Page 136 of The Session

Mark was amazed at the ease with which Morris could chat with him even as he surely wanted Mark dead.

“Max and Arnold built something bigger than them,” Morris said. “They were smart. They realized early on, the problem with a cult is you’ve got to spend all your time hanging out with people who fall for cults. Which gets boring quickly.”

“You don’t think Summit Strategies is a cult?”

“People forget, in the 1980s, when the Japanese were kicking our asses in the automotive industry, the news would show us video of their factories with all the employees lined up in jumpsuits doing calisthenics and jumping jacks together, shouting company songs and slogans. Is that a cult? Maybe. Did it work? Absolutely. The difference was they weren’t worshipping some alien in a volcano. Their idol was the bottom line.” Morris slapped him on the shoulder. “Enjoy the party, kid. Don’t worry if you can’t close. There’s a big future here for you. No matter what happens.”

“Thanks,” Mark said.

After Morris walked away, Mark left the table and headed toward the beach, his pulse still racing.

How much did Morris know? Had he betrayed himself by revealing a tell to him? He needed to put some distance between them, then get back to Kevin’s phone.

He walked away from the noise and toward the sound of the ocean. There were tiki torches lined along a pathway that led to a moonlit beach where wooden chairs and tables were set.

Mark noticed a trunk with sporting equipment and found a Nerf football.

He spotted a trash can fifty feet away, cocked the ball back, and threw it. It sailed through the air, spinning, hit the inner rim, then bounced back up and landed in the grass.

Mark walked over to the ball, picked it up, and returned to his original position. He threw it again. This time it hit the front of the can and skidded across the sand.

“Twenty bucks says you don’t make the next one,” a voice called out from behind him.

“Make it a hundred and you got a deal,” Mark replied without looking.

It had been ages since Mark had thrown a Nerf football. The first two throws were him trying to figure out how much strength it needed and the direction of the wind.

This was his happy place.

He cocked his arm back again, sent the ball flying, this time higher in an arc, and it dropped into the can with a clang.

“Will ya take a check?”

Mark turned around and saw his father standing at the edge of the path that led to the beach.

“How did it go with Morris in Eleuthera?” Lightman asked.

“Just more questions,” Mark replied.

He desperately wanted to tell his father that he’d gone from suspecting Kevin was murdered to knowing Nathan Morris had a hand in it.

“Yeah, I feel the same way. It didn’t make sense, but then every grieving father thinks that. I started coming up with conspiracy theories. Maybe Kevin pissed off a drug dealer. Maybe one of my enemies wanted to hurt me. Your mind goes places,” Lightman said.

“It’s understandable,” Mark said, then walked over to the trash can to retrieve the football.

“Catch,” he added as he gently tossed the ball to his father.

Max Lightman caught the ball and stared at it for a moment, then did an underhand toss back to Mark.

Mark stepped a few feet backward and returned it.

“Did you and Kevin talk much?” he asked.

“Not as much as we should have. Maybe I should have listened more. Kevin was great—but it got exhausting after a while.” Max shook his head. “That was a terrible thing for me to say.”

“Everyone can be that way. Even my mom,” Mark said.

“Yes. She could. But Carol didn’t stay that way for long,” Max replied.