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Against the back wall sits a king size sleigh bed with weathered, natural wood head and foot boards. I turn to find Thea smirking like the Cheshire Cat, overly pleased with herself, and deservedly so. She smiles up at me, waiting for the praise she has no doubt she's owed. I muss her hair, which she hates, but I love her grump-face as she sets her red curls back in place, not that they end up any less wild after she fixes it.

"It's perfect, Thee," I finally concede. Her grin grows and she holds up her palm for our signature high five, which I give her with an eye roll of my own.

We make our way through the rest of the apartment more slowly, and I let her go on about the vendors and designers she selected, and the flatware and china in the kitchen, until she finally notices the snide look on my face. But she only smiles wryly all over again, because we both know I'm full of shit, faking my disinterest.

Do I have an inherent interest in these things? No. Certainly not. But I want to be an hotelier one day myself, which we both know very well, and so I take in everything from the interior design to the stemware, considering what would be both chic and neutral, ideal for a trendy boutique hotel.

We talk about her father's upcoming project and how excited we both are to be involved. Thea will get to help with the finishes and decor, and in doing so will be working closely with one of the world's top interior designers in the hospitality industry. Another opportunity no college freshman deserves, and we are both insanely grateful and eager to be a part of it.

When we're done touring our finished apartment, and commiserating over the ridiculousness of living in such a lavish place when our peers will be in tiny freshman dorms, I walk Thea east where she'll meet her mom at Bergdorf Goodman, and then I head down to Fifty Fifth and Madison.

I don't even need to think where I'm headed. My legs know the direction from muscle memory. I've walked it hundreds of times. Came here all the time as a kid. Any day we had off from school, weekends my dad worked through, sometimes even after school when he worked late.

I liked him at work. He didn't drink there. And he was the best version of himself. The one who had a sincere interest in my day, who bragged about my academic and athletic achievements to colleagues, who occasionally even cared what I thought.

When he drank it was almost as if he was a completely different person. And there was nothing likeable about that man. It's honestly part of the reason I was relieved that he asked to meet at his office, during a workday. It's not that I think he'd lay a hand on me now, but the violence wasn't the only reason I couldn't stand that version of my dad.

That person was thoughtless and cruel. He didn't give a shit about the people around him, least of all his family.

I walk briskly, though every cell in my body wants to delay. I'm not looking forward to this meeting, though I am looking forward to what I hope it will accomplish, and I can only pray that at the end of the upcoming hour, Rory will be a little closer to safety, if unknowingly so.

I head into the sprawling marble lobby and check in with security. They scan my ID, have me step in front of the desk-mounted camera, and in less than a minute I'm handed a Visitor's sticker with a black and white pixelated photo of my face, as well as Mason, Goldberg, & Caplan—45th Floor, printed across the front. I fold it over and shove it into my pocket, and head through the security turnstile.

The call button for the elevator is already lit, and I barely wait a few seconds before I shuffle into one of the eight cars along with the six or so other suits, both male and female, who thin out as they disembark on the multiple stops.

I'm the only one left when I exit on one of the three floors that houses my father's law firm. I've rarely ever exited here, on the main reception floor—I've always headed straight up to 47 where his private assistant, Sue, sits like a sentinel at his reception desk, managing his appointments and ushering clients.

I don't know the receptionist at the main desk. She's either been hired in the past five years or I just never had occasion to meet her. But then again, there's nothing memorable about her either, so it's possible I've met her in passing. She's one of those people who are just plain. Not plain as in ugly, just literally plain. Short, mousy brown hair, eyes so bland you wouldn't even recall their color unless you were looking directly at her, and indeterminably middle-aged. She could be in her forties or fifties, and something tells me she's looked this way for decades.

She smiles in recognition as soon as I tell her my name, and her demeanor shifts from that of a poised professional to borderline sycophantic.

It's so nice to finally meet you, Mr. Caplan! Can I get you anything? Some coffee? Tea? You look just like your father! Such a pleasure to have you here!

I force a faint smile and nod vaguely, decline her offer of refreshments, and I forget her name before she even tells me that my father is expecting me and I can head right up.

Now Sue was a different story. Ageless in the precise opposite way, with flawless skin as dark as night, so wrinkle-free that if you told me she was a vampire I would probably believe you. Her hair was ever changing, with a new style or wig almost monthly, and a warmth and sincerity in her deep brown eyes that elicited a rare kind of comfort and ease. It was her smile that stood out the most, though. Freely offered and big enough to take up half her face, it's one of those smiles that was just inherently contagious.

She's tall as a tree, and though sweet as she could be, she had a strength about her that inexorably drew me to her as a kid. In retrospect, it probably had something to do with the contrast with how I saw my mother—weak, fragile… a victim. Though I know now how incredibly unfair that was. That, in fact, my mother is one of the strongest women I've ever known—a mother who thrust herself into alcohol-fueled, raging fists so that they would not land on me instead, and I inwardly reproach my younger self for seeing things in such childish way, even if I was only a child then, after all.

It makes me think of Rory, of how she sees herself as weak despite the fact that she embodies a courage and fortitude one would never expect in an eighteen-year-old girl. Or most grown men, for that matter. Especially considering everything she's been through.

I smile inwardly. Sue would love Rory, I'm sure of it. And I bet Rory would like her right back.

She isn't at her post when I arrive in my father's office suite, and I take a moment to look around. Nostalgia floods my bones and it's both wistful and eerie. The decor has been updated, but it's all very much as I remember it. I suspect Sue is either fetching something for my father, or in the restroom. Otherwise she would be sitting in her usual place, another fixture, in my mind more permanent to this office than the furniture itself.

