What's Left Unsaid

by Emily Bleeker

  Peter cut in, confirming Hannah’s suspicions.

  “This is my fundraiser.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Back already?” the valet manager asked as Hannah walked out the front door of the Pines. It likely wasn’t hard to remember the only person that night who’d dressed like a college student, driving a rattling Buick. The crew of three young men in vests who had witnessed Hannah’s unfortunate arrival stood watching in the background.

  Hannah’s cheeks burned. She held out her valet ticket.

  “Mike, make sure Miss Williamson gets reunited with her car, will ya?” Peter said from where he was standing behind Hannah, holding the door open with an extended arm.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied and took Hannah’s ticket as one of the men ran off with her keys to retrieve her car.

  “Thanks,” she said, somewhat reluctantly, standing on the front porch, still not sure how to process everything that had happened inside and the usefulness of her new connection. He kept the door open, and the mix of stuffy indoor air with the crisp, chill fall sent a shiver through her.

  “No worries, Miss Williamson. But I . . . I’m afraid I must go now. I feel sure that I’ve pushed Bee past her boiling point, and if I throw off the whole schedule, she might never forgive me.” His accent deepened, and she wasn’t sure if he’d been holding it back when they were in the museum or if he was coating it on with a broad stroke now because he knew how lovely his words sounded swathed in it.

  “Of course! I’m fine.” She waved him off, getting tired of southern men trying to take care of her. “I’ll find my way home like the grown woman I am.”

  “Oh, I had no worries about that,” he said in a hushed tone, like he was sharing a secret, his smile turning up one corner of his mouth in a way that made a dimple pop. “I’m just wonderin’, are you sure you can’t stay?” His body leaned toward hers like when sunflowers turned toward the sun. Part of her wished she could stay and watch his speech and have a cocktail. But it was getting late, and if she didn’t hurry, she wouldn’t make it home in time for Mamaw’s bedtime routine, and she was sure to be exhausted from her day out and about.

  Plus, she shouldn’t push her luck any further than she already had. She had his card in her back pocket, and she’d given him a Post-it with her name and number, deciding that it was better to keep any phone number leading to the actual Chicago Tribune out of Peter’s, or his aunt Bee’s, hands.

  “I’m sorry, I need to get back. Besides, I don’t want to cause any issues with your ‘auntie,’” she teased, her body drawing toward Peter’s like a magnet, unwillingly, centimeters at a time.

  He stared down at her, and Hannah expected one last attempt to charm her into staying, but instead he said, “I understand” and nodded at Mike. “I look forward to next time, Miss Williamson.”

  “Yes. Next time,” Hannah echoed. Then, with a semi-bow, he backed away into the building, his final farewell getting lost in the swoosh of the door.

  Wanting to tip the valet, Hannah handed off a clutch of folded dollar bills that she thankfully had stashed in some small corner pocket of her bag. She’d intended to use the money on vending-machine snacks or coffee, but her day had been too busy to find time for either, and her stomach ached as a result. The car’s interior was warm and stuffy, reminding her of Mamaw’s house, which only made her want to get to the safety of that world even faster. The car lurched away from the grand brick structure of the Pines, leaving behind all the fancy people and cars, the trees and floors made up of shimmering stars, and most of all—Senator Peter Dawson.

  In the dark, Highway 51 was lined with reflective dashes in the middle of the road and dotted with occasional blasts of bright lights as she chugged through small town after small town. After seeing the modern version of what might have been Evelyn’s post-shooting life, Hannah started to make a mental list of the next steps in her research. First on the list: get a new phone. How did anyone get anything done without those damn things?

  “Oh my God,” Hannah murmured, pressing harder on the gas pedal, counting the hours since she’d entered the library. She hadn’t even thought of Alex one time. What the . . .

  A loud whine rang in Hannah’s ears. The car slowed, and Hannah guided it to the side of the highway and into what looked like an abandoned parking lot made of gravel and broken asphalt. As she rolled onto the uneven surface, the gas pedal lost its effectiveness, the engine cut out, and a burning rubber smell filled the car.

