My phone rings, displaying a number I don’t recognize. I answer.
“Madison?” There’s a pause. “It’s Josephine. Cooper gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Everything all right?”
“Just fine. I’m calling because I wanted to pass along the names of the event planners I told you about. Cooper has given me strict orders not to intrude, so I’ll entrust you to make arrangements.” There’s a pause, as though she expects me to say something. I don’t. She reads off the names and I write them down. “However, I would mention my name. It might help with their sense of urgency. And, of course, my feelings won’t be hurt if you decide to look elsewhere. Although I can assure you the names on this list will help you plan a beautiful wedding.”
“Thank you, Josephine,” I say, turning in an ineffective attempt to gain privacy from Coop. “I’d also like to apologize for the way I took off earlier. I had such a lovely time shopping with you, and you’ve been so kind—”
“It’s all right, dear,” she says, interrupting my ramblings. “After speaking with Regina, it’s quite understandable why you were so upset.” So, Regina told her mother about our conversation, or maybe just that one part? I’m not sure if it helps or hurts that she knows what Bridgette said.
“Again, I had a great time today.” Josephine and I are still in that awkward phase where we have yet to build a bond of our own. I want her to like me, and I already sense that, at least in her mind, I’m a fitting daughter-in-law, unlike Regina who seems to reject her mother’s influence.
“Living in Whisper Falls requires some adjustments,” she says. “I only wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Thank you.”
Turning back, I see Coop is standing by the fireplace. His anxiety from earlier seems to have eased. I hope we’ve moved past this hurdle. That our conversation today was a necessary step in better finding our place here. Today has tested us, put salt on his old sores. People forget that salt on a wound, however painful, can promote healing. Nothing is ever truly resolved when left untreated. Nothing is ever truly overcome when left ignored.
Fourteen
Madison
For the rest of the weekend, it feels like we’re getting back to normal, getting back to us. In many ways, Bridgette’s comment gave me more insight into Coop. It made me understand why Regina is so vindictive toward those around her. The relationship between the Douglases and this town is a complicated one. At least now I have a better understanding why. They’ve given so much to this place. They’ve supported its people and their businesses, only to be rewarded with rumors and accusations.
I’m determined to move forward. I don’t want to inherit Regina’s bitterness or Coop’s shame. I’ll find my footing in Whisper Falls, despite how foreign it feels. The first step in all that is the wedding. Major details, like the location and dress and date, have already been decided upon and booked. We agreed it would be easier to finalize the finishing touches (the flowers and decorations and caterer) once we’d moved. On Monday, I call the event planners Josephine suggested and arrange a series of one-hour consultations, in hopes of finding someone to help me juggle the remaining tasks.
I spend the rest of the week unpacking and making room for our new furniture. By Thursday, I drive to Whisper Falls Park for a mid-morning run. Maybe I’ll be one of those housewives who picks up jogging. I’d prefer yoga or Pilates, but they don’t offer any classes here. I already checked.
I can see the whole park in its entirety. It’s almost empty, save a mother and her children on the swings and a woman sitting alone on a bench. There’s a white and blue playground in the center of the running track. I start jogging, knowing the sooner I elevate my heart rate, the less I’ll feel the early morning chill lingering in the air. Like everything else in Whisper, this workout is different. I’m used to weaving through crowds on narrow sidewalks, music blaring from my earbuds. I’m not even listening to music, instead taking in the unique melody of the crunching leaves, a little girl’s laughter in the distance and my own breathing.
As I start my third round, my body begins to sweat. I’m getting faster, puffing out all the frustrations I’ve attempted to ignore since the move. All the anger I have toward myself for having to leave. All the lingering questions I have about Celia Gray and her death. A strong gust of wind unsettles a bundle of leaves, blowing them into my path. Along with them come a few pieces of notebook paper. I look to my left and see the woman by the bench scrambling.
I grab the papers swirling nearby. “Are these yours?” I shout.
The woman turns, holding papers in one hand and brushing back her brown, shoulder-length hair with the other. She’s about my age and wears a puffy olive coat. “I guess that’s what I get for trying to do work outside.”
I approach the bench, offering the documents I recovered. “Hopefully you aren’t missing anything important.”
“Thanks. I’ll sort it out later. Writers fare better when they stick to a desk.” She smiles. There’s a small stud piercing her left nostril.
“Do you work for the Gazette?”
She laughs. “No, but I can’t blame you for asking. It’s the only paper we have around here. My stuff is a little more offbeat. It’s a blog, really, but I like to think I start reporting where the Gazette leaves off.”
“I’ll check it out. What’s the name?”
“The Falls Report,” she says, sorting her papers. The name triggers a memory.
“I remember seeing a flyer about that at Nectar.”
Another laugh. “I guess I’ll take advertisements where I can get them.” She holds out her hand and shakes mine firmly. “Bailey Bloom.”
“Madison Sharpe,” I say, matching her grip. “I’m new to Whisper.”
There’s a brief look of recognition, then she smiles. “You’re Cooper Douglas’ fiancée, right?”
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being labeled as that. Like my only purpose exists through Coop. “That’s right.”
