It Ends Here

by Willow Rose

  "Now, you can leave,” the manager said as a young couple entered, looking shiny and full of money.

  "I’m a paying customer,” she said and chewed. "I’m entitled to be here. Afterward, I'll need to use your restroom too."

  The manager was about to protest but knew he couldn't. He sighed instead and left her with a growl. The young couple looked at the magazines by the counter, then grabbed one and paid for it.

  The woman chewed while watching them buy sodas and candy. She watched a wallet go back into a back pocket. Just in the right place to be picked.

  The woman grinned to herself when her eyes fell on the magazine the woman was now holding in her hands. Then, she froze.

  That picture on the front cover!

  She rushed to the magazines and grabbed one for herself, flipping through the pages until she found the article.

  "Hey, you have to pay for that if you want to read it,” the manager yelled at her. “This isn’t a library, you know.”

  But the woman didn't move. She kept reading the article, word for word, and then she placed her finger on the byline and the small picture next to it, "Rebekka Franck," she mumbled to herself, grinning widely. Then she ripped out a page of the article while the manager yelled at her.

  "HEY!"

  The manager pulled the magazine out of her hands and then told her to leave. The woman smiled at him, then rushed toward the sliding doors, the ripped-out page clutched in her hand, thinking she was going to be back as soon as she had found this woman. And by then, the manager would have to take a much nicer tone with her because she intended to come back rich.

  28

  She hadn't been able to write a single sentence for days. Margot Addington wasn't feeling well. She wasn't sleeping, and she was hardly eating. She was worried about the article coming out. What kind of picture had the reporter painted of her? Would she be able to recognize herself?

  "Your tea is getting cold, honey. You haven’t even touched it."

  Margot jumped at the sound of her husband's voice. She looked down at the teacup sitting on the table in front of her. The tea bag was still in it, the small string hanging from the side. It wasn't steaming anymore. It wasn't even warm to the touch. How long had she been sitting there?

  "Have you been sitting there all day?" Theodore asked. "You were in that exact same spot when I left this morning. You haven't even cleaned up after breakfast. You usually always do that. Are you sick?"

  Theodore felt her forehead. "You don't have a fever, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t sick."

  Margot smiled. "I'm fine. I just have a lot on my mind. I'll clean up later."

  He sighed and sat down. "What's going on with you? Is it still that silly interview? I told you it doesn’t matter what they write. We don’t have to care."

  Margot cleared her throat. She wanted to speak, but no words left her lips, simply because she didn't really know what to say. Fact was, she felt terrified. That was why she never did interviews. She knew she should never have done this one either, that it would end up torturing her. She should have listened to her intuition.

  He placed his hand on top of hers and squeezed it. "I’m sure it'll be fine. You said that the reporter seemed nice, right?"

  The front door slammed shut, and Minna came rushing in, holding a magazine in her hand.

  "Got it!"

  She threw it casually on the table in front of Margot. Margot gasped when she saw her own picture on the cover. Her own two blue eyes were staring back at her, almost accusingly, like they were saying: You don't belong here. You don't deserve this.

  "I think you look great, Mom," her daughter said. “No, make that awesome. You look like you should be a model.”

  "That is a gorgeous photo," Theodore said. "Don't you think?"

  Margot nodded, unable to speak. She reached out and grabbed the magazine, then opened it, finding the article. She read through it, her heart pounding in her chest as she felt herself being unveiled word by word.

  Then, she breathed in relief. It wasn't too bad. The article was only a third of it; the rest was just pictures. Even though Margot didn't like seeing herself on display like this, she was pleased that the article had been good.

  Theodore put his hand on her shoulder. "I told you there was nothing to worry about."

  Margot smiled for the first time in days. Her shoulders came down, and she felt relaxed.

  "It did come out pretty good, didn't it?"

  "Pretty good?" Minna asked. "I think it's awesome. You look so beautiful. I am really proud to be your daughter right now."

  Margot breathed in. She felt how the relief rushed through her body and made every muscle relax. It wasn't the end of the world after all. She could breathe again now. She could return to her writing again, return to normalcy.

  It was over.

  29

  I was so angry. I drove back to the motel and let myself into my room, my blood boiling. Out of the window, I looked at the water tower with WEBSTER written on the side. What was it with this town that gave me the creeps? Something was very wrong here, I believed; something was completely off. Why were Mark Cunningham and the sheriff both so eager to get rid of me? Why was the sheriff lying? Did Mark Cunningham know that his son didn't die from a fall? Was he in on the lie?

  It would explain why he got mad at me for talking to his wife about the similarities to the death of Timothy Peterson. But it didn't explain why he was in such a rush for his wife to believe it was an accident. What did he gain from that? Had he killed his own son? And Timothy? But he couldn't have been much more than a kid himself back then. What was his deal? Could it be to protect his wife? But why? So she wouldn't know the boy had been killed?

  It made no sense.

