“The editor put that up,” Sullivan said apologetically as he came out of the small kitchen with coffee cups. “That was theDispatch’s bestselling issue, just ahead of the time Gwen Daly took first place with her prize ram at the State Fair. It was my first front page. I guess it seemed like a good idea.”
“They probably didn’t realize that anyone who was mentioned in it would ever be in here,” Boyd said dryly. “It’s nice of them to let you stay here when you’re in town, anyhow.”
“The owner is my uncle,” Sullivan pointed out. He handed Boyd the unchipped cup and perched his hip on the arm of the chair opposite. “I haven’t tracked anything solid on Morgan yet, if that’s why you’re here. From what you said, it sounds like he was rehomed—”
“What, like a dog?”
“There would have probably been more oversight if he were,” Sullivan said. “I tracked down the social worker who handled his case originally. She’s retired to Florida. It wasn’t a case that stood out to her—Morgan was adolescent and angry, the abuse was physical and situational, the boyfriend was new and drunk, and the pieces all made sense—but once I sent her the file, she did remember something. In one of the supervised meetings, the mother—presumed mother—said that she should have left Morgan in St. Louis with her ex. Since ‘he was the one who wanted to take you on, and we both know why.’ That’s when Morgan told her to fuck off and the social worker ended the contact. The woman doesn’t sound like a great parent, but possibly she did save Morgan from worse than what he got. If he was Sammy, she might have saved his life.”
As a kid Boyd had eavesdropped a lot. It was the only way to learn anything when everyone wanted to protect you or pretend you didn’t exist. He learned a lot of important stuff that way, like people only thought Mr. Hill was guilty because he liked to kiss other men, or that his dad wasn’t ever coming back, but it always left him hot-eared and uncomfortable.
This felt the same. He wanted to know more, but it wasn’t his business.
Sullivan took a drink from his coffee, winced as the heat caught his tongue, and pressed on, “I’ve made some inroads into tracking her down—”
“That’s not what I called about,” Boyd blurted before the temptation to stay quiet won the day. “I mean, it’s not my business.”
Sullivan raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side. “No offense, but I thought that’s what you wanted,” he said. “To find out who he was.”
“I did. I do,” Boyd said. He rubbed his tender ear absently and turned down his mouth at the corners. “It just doesn’t feel right to know it first. Before him.”
Sullivan laughed, a touch of bitterness to his voice, and looked down at his hands wrapped around theDispatchmug.
“Yeah,” he said. “I get that. It’s not easy sometimes. But if that’s not what you wanted to hear, what is?”
The words caught in the back of Boyd’s throat. Shay was already angry at him because he’d talked to Sullivan. He’d see this as even more of a betrayal. It might be one he couldn’t forgive. Boyd was still pissed at Shay, but he didn’t want that.
But if he had to, he would live with it.
“Morgan’s met Mrs. Calloway,” he said.
“And?” Sullivan asked with interest. He leaned forward, elbow braced on his knee, and his fingers twitched around his cup as though he needed a pen and paper for notes. “Did he remember anything?”
“I don’t know. Mac said that he’s given him more information,” Boyd said. “Mrs. Calloway believes that he’s Sammy, but she won’t give Mac a DNA sample.”
Sullivan raised his eyebrows. “And you think I can…?”
“Talk her into it,” Boyd said. “Mac asked me, but when I went to the house, Mrs. Calloway wouldn’t even open the door.”
That had stung more than he expected. Even when she hated the sight of him, alive andhere, within his mom’s reach, she always answered the door, the same as she had every time he’d come to call for Sammy.
“I can see that,” Sullivan said. “When I interviewed her forMissing, I asked her if it would be a relief, in a way, to just have a grave to visit. She said no, that the day she found out Sammy was dead, she’d kill herself.”
Boyd flinched in surprise at the blunt statement. “That wasn’t in the book,” he said.
Sullivan looked surprised. “You read it?”
“Sure,” Boyd said. “Everyone in town did, in case it was their turn to be thrown to the wolves as the bad guy.”
There was a pause, and then Sullivan sat back. He glanced over his shoulder at the framed print and twisted his mouth into a rueful smile.
“Fair enough,” he said. “And I didn’t put it in the book. I didn’t think Shay needed to see that. I’ve already done enough to him, right?”
Boyd swallowed the contemptuous snort that threatened to escape his throat. “I don’t see how that explains….”
“C’mon, man,” Sullivan said. “Donna’s finally got her happy ending, even if it isn’t likely. She’s got Sammy back. Why would she want to give someone, especially Mac, a chance to take that away? A good lie feels better than a bad truth, at least for a while. It’s why we tell our children fairy tales.”
“You going to put that in your next book?” Boyd asked.