  “Damn it,” Hannah cursed, slamming her hand against the steering wheel. As the car went completely dead, barely responding to any of her efforts at starting the engine, the pitch-black of the road seemed to flood the car like water rising around her. Panic rushed in as well, making her ears ring to the same note as the whining of the car before it died.

  She glanced around the interior of the vehicle. If she hadn’t known better, it was almost like being tossed back in time—no GPS, no cell phone, and no OnStar. The only thing she had in Mamaw’s Buick that didn’t exist in modern dashboards was a cigarette lighter. So, if push came to shove, she could build a little fire on the side of the road and live there. She rolled her eyes at her joke.

  She had to face facts. The last town was at least five miles back and over a series of bridges through a marsh that looked like it went on for miles. Unfamiliar with this road, she had no idea how close the next town was. It couldn’t be too far, but in the dark and without knowing her location, trying to walk would be a considerable risk.

  She glanced at her watch. It was only a few minutes past seven. She was about half an hour into her hour-long trip home and would’ve made it back to Senatobia before her 8:00 p.m. deadline, but the bad news with being on time was that no one would miss her there for an hour or even two, given her history of running late.

  Hannah gathered her jacket around her. She could wait for a car to pass by; a Good Samaritan might offer her help. Then again, the car was a good ten feet from the road, so she’d have to flag someone down by the side of the highway. In Chicago, where she’d grown up, the idea of a single woman waving down a stranger in the forbidding night sounded more like the beginning of a nightly news story than a viable plan.

  Irritated that she’d gone on an adventure without putting any contingency plan in place, she started digging through the car. Hannah popped open the glove compartment, where the original manual sat undisturbed, and spotted a folded map.

  “Thank God.” She sighed. Her shoulders couldn’t relax, but at least the map would give her something to focus on other than the disturbing headlines that could result from this night. She rapidly unfolded the forty-five-year-old pamphlet and smoothed it out on the seat next to her, working on remembering how to read basic cartography.

  “There is Memphis,” she muttered, using the dim dome light to get a good look at the lines and words on the page. The overall road systems were different back then, but she was able to find most of the major landmarks. There was US 51, trailing right along next to I-55, in some places so close that the two red lines seemed to touch.

  As she looked closer, she found the marshland she’d just crossed through. According to the poster-size map, there was another town not too far off from where she approximated she was stranded. There was no way to know for sure how far the city might be, but surely there was more development along this road now than in the seventies. She’d have to risk it.

  After folding the map and returning it to the glove compartment, Hannah tore a page out of her notebook and scribbled a quick note with her name and her grandmother’s name and phone number and included a date and time at the last minute. She put the note under the windshield wiper and locked the car, taking her bag with her after a somewhat lengthy internal debate about whether it would be safer for her research to sit in an abandoned car or risk being lost forever in the case of her incredibly unlikely abduction. She’d definitely watched too many true-crime shows.

  “Gone . . . without a trace . . . ,” she
mumbled as her feet hit the dusty shoulder alongside the road. “Terror in Tate County.” She continued brainstorming the title of her mystery news program.

  A pickup truck rushed past her on the highway, and Hannah swerved into the grass, overwhelmed by the power of the large vehicle’s wake. It was chilly out but not cold, at least not to a northerner. She could see her breath as it clouded in front of her face with each puff, but her skin didn’t sting and the wind didn’t cut through her jacket. She counted herself lucky to be stranded in Mississippi, where it was cool enough in November to kill off the mosquitos and yet warm enough to not worry about frostbite.

  “November Nightmare,” she added to her list, holding on to her sarcasm as the only antidote to the lonesome fear inside her midsection.

  She’d felt alone a lot in the past year, and this anxious, dangling feeling reminded her of the isolation of depression after her father’s death and Alex’s betrayal. Both events made her feel like there was no one in the world she could lean on. Both left her feeling like she had limited options and none that she really wanted to take. Both reminded her that, in the end, she was the only one she could always count on.

