I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about something that happened while you were at Carter. Would you be open to that?”
A few beats of silence follow.
“All right,” she says at last. “I’ve actually been expecting your call.”
Chapter 17
This seems like more than I could have hoped for. I’ve not only tracked Morgan Kroll down but she’s also willing to talk.
“You’re familiar with a former Carter student named Riley Reynolds?” I ask.
“Yes, I know who she is.”
“And she—”
“Excuse me for cutting you off,” Kroll says crisply, “but I didn’t mean I could speak right this second. I need to leave for an appointment, and to be honest, I’d prefer to do this in person.”
“I’m in Cartersville, so just tell me when,” I say, antsy to speed up the process. “I could come to your location anytime tomorrow.”
“That won’t work, I’m afraid, because my schedule tomorrow is packed. Let me think ... My appointment today—it’s in Barrow, which is probably only thirty, thirty-five, minutes from Cartersville. Could you meet me there at, uh, let’s say five o’clock, after I’m done? There’s a little diner in town called Bea’s. Kind of a throwback place.”
“I can absolutely meet you there,” I say. “And I trust it’s not a problem if Melanie’s father comes along?”
Logan will want to hear this, and beyond that, I need a ride.
The line goes quiet for a couple of seconds. “Can it please just be two of us,” she says. “I’ve been dragged into something I never saw coming, and I’d like to keep this as simple as possible.”
Dragged into something.So maybe she won’t be backing up Riley’s story.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you at five. And thank you.”
I check the time: three thirty. Since I’m being forced to go alone, I need to nail down a ride, and after brief consideration, I decide a taxi is a better option than Uber because it will allow me to handle logistics with an actual human. Though my call to Cartersville Taxi went to voicemail last night, within seconds now I’m talking to the gruff-voiced owner, Craig. I arrange for a round trip to Barrow that will get me there fifteen minutes early, just to be on the safe side, and I let him know that I’ll need the taxi to wait for as much as forty-five minutes.
Craig, wearing a green satin New York Jets jacket, arrives exactly when promised, and we reach Bea’s Diner even sooner than I anticipated. It turns out to be truly old-fashioned, a place with a Formica-topped counter, chrome stools, and red vinyl booths.
It’s only about a quarter full, so I help myself to a booth, the last in the row and with a window looking out to the parking lot. When the waitress strolls over, I order a tuna sandwich and a sparkling water since I realize I haven’t eaten a bite since breakfast.
“You mind club soda, hon?” she asks. “’Cause that’s the only kind of bubbly water we got.”
“That’s fine, thank you.”
As hungry as I am, I’m also jittery, and in the end, I manage to consume only half the sandwich and a couple of the chips scattered on the edge of the plate.
A few more customers show up, but not Morgan. It’s now four minutes after five. What if she blows me off, deciding that a meeting with me is more trouble than she wants to take on?
And then suddenly there she is, pushing open the glass door. Before I have a chance to signal to her, I see her gaze race down the row of booths, and once it lights on me, she lifts her chin in acknowledgment. I’m the only woman sitting by herself.
Several heads turn as she strides the length of the diner in my direction. She’s tall and slightly short waisted, so that her legs seem to go on forever, and she’s dressed in a striking outfit: a black collared shirt, very slim black pants, stylish short black boots, and a tan sweater coat. As she gets closer, I see that, as in her photo, the only makeup she seems to be wearing is dark-red lipstick.
“Morgan Kroll,” she says, sliding onto the seat across from me. She lifts a small black cross-body bag over her head, sets it on the seat, and shrugs off the sweater coat so that it’s bunched behind her. “Though I guess I’ve made that clear by plopping down in your booth.”
I offer a small smile, the best I can muster by this point in a punishing day. “Bree Winter. Thank you again for agreeing to see me.”
“You’re the one who should be thanked for coming to sad little Barrow. My acupuncturist relocated to this town, and it’s the only reason I ever come here.”
“Do I have it right—that you teach English and creative writing at Hudson River Community College?”
“Correct.” She tugs her mouth over in a small smirk. “The Harvard of riverside community colleges.”
