The waitress saunters back, pad in hand, and asks if Morgan would like something to eat or drink.
“No,” she replies tersely. “Nothing for me.”
Clearly, her plan is to say what she has to say and be done with it. But that’s just fine. All I want is the truth from her.
“How did you know I’d be contacting you?” I ask.
“Riley Reynolds called me yesterday to say she was about to speak to the police, and then a detective got ahold of me several hours ago. I figured you or your husband might be next.”
“So, you’ve given a statement to the police?”
“Briefly on the phone, but I’m going in tomorrow to do it officially. So, tell me what you need from me.”
She’s polite but no-nonsense. Maybe it’s a style she’s honed dealing with impatient Gen Z students and their helicopter parents.
“We met with Riley today at police headquarters,” I say. “I’m wondering if you can confirm a harrowing story she shared with us—or refute it if that’s what’s called for.”
Morgan briefly presses her dark-red lips together. “The police said I shouldn’t be discussing this, but since you’re in the loop anyway, I don’t see any harm in telling you.”
My body fizzes uncomfortably with anticipation.
“Which is it, then?” I say.
She levels her gaze at me. “If you’re asking if Riley Reynolds was brutally raped and almost killed, then the answer is yes.”
I slowly exhale, a breath I seem to have held since I left Cartersville.
“And she told you this eight years ago, on a Monday morning?” I ask.
Morgan nods, her expression grim. “Yes, and I saw the evidence—these awful bruises she had on her neck from where she’d been strangled. She was wearing a turtleneck, but she pulled it down for me to see.”
So, the attack really happened. I feel awful about doubting Riley’s story.
“Did she share anything about the circumstances?”
She nods again. “Some. She said she’d been running in the park the night before, which she had every right to do, of course, so I’m notblamingher. I was a jock in college myself, so I know the kind of dedication that’s called for. But it wasn’t the smartest thing to be doing after dark.”
“Especially after another girl had been murdered two nights before.”
Morgan shifts a little in her seat and crosses her arms in front of her on the Formica table. She’s fit-looking, like she’s probably still an athlete or likes to work out. As the shirtsleeve hikes up her right arm, I spot a small tattoo on the back of her wrist, several Asian symbols.
“True,” she says. “But she said the rumor going around was that a boyfriend was responsible, and so she didn’t think she was in any danger ... It goes without saying that I’m sorry about your daughter. I read about it at the time, of course.”
She delivers the condolence matter-of-factly, like she’s apologizing for a minor oversight, but that’s all right. I’m not here for sympathy.
“Thank you. Just so I’m clear, I take it you knew Riley from the classroom. Is that why she came to you?”
“The classroom?” she asks, her brow wrinkling.
“Weren’t you a teaching assistant at Carter?”
She shakes her head. “She might have assumed that, but I had no direct involvement with the college. I was getting an MFA from SUNY Albany that year, studying creative writing with a focus on poetry, and I had a part-time job helping Jeffrey Handler with his latest collection. He paid me to type and organize his notes and do a little bit of research. I mostly worked remotely, though occasionally I needed to stop by his office.”
I stare at her blankly for a moment, confused. “So, if you were rarely there, how did she get to know you?”
“Knowme? I’d never met her before. I was leaving something for Handler early that morning, and she walked into the department. No one was around except me, and she said she was hoping to talk to the department assistant about getting extensions or to drop out without penalty, and before I could explain I didn’t even work there, she started shaking violently. I got her to sit, calmed her down a little, and then she blurted out what happened—the rape, almost dying, jumping into the creek.”
“She’s lucky you were there—someone to share the horror with.”
