Linda steps forward quickly and begins to pace.
“Linda, do you know a Winston Sampson? Has Morgan ever mentioned that name to you? Is he a client of the firm?” I’m firing questions at her, but she continues to pace in what I believe is deep thought. Then she stops and turns in my direction. Her face drains of all colour as if she’s seen a ghost.
“Linda!” I snap, concerned.
“Not a Winston Sampson, but a Falcon Sampson.” As the words slide from her tongue, my body tingles, and I feel the colour from my own face drain away.
“Falcon Sampson is Morgan’s ex-boyfriend,” I follow.
West’s eyes narrow. “When did Morgan date this Falcon?” His brows crease.
“Right before we hooked up in the first year of university. Morgan broke it off with Falcon after we met, I’m pretty sure. I’ve never met her ex. To be honest, I’ve never even seen a picture of him or the two of them together. Morgan seemed to have no reminders of past boyfriends in her stuff when we moved in together, but I didn’t have any reminders of past girlfriends either. They were high school sweethearts, I believe.” I look towards Linda for confirmation.
“Yes, that’s true, they were. Dated from year nine until around the time Morgan met Reid.” She pauses. “So, what’s that? Five years or so?”
“Give or take,” I say.
“We’ve had a witness who came forward. He claims to have seen the man we believe to be Winston on the highway helping Morgan. When the prints came back and the photograph we have on file matched the description our witness gave, we suspected we’d found the man who helped Morgan in the storm. Have a look at this photo, you two, and tell me if you recognise him.”
“Sure.” Linda makes the short distance, standing close to me.
West hands me the photograph, and I hold it out in front of both of us. “It can’t be?” I’m shocked.
“Do you recognise him, Reid?” West says.
“I know him.” I pass the photograph to Linda and run my hands through my uncombed hair. “This man is not named Winston, though,” I declare. “It’s Vactrim, from Handy Car Wash and Mechanics. Vactrim details our vehicles.”
“Reid, this is Winston Sampson, and this is the photograph taken by the Department of Transport, the one on his driver’s licence.” West places his hand firmly on his hip and furrows his eyebrows. He’s confused. Hell, I’m confused.
“Well, either he has an identical twin brother who looks just like him or he’s masquerading as two people.”
“Reid, are you sure?” West’s voice is quiet.
“One hundred per cent. I talk with Vactrim at the end of every month when I get both the cars detailed. I take Morgan’s in on the first day of the last week of each month. And I do mine in the same week, but on the last day of the month. It’s him.”
“Morgan talks to him as well?” West’s tone is hushed.
I shake my head in slow motion. “No. She doesn’t. She never takes the cars in to be cleaned. Only I do.” I stop, taking a moment to really think about whether there has ever been a time when I’ve asked Morgan to do it in my place. There hasn’t. “I don’t believe Morgan has ever met him. I take care of all the servicing and cleaning arrangements with our vehicles.”
“Do you know him, Linda?” West asks.
“No.” It’s a prompt reply, but as I turn towards Linda, I can see the word liar written all over her face. Linda’s flushed and glowing red.
Why did Linda just lie?
Morgan
The space is too small to stand, so I hunch and hobble through tunnel after tunnel until they shrink, and I’m forced to continue in a crawl. Spots of sunlight appear through cracks in the structure around me, sunlight I’ve not seen until now. The farther I venture, the more holes appear, which means more light gains entry and I have fresh air to breathe. I must be going in the right direction.
Every muscle aches. There’s a high-pitched wheeze that follows each breath I take, and even though my jaw shoots sharp pains into my head from how hard I’m clenching my teeth together, I don’t cry out or scream. I stay silent and keep trekking.
The ground below my knees falls away like sand being pulled out to sea by harsh waves, but it can’t be sand because I see a dark colouration … soil. I’m underground, as I suspected. How did the earth give way as it did? The wolf.
My head rams into a wall. I’ve reached a dead end. There are no more tunnels to take to the left of me, or the right when I swivel my head. I’ve nowhere to go. I don’t want to go back the way I came; I’m far too exhausted.
“Help,” I plead.
A sound reminiscent of an air-conditioning vent whistling has me almost crawling over the top of myself. I stretch my arms and use my toes to push forwards. I need to know where it’s coming from because there’s no air-conditioner I can see around me. This must be a man-made tunnel. The tunnels are two perfectly dug, and placed, to be something nature created.
As I trek towards the distinctive whistling I see a circular space I missed initially. A stiff breeze rushes through it. I’ll never fit through this hole. I’d be surprised if a teenager could climb through the space.
One, two, three times I nudge my head gently against a protruding rock located right beside the gap I want to squeeze through. I’m frustrated, breathless and tired. A long huff comes with me curling my body into a tight ball. Try. Just try. I do.
First, I push the backpack to my front and then throw it through the hole. I hear it land almost immediately, so I know whatever I’m climbing into doesn’t have a significant fall on the other side. I could look—there’s enough room for me to peek my head through—but the idea of seeing what’s below causes anxiety to crawl through my veins. What if it’s a pit of spikes? Fuck! I take a deep breath and poke my head through, looking down. I see the silhouette of the pack on the ground. I don’t see anything sharp, just what appears to be leaves and dirt.
Wasting no time, I tilt my head sideways and scrunch my shoulder to my ear, managing to pass both through the circumference, however my other shoulder jams. I’m stuck. I shuffle, pull, and rock my body. I'm still stuck. I repeat this action multiple times until I scream, curse, and manage to pop through the other side, falling backwards and landing with a huff.
“I did it,” I breathe before relaxing my limbs and looking above me at a high roof made from compacted dirt. It takes a while until I find the energy to manoeuvre myself into a seated position.
“What is that?” I gasp. A single red rose grows in the centre of what I quickly glimpse to be an ample open space. A spotlight illuminates its beauty … aimed to its position in the ground like a spotlight for a stage act. Does this rose mean something? Could it be connected to the thirteen roses in those pictures?
My legs shake, and when I find my feet, I shuffle towards the rose, focused only on its petals. The wolf has created a game for me to play, and I know this rose has to be a part of it. I’m petrified of this rose, the possible symbolism it may have. I’m trembling, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m cold or if it’s because I’m frightened. Calm yourself, Morgan. Try and find calm.
“Fears,” I breathe. “Are.” I slide my right foot across bark and leaves beneath my sole. “Stories.” I slide my left foot in the same fashion. “We.” I close my eyes briefly. “Tell.” I drag my right foot once more. “Ourselves.”
This is not real; it’s only a story. There’s nothing to fear anymore, Morgan, because stories aren’t real, they’re fictional, and what is happening to you is fictional.
I still. I flick my eyes in as many directions as I can without moving my head.