She was another reason I usually enjoyed the many hours I spent in my father's office as a child. When he was busy or with a client I would sit out here right on the floor, coloring at the coffee table, or as I got older, doing homework or studying. Sue was perfect company, busy with her own tasks, but available for conversation, with a supernatural intuition that always seemed to know whether or not I was in a talking mood. Maybe she really is a vampire.

But it was her manner with my father that I found most appealing. Sue is the one person that never took his bullshit, that called him out on his arrogance, and had the audacity to crack jokes at his expense. And as the most diligent, efficient executive assistant in Manhattan—my father's words—he was happy to put up with it. I think he even enjoyed it. In fact, if I wasn't fully aware that Sue preferred women and had been committed to her now-wife since before she even started at Mason, Goldberg, & Caplan, I would have suspected they were having an affair. After all, she's nothing if not beautiful.

"Sammy Boy!" Sue exclaims from behind me, and my lips automatically slip into a small grin. The familiarity of her exuberance is strangely comforting.

I turn into her embrace and am immediately struck by how small she seems. She looks no different from the last time I saw her. It's me that's changed. Sue no longer seems like the Amazon Queen I remember, but just a tall, beautiful, if still completely ageless, woman. I now tower above her by all of two inches.

"My God, boy, I never thought I'd see the day you were taller than me!"

I chuckle lightly, I was thinking the exact same thing, and I tell her so.

Her hair is done in small, spring-like curls, slicked back into a poofy ponytail. It's actually a fairly tame look for her.

She motions for me to have a seat on the sofa, and makes to join me.

"How are you? How's Lillian?" I ask her.

"Oh, fine, fine," she replies flippantly, tossing her giant, funkily manicured hand in the air as if how she and her wife have been is of little interest. "We're the same, just a few years older, it's
you
who's barely recognizable!
Jesus
, just look at you." She pats my cheek playfully. "And about to enter Columbia. You're gonna slay those poor little coed hearts." She squeezes my bicep, her massive hand making it look smaller than I'd like, but her expression tells me she finds it impressive, or at least she's flattering me. "I bet you're doing it already, aren't you? If I look out the window am I going to see a mob of crazy teenaged fans holding up posters and waiting for a glimpse?"

I shake my head at her in amusement. She's always been like this. Telling me how handsome I am and that I better be careful or some poor girl's dad was going to come after me for my supposed future heartbreaking ways. But the recollection of those regularly repeated warnings drains my mirth.

Because I know that's how it's supposed to be. Fathers are supposed to protect their daughters, even from the imagined threat of a boy pursuing her. But not for Rory. For Rory, the threat was far from imagined, and it was her whom her father went after.

I'm reminded why I'm here, and there's nothing amusing or playful about it.

"Not exactly, Sue," I finally reply. "Is my father with a client?" I feel badly for being brusque with her. Another time, I would love to catch up with her, honestly. But right now, I'm too determined by my task, and I can't handle distractions.

"No, young man. He's waiting patiently for your arrival. A little irritably, too—he has a lunch date he doesn't want to be late for. But it's when he's like this that I just love making him wait an extra bit." She smirks, and I can't help but return it.
God
would I love to help her get my father riled up right now, but that would be counterproductive, and it's just not the time. I stand up.

"I'm sorry, Sue. But I really need to speak with him. I don't have a lot of time either," I tell her. It's bullshit of course. I have no other plans until this evening, but if he needs to be out of here by lunch, then he'll be out of here by lunch, whether we're through or not, and I don't want our meeting cut short.

A vague look of suspicion flashes in her eyes, before she professionally tucks it away, hiding it behind her amiable smile. She nods toward my father's closed office door. "Then go on in, Sammy Boy."

I nod and thank her, and head down the short corridor. I pause with my hand on the knob, hesitating, before taking a deep, determined breath, and twisting it open.

My father's head shoots up, either actually startled or just finding my presence startling. I swallow my nerves, they have no place here, not now.

"Mitch," I say in greeting, wishing my voice came out a bit more steady. He stands up, blinking as he looks me over, and for the first time in my life, we are at the same eye-level.

"You're so tall," is the first thing he says, before shaking his head to himself as if to rid it of his somewhat stunned state.

"No taller than you," I murmur. He nods and motions for me to sit in one of the club guest chairs, and I make myself as comfortable as I could possibly be in front of this stranger I barely know anymore, and wish I never knew as a child.

Neither of us speaks for long moments and I let him take his time as he looks me over as if I'm some kind of curiosity. Eventually his neck sags, his eyes drop to his desk, and his fingers reach for his forehead, rubbing his temples in a stress mannerism I recognize as one of my own.

Finally my father meets my gaze, serious as I've ever seen him. Still, I stay quiet. I'm certain he has something he wants to say, and I can only hope it isn't something that's going to end this meeting before it even begins.

"Look, Samm—
Sam
. I owe you an apology."

Not what I expected
. My expression slips into one of sardonic disbelief before I can control it.

My father sighs. "Okay, more than one," he concedes.

My brow furrows and I blink at him, allowing my look to ask the question I can't quite articulate.

"I've read through your friend's case files. And I've spoken with the sheriff down there. In her hometown, I mean, and…" He trails off, his eyes close briefly and he shakes his head before he looks back at me. "I'm sorry that I—"

"You saw the photos." I interrupt him as soon as I realize what was responsible for his complete about-face in attitude.

Rory told me about the pictures of her injuries her friend Cam took on his phone while she was asleep. Which may sound creepy, but is the exact thing I would have done. I may never meet the kid, but I know he was trying to help her the same way I'm trying to do now. My father must have seen them in the police files. And the ones taken of her in the hospital.