She sits on the bench. “You should know all about the Gazette then.”
I sit beside her messy stack of papers. “I’m actually a former journalist myself.”
“Oh yeah? Which paper?”
I tell her and see her eyes light up. That’s what I’m used to being known for, the gritty writer at the famous paper. I miss being that girl. “Of course, I’m not doing that now,” I say. “Coop started running the Gazette, so we moved here.”
She nods, not saying anything. She’s scanning something on her laptop, then slams it shut. “Well, I wish I could say you’ve made a wise decision in moving, but I’m sure you’ve figured out there’s not much to do here.”
“It’s very different from the city.”
“Call it like it is. There’s no opportunity in this town. Barely any culture, which is part of the reason I started The Falls Report. I wanted to offer something that wasn’t funneled through the great Douglas machine.” She stops, clearly wondering if she’s offended me.
“I think that’s great,” I say. I’m certainly not going to fault the woman for trying to usher reluctant Whisper residents into the new century. And she’s right about the Douglas reach. They own the town’s best restaurant, produce its news source, sponsor its sports—all of it coming from the same family with the fancy house by the lake. I’m joining that clan, and yet a part of me will always feel like I don’t belong.
“When did you stop writing?” Bailey asks. “I’d love to look up some of your old articles.”
“It’s been a few months, but it feels longer.” I look down and pull the sleeves of my shirt. “I miss writing sometimes. Nothing like chasing a story.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Why don’t you have that fancy husband of yours get you a job at the Gazette?”
“Nepotism.” I shake my head and roll my eyes. Coop and I have had this conversation a dozen times. His staff is limited. He can’t bump someone out for t
he sake of creating me a position, not that I’d expect him to. The Gazette doesn’t have a high turnover rate, so it’s hard to say when I’ll return to the newsroom. Hopefully my former scandal will have subsided by then.
“I’m sure things will turn around.” She hoists her bag over her shoulder, misplaced papers peeping from the top. “Life’s not hard when you’re a Douglas. You’ll see.”
By now, my pulse has stabilized, and I no longer feel like running. Bailey walks away, leaving me alone on the park bench. She’s the first person I’ve met with whom I could see sparking a friendship. She’s a writer, wanting to track down stories and make people listen. I used to be like that, until I messed it all up.
My job at the Chronicle was the type of position undergrads dream about snatching after graduation. It didn’t come easy, either. I put in time making coffees and running errands. I proofread copy until my eyes stung, but I never complained. I never came in late and never argued about working a little later. Slowly, I started getting more and more assignments. I became one of the youngest staff writers at the Chronicle. Soon after, Coop and I started dating. Eighteen months later, we were engaged. I had my city, my man and my paycheck. I was living the dream.
The ‘Chrissy’ feature had been live three days when my editor, Bill, called me into his office. He said questions had been raised about the authenticity of ‘Chrissy’s’ claims. Nothing unexpected given the controversial subject matter. I provided him the same information she gave me: old check stubs, photographs and the names of former co-workers.
Another two days passed before I was called into the office again; Bill explained our fact-checker had found further discrepancies. They couldn’t confirm ‘Chrissy’ had ever worked for Bernard Wright or any of his businesses. They couldn’t even confirm she’d attended college. It wasn’t just parts of her story that weren’t lining up—nothing she’d told me checked out. Her only connection to the Bernard Wright enterprise was that she once applied to work as a hostess in one of his restaurants and was denied. Everything she’d told me was a lie, and she’d taken extra measures to fabricate documents.
Bill called me into his office for a third time. “You’ve put us in a tough position, Madison,” he said, scratching his gray mustache.
“We’ll run a retraction,” I said, still convinced we’d be able to fix the situation. “The information she gave me checked out at the time. I believed her story.”
“We’re not the only ones fact-checking what you wrote,” he said, flapping the paper on his desk. “Bernard Wright’s defense team is using this to prove these women have a vendetta against their client.”
I closed my eyes to try and shake the nausea. That’s when I understood. Wright’s defense team planted this trap, a last-ditch effort to improve their client’s image, and I fell for it. “Just because ‘Chrissy’ fed me a fake story doesn’t mean these other women are lying.”
“I know,” he said, defeated. “But it raises doubt. It hurts their case.”
My intent had been to help them. Selfishly, I wanted to benefit myself, too. I wanted that promotion, which is why I was less vigilant about triple-checking everything ‘Chrissy’ provided. I believed her. I trusted her.
“I can do something to help. I can write a series on how rare it is for women to false report. Or talk to some of Wright’s other accusers. I can do something.”
“Madison,” he said, his voice stern and deep. “A retraction won’t be enough. We’re going to have to let you go.”
“This is the only mistake I’ve ever made—”
“It was a big one.” He looked away, clearly bothered by his decision, though convinced it was necessary. “You’re a good reporter. Give it some time, and you’ll still have a career. You can even use me as a reference.”
“I don’t want a reference! I want my job here. I want a second chance.”
“I can’t give you that right now.” His face softened, as he tried to make the situation appear better than it was. “Go live your life. Plan your wedding. Learn from this, and you’ll be better next time.”