  “Lost on the Trail to . . . Murder. Oh, that one is good,” she muttered. If there was a job that included naming episodes of crime TV programs, she should apply for it. She chuckled, jumping back in the grass after another car sped past her.

  Sure, she felt alone again and kind of freaked out, but at least now she had a growing faith in her ability to take care of herself that would make Laura proud. Even just a few months ago, Hannah would’ve curled up in the back seat of that car and let the world go by without her. Every step she took in her thrift store Doc Martens was a sign of her growing strength.

  Several minutes later, after exhausting all possible news program titles and just as she was seriously considering flagging down one of the drivers on the road to ask to use their phone, the top of a red sign glowed in the distance. Her pulse quickened, and she smiled as she picked up the pace. She couldn’t help continuing the ironic narration in her head. She thought she had found safety, but what she found at the gas station could fuel nightmares . . .

  The fear was still there. The loneliness was ever present. But she was making it.

  CHAPTER 14

  When Hannah heard Mamaw’s sweet voice through the receiver of the gas station phone, she almost cried.

  “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. I just knew I should’ve taken the car in for a tune-up. Your papaw was always so good about that, and then Sammy . . . I’ve been so forgetful. I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Mamaw, I’m fine! Please don’t worry. I just don’t have my phone, so I can’t order an Uber. If you could call my mom, she could order me one. Or have her call me here.”

  Frank, the owner of the store, whom she’d just met and tried to sweet-talk awkwardly, stared at her with a judgmental glare. He’d told her she could use the phone as long as it was local, which made Hannah want to roll her eyes and explain that “long distance” wasn’t a thing anymore. Instead, she punched in Mamaw’s Mississippi area code so the man wouldn’t kick her out.

  “I don’t know what that is, sweetheart. The oo-per?”

  “We talked about it last night at dinner. The car service? Just tell my mom to send me an Uber,” Hannah spelled out U-B-E-R and continued with an address for the gas station, slightly concerned Mamaw had forgotten so quickly. “I’ll be waiting. If you have any trouble, you can call me here.”

  She mumbled the last bit into the receiver since she was sure Frank wouldn’t enjoy getting random calls at his store, but there were few options left. When Hannah hung up, she added a cup of coffee, a questionable-looking ham sandwich, a bag of chips, a bottle of water, and a few candy bars to the counter and smiled as she ran her credit card to pay for the overpriced items.

  “Do you need a bag?” he asked, scratching at a spot under his faded trucker hat, sucking back the juices from the chew tucked in his bottom lip.

  “No. No, thank you, sir,” she said, scooping up the items from the counter in her arms and carrying her lukewarm coffee cup. She sat at the only table and chairs set up in the “deli” area of the gas station.

  Before she unwrapped her sandwich, she angled her chair so she could see both Frank and out the front window, where her ride would eventually show up. Finally settled, she took a long sip of her coffee, which was thick, stale, and low quality but would do for now. The sandwich, on the other hand, was made on soggy white bread that had all but fused with the slice of American cheese lying on top of the graying ham.

  She dropped the poor excuse for food and cleaned her fingertips on the napkin included in the package. Forget healthy. The Snickers bar was meant for two people but would be Hannah’s one meal of the day. It didn’t bother her that much. She’d lived off caffeine and vending-machine food for much of her career at the Tribune, so this wasn’t exactly new. It paired with her crazy day nicely.

  With a few minutes to herself, Hannah took a bite of the candy bar and dug out a few items from her satchel to keep her occupied. First, she opened the baggie with the dry rice and her phone and unzipped it for the first time since she’d left the house that morning. First attempt all day. She couldn’t decide if this new shift in focus was a positive or a negative, but it was at least movement, which was a change. Even with a long reset push-and-hold of the power button, the device remained lifeless in her hands. She needed to call time of death. This phone was never coming back.

