Jason Pinter - The Darkness

“Well no,” he replied. “It’s just that, well, most parents have their children’s phone numbers and dorm rooms etched into their brains. You know, one of those ‘always know where to reach your loved ones’ deals.”

“Yeah, well I’m not one of those parents,” Paulina said.

“No, you don’t seem to be.” He picked up the phone.

“Would you like me to call her for you?”

“No,” she said. “I’d prefer if you just told me where she lives. I’d like it to be a surprise.”

“Surprise. Sure. Can I just see some ID?”

Paulina handed it over. The man took it gently between his thumb and index finger like one might handle a piece of forensic evidence. He looked at it, typed a few keys into his computer, then slid it back to her.

“Thanks, Ms. Cole. Abigal lives in room three-ohthree of the Friedman apartments.”

“Where can I find that?”

“It’s the housing complex at the corner of Elm and

Prospect streets. But you’ll need somebody to let you in-like Abigail. The doors are locked 24/7, and campus security is always on the lookout for people who don’t necessarily look like they know what they’re looking for.”

“Thanks for the tip,” she said, and left.

She drove over to the apartment complex and found a spot in the student lot in between a Volvo that looked sturdy enough to withstand tank fire and a Prius with a

Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker lovingly forgotten on the rear bumper.

She walked across the lawn toward the middle of the three dorms, for a moment thinking back to her own time at college, wondering where it all went. She barely remembered the days that seemed to have flown by in a blur of books and late nights, staying up until four in the morning to ace the test that nobody else figured they could pass. Paulina smiled as she watched all the young women, these silly young women who probably had no idea what kind of world awaited them. Most looked like they didn’t have a care in the world, and who knew, maybe they didn’t. But, one thing Paulina knew for sure, it was the ones who cared too much who succeeded. The ones who refused to stay down when they were beaten down. The ones who refused to take “no,” and instead took everything. She prayed for years that her daughter was like that. Sadly, she’d resigned herself to the fact that it was not meant to be.

Approaching the dorm, Paulina stopped two young women carrying backpacks and chatting. “Excuse me,” she said. “Can you tell me where I can find room threeoh-three?”

The thicker one who had short hair and stringy-looking tassels lining it, pointed to the dorm on the left, then middle. “One hundreds, two hundreds, three hundreds.”

She finished by pointing at the dorm on the right.

“Thanks very much,” Paulina said, and waited until the girls left. She walked up to the entrance, a glass door leading into a small atrium that was also locked from the outside. She took out her cell phone, pretended to send text messages while she waited. Finally a girl approached the door, looking in her purse for a key. When she found it and inserted it into the lock, Paulina stepped behind her and put the phone away. The girl opened the door, and Paulina caught it before it could close, following her into the atrium. The girl turned around, looked at Paulina.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her young blond hair looking so tender, so naive. “We’re not supposed to let strangers inside the dorms.”

“Oh, I’m no stranger,” Paulina said, laughing. “Do you know Abigail Cole?”

The girl’s eyebrows lifted. “Why do you ask?”

“My daughter,” Paulina said, shrugging. “Surprise visit.”

Suddenly the girl smiled, enthusiasm radiating from her. It took Paulina by surprise. “No way!” the girl nearly shrieked. “I’m Pam. I’ve asked Abby so many times about her family and, well, I guess you know what she’s like.

When she decides to clam up, no crowbar in the world can get her talking.”

“That’s Abby,” Paulina said. “So you know her?”

“Know her?” Pam asked, somewhat surprised. “Hasn’t she mentioned…”

“We don’t talk much.”

“Oh. Because we’ve been…I don’t know, seeing each other.”

“Really,” Paulina said.

Pam nodded, hesitating before she spoke. “But I guess

Abby didn’t tell you.”

“Must have slipped her mind.”

“Here,” the girl said, opening the inner door and holding it for Paulina. “Sorry to keep you.”

“She’s in room three-oh-three, right?”

“She might be.”

“Might be?”

The girl began to look nervous. She brought a finger to her lip and began to chew. “She’s kind of been hanging out at my place. Just for the last few weeks.”

“Is she there now?”

“Probably. She doesn’t have psych until three.”

“Do you mind then?” Paulina said, pointing toward the elevator bank.

“Oh, we’re on the first floor. Follow me.”

The girl led Paulina down the corridor, filled with campus notices, posters and random detritus. When they arrived at room three-nineteen, the girl knocked.

“Abby, are you decent?” she asked.

Before the door could open, a voice from inside called cheekily, “I don’t have to be.”

“Abby, open up,” Pam said.

“All right, don’t get your panties knotted.” Paulina heard a latch being undone from inside, and the door opened. Standing in the doorway was a girl Paulina both recognized and did not. Those green eyes, that long, equine nose she got from her father, she’d recognize those traits anywhere. But the jet-black hair, the nose ring, the thick eyeliner-it nearly obscured the girl Paulina had raised all those years ago.

“Hi, Abby,” Paulina said.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” came her daughter’s startled reply.

Morgan stood outside of his apartment, his cheeks still stinging from that morning’s shave. It was a good pain, though, one that reminded him of what it felt like to wake up with a purpose, to wake up knowing that the day would take him somewhere. Shaving wasn’t a big deal on the surface. Lots of people liked scruffiness, women especially these days, as though there was a magnetism to the inherent laziness of it. Morgan loved the feel of running a sharp blade over his face during a hot shower, the feel of patting his skin after drying off. He knew that whenever he felt like that, things would go his way. A big paycheck. Some honey who knew he brought home the money whereas that bearded artist who spent every penny he owed on cheap paints and canvas could not.

Cleanliness. Right next to godliness. Perhaps somewhere in that equation was Morgan Isaacs.

He didn’t dare bring a cup of coffee with him, or anything more than his wallet and keys. He had no idea what this guy Chester wanted, this guy with the hair so blond it nearly disappeared in the sunlight. He didn’t look like he belonged in New York, this guy. His ear-length blond hair and lanky but strong build reminded him of a pro surfer, maybe one of those guys you saw pumping iron on Venice Beach. Someone who took care of their body for a reason. Not a gym rat like most New Yorkers, but someone whose vocation required it.

The day was crisp, the streets quiet after rush hour.

Morgan wondered why Chester wanted to meet at one, such an odd time. Something about the whole deal smelled not quite right, but Ken Tsang was nothing if not a bloodhound for straight-up cash, so if he ended up working with this guy there had to be money involved.

Just when he was thinking about what kind of payday could be involved, a shiny black Lincoln Town Car pulled up right in front of Morgan, the tires screeching to a halt.