I think about that conversation all the time. I think about ‘Chrissy’ and the other women I damaged by writing that story in the first place. Mistakes cast ripples; they penetrate your surface, the life you thought you had, and expand onward from there. I didn’t just ruin my own future. I jeopardized the women who spoke out against Bernard Wright and endangered the women he might encounter moving forward. My restless desire to lock down a story potentially unleashed a dangerous person into the world.
I messed up. Admitting to what I’d done was difficult. Coop was beyond supportive. I’d already accepted his proposal, but if I hadn’t, his reaction solidified my desire to spend the rest of our lives together. He didn’t blame me or point fingers; he kept me from doing those things to myself. Sometimes I wonder if he’d be as quick to forgive a member of his own staff for the same mistake. Regardless, he saw past my worst moment and loved me anyway. That’s what we all need in life. People who choose to see the best in us, even when confronted by our worst.
Outsiders aren’t as understanding, which is why I avoid telling the truth about my termination. Sympathy is granted sparingly; it’s typically reserved for forms of tragedy. An unpreventable illness. An unprovoked crime. We forget most people are the source of their own unhappiness. When you’re the cause of your hardships, people are less willing to forgive. I’d rather be seen as the doe-eyed wife-to-be. Even she’s less foolish than I feel.
Fifteen
Last night, I struggled to sleep. After I returned from my run, I made sure the house was in order for the potential wedding planners I’m meeting today. Coop and I drank wine after dinner, and I drifted to sleep with images of bouquets and dresses and hors d’oeuvres dancing in my head.
Halfway through the night, I awoke from a horrible dream. It was summer. Coop and I were in a boat—I can only assume on Whisper Lake—sprawled across the deck. We stripped off our suits, and took turns dipping into the icy waters. I was smiling and happy and free. On my last plunge, I stayed under the water, a cluster of air bubbles percolating near my ears. When I swam to the surface, something grabbed my feet, pulling me. It all felt so real. Within seconds, my emotions sprang from delight to confusion, then terror. I don’t know what it was—who it was—pulling me downward, but I couldn’t break free. It was dark when I woke up, sweating and panting. Coop slept peacefully beside me, but I was unable to fall back asleep.
After sunrise, I tiptoe downstairs and start the coffee machine. I’m determined to make this day a good one; the wedding consultants will be stopping by this afternoon. I want to spend the day organizing our ceremony and reception, but that’s difficult to do when the chill from my nightmare lingers.
It’s more than the bad dream. If anything, I’m angry these lies have been orbiting around Coop for the past thirteen years. There’s something about this Celia story that doesn’t fit, a piece that’s missing. I get the urge to do something I haven’t done in ages. I flip open my laptop and type in the name: Celia Gray. Of course, I’ve done this before. It’s my nature to investigate, but I’ve tried to be different with Coop. That’s why I’ve not pushed as much as I should. I love him. More important than that, I trust him. But I feel different now that I’m here, so far away from my usual comforts.
In the past when I searched Celia’s name, little comes up. Since her death, most media outlets have transitioned to online forums, even the Gazette. Many articles were lost in the transfer, including the ones written about Celia. There were a couple articles about her body being found, but little else. Today when I type in the name Celia Gray, a recent link appears. It’s an article that was written only two days ago on The Falls Report. I rack my brain, trying to figure out why it sounds familiar. I realize this is Bailey’s website, the woman I met in the park.
Scrolling through the archives, I see Bailey likes to write about the town’s history. She has a series devoted to the old railway sys
tem that used to be based here. She also has reviews of different Whisper Falls restaurants. I return to the article that first brought me to the site. It’s titled, “Guess Who’s Back in Whisper…”
Howdy, Whisperers. Those of you who still subscribe to the local brainwash paper might have recognized a noticeable change to the masthead. That’s right. Following his predecessor’s retirement, Cooper Douglas has finally taken over as editor-in-chief of the Whisper Falls Gazette.
As many of you know, the Douglas family has owned the newspaper for generations. After graduating with his master’s degree in communication (I’ll let you sift through the irony on that one), Douglas spent several years interning at some of the most notable publications across the southeast. He’s brought this expertise back to Whisper Falls and, when asked for comment, said, “I hope to carry on the great legacy of community and history the Whisper Falls Gazette has been entrusted to uphold.”
Cooper is the second son of community benefactor Josephine Douglas and the late Ryan Douglas. Josephine’s great-grandfather started the Gazette back in the 1920s. The success of the Gazette led to several other regional newspapers and amassed a great fortune for the family.
For those of you who don’t remember, our local royals played a unique role in one of Whisper Fall’s greatest mysteries: the death of Celia Gray.
I sit back, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. My stomach turns as I read her name over and over again.
At the time of Celia’s disappearance, a multitude of rumors swirled, cementing her status as a cautionary tale for generations to come. As I’m sure you know, Celia’s body was found in the lake ten days after she was reported missing. The discovery answered the question Where?, but the condition of her body raised more. Particularly How? and Why?
The One Before: A totally gripping suspense thriller with a shocking twist Page 7