  I opened my laptop and went through my notes, then looked at the pictures of the autopsy report I had taken, scrolling through all the pictures of the body lying on the floor. I compared it to the picture from an old newspaper from '79 where they had made a drawing of the way the body had been found.

  Looking at the two of them, I had no doubt. It was exactly the same. They hadn't fallen; they had been placed. And for some reason, the sheriff was covering it up.

  I leaned back in my seat, wondering what I could do with this information. It was all speculation so far. I couldn't really run with what I had found in the autopsy report since it wasn't made public. I couldn't use any of it without having to explain how I got it. I thought for a minute about asking for an interview with the chief medical examiner but then decided against it. He wouldn't be allowed to say much if he was even allowed to meet up with me. I could request to see the autopsy, but the sheriff would probably deny that to me or just make sure it was delayed so much that I would never get it.

  Then what? What could I possibly go after? I had the short interview with Alexander Cunningham's mother, but that was barely news if the boy had just fallen. The paper had said they weren't interested in the angle about the abandoned houses and how they ought to be demolished. It wasn't interesting enough. I had to prove somehow that Alexander was murdered.

  I fiddled with my phone between my fingers, looking out at the town from my window. Cars rushed by on Market Boulevard. No one spoke of Alexander anymore. I hadn't heard anyone talk about him when eating lunch. There had been no flowers placed in front of the old house. Why was this town in such a hurry to forget?

  As long as they believe it's an accident, they can move on. Accidents happen. The boy did something foolish, and it was tragic, yes, but tragedies happen.

  Was that why the sheriff was in such a rush to call it an accident? Because he feared for the town’s reaction?

  I found the copies of the old articles from '79 and read through them. People had been outraged back then, and they had demanded answers. They had gathered in front of the police station once it was revealed that Timothy didn't die by accident. They had demanded that the sheriff stop the killer and make sure it didn’t happen again.

  But my qu
estion was. How was it suddenly revealed that it was no accident? How did they find out?

  I had barely finished the thought when there was a knock on my door. I went to open it, taking in a deep breath first, and peeking through the window to make sure it wasn't Mark Cunningham coming back to make sure I had left and forcing me to when realizing I hadn't.

  It was an old woman in rags. Relieved, I let my shoulders down, then walked to open the door.

  30

  Webster, Florida 1979

  It was a local journalist who made all hell break loose in their town. Until then, everyone had believed little Timothy had simply fallen and hurt himself when playing inside the old abandoned house. They had shaken their heads and called it a tragedy, but one that could have been avoided had the parents only kept a proper eye on the boy.

  But along came a journalist from the local Webster Daily and ruined it all. One day, he had lunch with the chief medical examiner and, as the lunch progressed, the drinks piled up, and soon the medical examiner started to spill out.

  "Timothy didn't fall. He had no bruises to match a fall. He suffocated," he said. And then he added what later became the thing that most people talked about:

  "My guess is he was strangled. The only reason there are no bruises on his neck is that the killer was most likely a child. Their fingers are small and won't leave bruises as they press on the child's throat."

  That last remark was what soon had the entire town on its feet. Carol watched from a distance as they gathered in front of the sheriff's office, yelling for him to take action. People were holding up their children, asking if they were going to be next.

  "Children killing children,” her best friend Adeline said, shaking her head as she approached her. "What will it be next?"

  "They don't know that for sure," Carol said. "Just because some drunk doctor said so in an interview. I don’t believe a word of it. Timothy fell down and killed himself."

  "He did the autopsy of little Timmy. I think he knows what he saw," she said. "Don't you? You think that you know better than him?"

  Carol shrugged. She glanced toward her house where Anna Mae was waiting for her to return. She had started homeschooling the girl to make sure she stayed away from the many staring eyes and didn't have to deal with the bullies calling her and her mother whores or even whispering about her in the hallways. She was trying to give the girl as ordinary an upbringing as possible.

  She knew what people thought about Anna Mae. Especially now that this had come out. This morning, they had woken up to eggs being thrown at their windows and then, as Carol ran outside, she saw the word Killer painted on the garage door. She had spent hours washing it off, but you could still see it. Kids were calling and yelling at her that she was a killer and some even said it to her face.

  Only Anna Mae's friend Bella would still come over and hang out with her. She wasn't a very bright kid, so Carol assumed that she just didn't understand what was going on. But she welcomed her and always made sure Bella felt at home when she visited. It was healthy for Anna Mae to have friends. If only the world could be a warmer place.

  "Did you hear about the painting?" Adeline said.

  "No,” Carol said. "What painting?"

  "Someone broke into the pre-school and painted on the walls last night. In Timmy's classroom. They wrote I kill that I may be eternal, or something like that, using red paint. The police said it was just pranksters, but I think it was the killer who did it. To let us all know that he—or she—did it."

  As Adeline said the last sentence, she glanced toward Carol's house where Anna Mae was standing in the window, looking out.

