Page 3 of The Session

Tru nodded toward a younger man about Mark’s age in a sharp suit, his eyes on his phone as he scrolled through a feed.

“This is Blaise Cutler. He’s observing,” Tru noted. “And over here we have Mr. Kincaid, who has kindly offered to sit in on this today,” she added.

Kincaid stood and offered Mark his hand. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties and wore a rumpled suit, like a lawyer late to court. “Nice to meet you.” He smiled and looked Mark straight in the eyes.

Blaise looked up, seeming to realize his name had been mentioned, stared at Mark for a moment, then blurted, “Holy crap! I mean, hey! Nice to meet you. I’m Blaise.”

Morris closed his laptop and finally looked up at Mark. He paused for a long moment, then turned to Tru.

“I’m sorry—catch me up on this meeting. I’m a little bit behind.”

“This is the meeting for the Atlantic Amateur Athletic Association,” Tru explained. “I put it in your calendar.”

“The nonprofit?” Morris asked.

“Yes. Mark wanted to talk to us about a grant,” Tru replied.

“Hold on, Mark. Give me a second. The athletic association—that’s still active?” Morris asked.

“Still registered. Still money in the bank account,” Tru affirmed.

“I don’t think we’re in a position to award grants,” Morris said.

“I’m not asking,” said Mark. “I’m here to return a grant.”

“Return?” Morris echoed. “I’m just catching up. Could you tell me how you heard about us?”

Mark straightened his posture. “Oh, sure. I got your letter about the college athletic scholarship. Which I appreciate, but I graduated four years ago.”

Morris looked at Tru, then back to Mark. “Scholarship?”

“Yes. It came with a check for $500. It said that I qualified because of my high school sports achievements. I don’t remember applying, so I assume someone applied on my behalf and the check got lost somehow. I guess these things happen.” Mark looked to the others and shrugged.

“Huh,” Morris murmured. “Do you have a copy of the letter?” He quickly added, “I’d like to see why it took so long to get to you.”

“Yes. Right here.” Mark leaned to the side of his chair and reached into his backpack. He pulled out a manila folder, removed the letter, and slid it across the table to Morris.

The older man examined it for a moment, then passed it to Tru. There was no personal signature—just a short paragraph congratulating Mark. There was no date either.

“Maybe someone in accounting?” Tru suggested.

“Perhaps. It could have been a misidentified disbursement,” Morris mused.

“Here’s the check too.” Mark handed it across the table. “It didn’t seem right to cash it.”

“Where did you end up going to college?” Tru asked.

“Fort Valley. It’s a small state school in Georgia. I was able to go there while I worked as an EMT and then a paramedic,” Mark explained.

“Is that what you do now?” Morris asked.

“Yes. But I’m also interviewing for a coaching job at Florida Atlantic College. That’s the other reason I came to Miami. Right now I work for my stepfather’s family company. They operate ambulance and medical services in two counties.”

“Interesting. I bet you’ve seen a lot of crazy things,” Tru remarked.

“A few. My stepfather has all the really crazy stories,” Mark told her.

“Like what?” Kincaid asked.