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The old saying, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree? It definitelyapplies here.
When he first agreed to meet with me without advance notice, I had a brief flicker of hope. Maybe he’d be reasonable, or at least practical enough to accept what I was offering.
But as soon as I met him, I knew. Smugly smiling, his attempt at dominance when he shook my hand—not likely, as I’m half his age and have twice the muscle as him. Pompous, flashing his watch with the embedded diamonds, barking orders at his harried assistant… And he had this greasyfeel about him.
Once I met Lucas Morgan, I knew he was well aware of everything his son did, and he didn’t care.
But he cares about money, which is what I led with. Making vague statements and veiled threats, I let him know he had a day to think about it. One day to decide if he wanted to get his son under control, or if he’d prefer to take his chances with me.
“I have numerous associates—friends—who could be convinced to move their investments elsewhere,” I told him. “And if it were to get out that theywere pulling their money, that could cause… confidence issues with other clients, couldn’t it?”
“I have plenty of clients,” he snapped, narrowing his eyes at me. But I didn’t miss the flash of worry behind them, or the way he gripped the arms of his enormous leather chair.
“Perhaps,” I said dryly, leaning back in my seat. “But I’m sure you would prefer to keepallof them.” After a heavy pause, I continued, “Which you can, if you get your son under control.”
His jaw went hard, and he just stared at me for a moment. “I have another meeting. If you don’t mind…”
I was glad to get out of there. Just being that close to him—the father of the man who drugged Ari, assaulted her, tried to have her killed—made me sick.
And it filled me with incredible rage. I wanted to lunge over his oversized desk and give him a taste of the pain and fear Ari’s experienced at the hands of his monstrous son.
So I’ve spent the rest of the drive from Manhattan to Sleepy Hollow trying to tamp my down emotions. When I pick up Ari, I don’t want her to think anything is wrong. I just want to bring her home and spend a relaxing evening with her, do all the things we talked about this morning.
The traffic coming from the city is extra bad today, so I’m fifteen minutes late by the time I get to her school. I sent her a quick text while I was driving and she didn’t respond, but she rarely messages me when I’m in the car.
“It’s not safe to text and drive, Cash,” she always scolds me.
“I’m not typing the messages,” I explain every time. “I’m dictating them. It’s different.”
But she’s not having it. “It still makes you distracted. If I need to text someone, I’ll do it when I get home.”
I’m trying to cut back. Most of the time.
Once I park outside her school, I send another text letting Ari know I’m here.
But five minutes go by, and she doesn’t respond.
Then another five minutes, and I’m starting to worry.
But she could be talking to a student, a teacher, she could be making copies, figuring she’d get some extra work done since I was running late. It’s probably nothing.
Except she knows I’m on my way. And she never goes thislong without responding.
I decide to talk to the security guard inside the school and ask if he can call Ari’s room. He knows who I am—I introduced myself the first time I came here with Ari—and he’s happy to help.
“She’s probably chatting away with one of the other teachers and lost track of time,” he chuckles. “Ari’s such a friendly girl. Everyone loves to talk to her.”
But she doesn’t answer the phone in her classroom, either.
So the security guard—Steve, a genial man in his fifties—calls the office to ask if they can page Ari through the intercom. As he listens to the person on the other end of the call, his smile fades. Hanging up, his tone sobers. “Glenda said Ari went home a couple of hours ago. An emergency of some sort.”
An emergency? I wake my phone and scroll through all my calls and texts again. There’s nothing from Ari.
Why would she leave without telling me?
Steve is watching me with a concerned expression. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I manage, though my heart is pounding double-time. “I’m sure it’s just a miscommunication. She’s probably home. Thanks for your help.”