  Carol thought for a second about the night before, when Anna Mae had come home late. She had been out playing with Bella and forgot the time, she said. Carol shook her head. No, there was no way Anna Mae had written those words. Bella would have told her if she did. She could never keep quiet about anything, the stupid girl.

  It couldn't be her. Not her Anna Mae.

  31

  The woman standing outside my door smiled behind a weathered face. My guess was that she looked older than she really was. Her clothes were ragged, and she smelled terrible. In her hands, she was holding two plastic bags, and I wondered if that was all her belongings.

  My first thought was that she was begging for money, so I reached into the pocket of my shorts to search for a bill.

  "Are you Rebekka Franck?" she asked, grinning. “The woman who wrote the article in the magazine?”

  I stopped the search, realizing she had come to see me in person, not just knocked randomly at my door.

  "Yes?" I said. “Can I help you with anything?”

  "I read your article. The one about the author."

  I smiled. I had seen it at the Circle K earlier when going for a coffee. The cover picture was gorgeous. I had bought myself a copy, and it was lying next to my laptop. The article I still felt a little disappointed about, but the way the editor had mixed it up with the pictures from her farm, the horses and her workplace, it had come out okay, I thought.

  "Well, I’m glad you read it," I said, thinking she was just some reader who wanted to let me know she had enjoyed the article. Usually, people would shoot me an email and let me know, not come to my door. "Did you like it?"

  She smiled from ear to ear. Her teeth were chipped and dirty. "Oh, I liked it. I liked it very much."

  "Well, that's great then," I said. This woman wasn't exactly the target group for the magazine that was usually read by a young and fashionable audience, so I was a little surprised she would have read it. It was quite expensive too, and she didn't look like she could afford to spend that amount of money on something as inessential as a magazine filled with fashion and interviews with famous people. Maybe she found it somewhere? Someone left it behind on a bench?

  "I’m glad you enjoyed it," I said and was about to end the conversation. But the woman kept staring at me like she wanted something else from me. I tried to get rid of her.

  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more work to do."

  I was about to close the door when she put her foot in it and slammed her hands on it to stop me.

  I gave her a strange look. "Was there something else I could do for you?"

  She nodded. "Yes, as a matter of fact, there is.”

  I exhaled, getting a little tired of this. I had lots of articles I needed to read.

  "Okay, then. What can I do for you?"

  "The question is what I can do for you."

  I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable in this woman's presence. She was standing a little too close to me for my liking, and I pulled back.

  "I have a story for ya'," she then said, her southern accent turning heavy. "A good one."

  I looked at my watch. I had promised Julie I would call her when she got back from school. I didn't really have time for some crazy woman and her stories.

  "Maybe you can write a letter to the magazine?" I asked. “They’re really the ones who decide what to publish and not to publish. I just do the interview and write the article once it is decided. If they like your idea, then they’ll definitely run it.”

  She shook her head. "No. This story is for you and you'll want this. Believe me."

  There was something about the way she said it that intrigued me. She reached inside a pocket and pulled out a piece of crumpled up paper, then unfolded it and held it up for me to see.

  Margot Addington was staring back at me.

  "It's about her," she said and pointed at Margot's nose. "I have a story about her, and I’m willing to give it to you before anyone else. It’s a story that will rock your world."

  I stared at the picture of the elegant Margot Addington in her long black dress standing on the wooden floors of her house, looking like a movie star from the thirties. I wondered about the interview and how little she had wanted to give me, and how disappointed I had been. Could this woman really have something?

  I then looked into the eyes of t
he strange woman in front of me, smiling from ear to ear, weighing my options. This woman might just be crazy and what she had could be nothing, but if I turned her down now, she'd go somewhere else, and I'd miss out on what could be a great story.

  "Okay, you have my attention. Come on in," I said and opened the door.

  32

  The woman presented herself as Joanna. Her eyes lingered on me as I grabbed a chair for her to sit on. I sat across from her, the laptop next to me, the phone ready to record what she had to say.

  Stories coming out of the blue like this were rarely anything newsworthy, but every now and then, you could stumble across something that would be worth spending your time on.

  I was hoping this would be one of those times.

  I grabbed my notepad and a pen, then sat with it on my lap. "Okay. I’m listening. What's your story?"

  She placed the picture of Margot on the desk and smoothed it out. Then she pointed at her.

  "That woman there…"

  "Margot Addington, the author," I said.

  "Yes."

  "What about her?" I asked.

  Joanna smiled again.

  "She's a killer," she said. "A vicious murderer."

  And there you have it. The woman is full-blown crazy. Face it. You're wasting your time, Rebekka. Time you don't have.

  "And what exactly makes you say that? Do you have anything to back up this assertion?" I asked, beginning to fear that this woman was delusional. I had met my fair share of conspiracy theorists and strange people with a story to tell in my life. As a reporter, you had to get used to it. Everywhere you went, people would come up to you with a good story they believed you needed to write. One they thought was more important than anything else. It didn't matter if you were at a dinner party somewhere or just grocery shopping. Everyone had a story.