could fully process that, he called.
I stared at his image and name on the screen. I couldn’t hit Accept.
Answering his call would bring in a whole other world of bad news.
Dramatic or not, I was certain of it. No way Noah would have said the Jensens weren’t coming. And he wasn’t needy or clingy enough to keep texting and then call within moments. It meant bad news.
I couldn’t answer his call, but I couldn’t keep myself from checking either.
Tapping my phone’s web browser, I went to theSeattle Weeklysite.
A few scrolls, and nothing. Nothing about Randall Morgan.
Then to The Dirty.
Nothing there either.
Maybe I was being ridiculous. Why would there be more articles? What was there left to talk about? As many skeletons as I had in the closet, it was empty now. They’d all been aired, bleached dry, and put on display.
I started to call Noah when I noticed my Facebook app had forty-three notifications.
I clicked it. The whitefon the blue square background suddenly looked sinister.
I didn’t even need to click into my notifications. A picture of me popped up instantly.
The article had been shared by someone on my friend list. A guy I didn’t know but was connected to through mutual friends.
I tapped it.
It took me to the KTTH website, a local conservative talk radio station.
The article was short and looked like it wasn’t original content to the station but had been shared from somewhere else first. And it achieved what I didn’t think was possible.
It made everything that already happened seem small.
Public Warning
Much has come to light about Randall Morgan, the youngest son of one of Seattle’s wealthiest families. Randall has been reported to be involved in prostitution through his massage and erotic photography businesses. What has been overlooked up until this point is Randall Morgan’s primary photography business.
Randall’s business of fantasy-themed photography featuring children has been growing over the past several years to the point that several local galleries have displayed his work. Mr. Morgan is reported to even have a published book of his child photography in the works.
While unconfirmed, there is obviously great concern from parents who have trusted Randall Morgan to photograph their children. His fairy-tale-themed photography, which already bordered too much on the dark and mystical side of things for my taste, now takes on a much more sinister facade when viewed with all the facts. What parent would willingly have their child photographed by a prostitute and pornographer? Talk about a big bad wolf.
Chapter Twenty
“WE CANsue.”
