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.”
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 not blaming her. 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?”
“Know me? 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.”
“Yeah, she said she’d been all alone for the rest of the night, going out of her mind. By the way, I hope she explained that I tried like crazy to convince her to call nine-one-one or let me drive her to an ER. But she refused and swore me to secrecy.”
“Yes, she told us. You must have felt in a terrible bind.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” She picks up the saltshaker and absentmindedly draws a couple of circles on the table with the bottom of it.
“She made clear she’d kill herself if anyone else found out, so I didn’t dare go to the police.
It turned out she’d lost her phone in the creek, but she was planning to get a new one right away, so I took down her number and called her over the next couple of weeks.
She knew by then she wasn’t pregnant, thank God, but I still couldn’t talk her into going to the cops.
And then, all of a sudden, Calvin Ruck was arrested, and she convinced herself there was no need to come forward. ”
“How sure was she that he was the guy?”
“Very.”
It seems that every detail Riley shared with Logan and me was the truth. So where did my unease spring from?
“Is something the matter?” Morgan asks, and I realize I’m frowning.
“No, I guess I’m just feeling a tad guilty. When Riley spoke to us, I found myself struggling to accept everything.”
“Why’s that, do you think?”
I shrug. “She seemed evasive at times, but I guess it was just torturous for her to describe the experience . . . I suppose I’m also distressed by how long she waited to tell the police.
If I put myself in her shoes, I can understand her reluctance years ago, but it would have made a big difference if she’d come forward in real time. ”
“And now it’s too late to do anything with the information, right? I just read online that this man Ruck died in prison, so he can’t be prosecuted for additional crimes.”
“Right” is all I say. I’m not comfortable offering her any more than that.
Morgan checks her watch. “I should get going. I promised to pick up my partner, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
“Before you leave, can I ask a quick question on an entirely different subject? I assume your college uses Blackboard or a similar system. I was hoping to find some of my daughter’s writing assignments on the Blackboard system that Carter uses, but I was told classwork is deleted after five years.
Do you think there’s any chance it’s still in the cloud somewhere? ”
“I doubt it. We use a similar system at HRCC, and far as I know, once material is deleted, it’s gone for good.”
“Damn.”
“But wait,” she says, stuffing an arm into the sleeve of her coat.
“There’s a digital archive at Carter specifically for creative work that students might want to upload there.
Handler started it himself to encourage kids to think about possibly publishing one day, and I assume it’s still active.
Perhaps your daughter opted in with some of her work. ”
Okay, this is interesting. But why hadn’t Handler himself mentioned it?
“Great, I’ll look into it,” I say.
Morgan is clearly eager to split, but I can’t resist lobbing one more question now that a certain name is on the table. “What was your impression of Handler back then?”
She pauses what she’s doing, letting the coat sag behind her again, and her lips curl infinitesimally in displeasure.
“The acclaimed Jeffrey Handler?” she says. “Well, the students seemed to be in awe of him.”
“Not you?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to discuss him. It was a long time ago.”
So, not a fan at all.
“Well, thank you again for your time. It’s been a huge help.”
She resumes putting on her sweater coat and loops her bag over her head.
“You’re welcome, and I’m sorry for being a bit brusque earlier,” she says.
For the first time since we’ve sat down, there’s a trace of warmth in her voice.
“It’s just that I’ve been worried that if this stuff about Riley gets out, my failure to alert the police myself could blow back on me professionally somehow.
But if I can be of more help, let me know. ”
It’s not what I’ve been expecting from her—leaving a door open.
“That’s very kind of you,” I say.
I wish her goodbye and watch her move in long strides toward the exit.
As soon as she’s gone, I extract my phone and tap Logan’s number.
I’m not sure how he’ll feel about me going around Halligan, but I need to share what I’ve learned about Riley—that she was telling the truth after all.
When the call goes to voicemail, I leave a message asking him to get in touch as soon as possible.
I should be relieved. Halligan now has important new information to take into consideration, and Logan and I don’t have to add duped to the list of crap we’ve been through this week.
Instead, my body is practically humming with unease again. I do my best to interpret the sensation, but it’s like trying to eavesdrop on an ominous-sounding conversation from another room and not making out a single word.