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He looks back and forth between us, searching for more. “Okay.”
“We’re looking for some information about a former student of yours,” I say. “We’re hoping you might be able to help us.”
“And why would I do that?” he says. “Especially for young women who disrupt my class?”
“You might be the only one who can,” I say.
He holds my eyes, as if taking me in for the first time. I motion to Bailey, who hands Professor Cookman her phone, the screen opened to the photograph of her with her father.
He reaches in his shirt pocket and pulls out a pair of glasses, turns his gaze to the phone.
“The man standing next to you in the photograph?” he says. “Is he the former student?”
She nods but stays quiet.
He tilts his head, takes in the photo, like he is truly trying to remember. I try to help jog his memory.
“If we have his correct graduation year, he took your class twenty-six years ago,” I say. “We were hoping you might know his name?”
“You know he took my class twenty-six years ago?” he says. “And you don’t know his name?”
“We know the name he goes by now, but we don’t know his real name,” I say. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time for the short version,” he says.
“He’s my father,” Bailey says.
They’re the first words out of Bailey’s mouth and they stop him. He looks up, meets Bailey’s eyes.
“How did you tie him back to me?” he says.
I look to Bailey to see if she wants to answer, but she is quiet again. And she looks tired. Too tired for sixteen. She looks up at me and motions. She motions for me to jump in.
“It turns out that my husband made up a lot of details… about his life,” I say. “Except he did tell us a story about you, about the influence you had on him. He remembers you fondly.”
He looks back down at the photograph, and I think I see a flicker in his eyes when he stares down at Owen. When I look at Bailey, I know she thinks that she’s noticed the same thing. But, of course, this is what we want to see.
“He goes by Owen Michaels now,” I say. “But he used to go by a different name, when he was your student.”
“And why did he change his name?” he says.
“That’s what we’re trying figure out,” I say.
“Well, I’ve taught many students over the years and I can’t say I know him,” he says.
“If it helps, we’re fairly certain it was your second year of teaching.”
“Maybe memory works differently for you, but in my experience, it gets harder the further away you get.”
“In my recent experience, it’s all pretty much the same,” I say.
He smiles, taking me in. And maybe he sees it, what we are going through, because his tone softens.
“Sorry, I can’t be of more help…” he says. “Maybe try the registrar’s office. They could possibly steer you in the right direction.”
“And what are we going to ask them?” Bailey says.
She’s trying to stay controlled. But I see it. I see her anger brewing.