  After giving up on playing tech wizard, Hannah selected one of the labeled files she’d retrieved and opened to the first page inside. She’d reread all the letters over and over again, but this one kept running through her mind today, especially after her charged exchange with the handsome Peter Dawson. This letter told the full story of Evelyn’s blossoming relationship with Harry and the havoc it brought into her home life. Adult Evelyn, who was writing the letter many years after her young heart had been swept away by the young man, who was only meant to be in town for the weekend as part of a traveling rodeo, seemed to have a mature outlook on the romantic interlude. But Hannah could see why Evelyn found Harry so exotic, so dreamy. She’d loved Alex in the instant way Evelyn did with Harry, even if he was just a premed student the first time they were assigned as partners in their speech class. Alex wasn’t as much of a charmer, and Hannah was more shy and unsure of herself, but the frightening vulnerability of first love was relatable. Still, she could also see how quickly that kind of intense, immature love could turn dangerous, maybe deadly, even?

  September 14, 1935

  Dear Mr. Martin,

  Harry Westbrook was only in town for the weekend of May 11, and little child that I was, I was desperate to see him again. I’d never before felt anything as wonderful as his arms around me, holding me while I shivered. I didn’t shiver long, but I have to admit, I pretended to be as cold as an Eskimo in December so that he’d keep his arm around me as we walked back to the fair.

  I found out as we walked that Harry Westbrook was a cowpuncher for the Dakota Max rodeo and had been traveling with them since he was sixteen. Nearly twenty, he said he was growing tired of mucking stalls and wrangling horses. I could see something in his eyes that looked like longing for a home of his own, just like I wanted. I could tell he liked me. It wasn’t just the way his fingers held me tight around my waist, and he leaned in to smell my hair as it dried, but it was also the way he laughed at my gumption and how I stood up to Lucy and her crew.

  “The girls I grew up with would never have been brave enough to do all that,” he said, his voice so smooth and calm, like he was talking to one of his wild horses.

  “I really shouldn’t have done it either. My mother will throw a fit,” I said, truly frightened of Mother but also wanting Harry to think my home and family were normal.

  But then Myrtle added from behind us, “She’s gonna whip you this time. I know she is.”

  “Oh hush, Myrtle,” I said, tr
ying to calm her before she ruined the magic between Harry and me, but it was too late. He stopped me in my tracks and turned me to look him in the eye again. I liked facing him this way, his breath warm on my cheek and nowhere to look but into his turquoise eyes.

  “Does your momma whup you?” he asked me, all serious like. Like he was some knight in shining armor who would come protect me if I was in danger. He was a stranger, and we all knew it, but I liked feeling powerful enough to make a man want to take care of me. It was funny what a pretty smile and a nice figure could do to a fella.

  “She’s not our momma,” Myrtle cut in again, and I gave her a hard look that made her wither almost as quickly as a glare from Mother could.

  “She’s our stepmother, and she doesn’t whup us. She disciplines us for our own good.” Even as I said it, I hated myself for lying. But I also knew that if a man knew you were from a bad family, he’d lose interest, and I would give anything to have Harry Westbrook stay interested in me at least a little longer.

  “I don’t like that,” he said, with a far-off look in his eyes. We started walking again but had to part ways when we got back to the fairgrounds and a tall man wearing chaps and a cowboy hat yelled at Harry for slacking off.

  Harry asked my name, and if he could write to me, so I scribbled my address on the back of an empty popcorn bag.

  I didn’t think I’d ever see Harry again. As I drifted off to sleep after sneaking my still-damp dress past Mother, who was busy making bread in the kitchen when we got home, I dreamed of that boy. I dreamed of his eyes, a home of my own, and a world where someone stronger than Mother would stand up for me.

  That desperation to feel loved touched a little too close to home and too close to Laura’s assessment of Hannah’s own relationship, but it was hard to blame the girl for wanting more. For wanting to be loved. It was hard not to cheer for her.

  I was beyond surprised the next afternoon. Just as I was returning the cold chicken to the icebox after lunch, Harry Westbrook himself knocked on the front door. Mother answered, Daddy asleep in the wingback chair in the front room for his afternoon nap. She had her church voice on, all sweet sounding and nice. Harry asked for me, just like it was normal for a man to knock on my door and ask, “Is Evelyn here?”