The night wind ruffled Alex's hair as he stared out into the darkness, calculating every next move.
Morris stood alone in his dimly lit study, the empty glass trembling in his hand. The fire in the hearth flickered, casting shadows across his worn face. Alex's words gnawed at him… Jean… hiding Emma? Why would she do that?
Yet guilt and fear twisted tighter than reason. Emma was gone. And if Jean had taken her… what could she be planning?
He opened the drawer of his mahogany desk, pulling out a worn leather-bound address book. His thumb hovered over a name… Someone he'd sworn never to call again.
His mouth was dry as he picked up the phone and dialed.
The line clicked alive.
"Yeah?" a raspy voice answered, familiar yet distant with years.
"It's Morris Adams," He croaked, voice low and hoarse.
A pause. Then a chuckle.
"Well, well. Didn't think you'd call again. What do you need?"
Morris swallowed. His pride, his guilt, everything. "My daughter. Emma. She's missing."
