“No. Nobody goes through those files but me. Wouldn’t want them to become a mess like those archives, am I right?” He grabbed a stack of Post-its and a large fountain pen, then he scratched off a note and stuck it on the number pad on his desk’s phone. “But I have a memory like a jackrabbit even if my bones are creaking. Don’t you worry. I have got you covered.”
She gave him a tight smile. “Yes, thank you.”
He beamed at her now as though she’d gone from a problem student visiting the principal’s office to valedictorian in one meeting.
“Well, dear, I feel a whole lot better. It sounds like this was an innocent mistake. I’m sorry to be so dramatic, but the Dawson family is pretty important around these parts. It’s always better to stay on their good side.”
Clearly, Hannah thought to herself, wanting so badly to roll her eyes. She didn’t like a political candidate’s family controlling any part of the news media in the area, and she wondered what other newspapers were editing their stories based on their support.
“I’m sorry I put you in that position. I promise it won’t happen again.” She stood up, hoping that this close call was officially over.
“I know it won’t, hun. Now you head on outta here. I’m sure you’ve got some work to do, and I’ve got plenty to fill my time till I go home to Momma.”
Ugh. Grossed her out every time.
“Yes, sir,” she said, taking the opening to escape without faltering. She was halfway to her desk when she heard Monty call in Dolores to take a memo, Hannah’s ears burning from the stress of that exchange. She’d come so close to losing the very fine strands of life she’d started to weave together, all because of that stupid ID badge—and Shelby Dawson. But Hannah had some ideas about how to get her information and how to do it in a way that would circumvent Ms. Dawson.
Ding!
“Damn it,” Hannah cursed, the sound of the notification in the quiet office making her jump. She covered her mouth even though no one was around to call her on her language. It had to be Alex. She’d found a way to stop herself from responding to him earlier, but after the drama with Monty, the idea of a text from her ex was too compelling to pass up. With a yank, she opened her top desk drawer.
“I should put a lock on this,” she muttered to herself, cursing her lack of self-control but also relishing the anticipation, the rush of seeing his name glowing on her screen, the hungry way her eyes devoured every syllable. Ugh. She was pathetic, but there was an involuntary nature to the whole thing. Sometimes she couldn’t help it—
Guy Franklin: Thanks for letting me tag along. Rosie is going to be so jealous.
Hmm. A text from Guy was not exactly what she’d been bracing for, but there it was—and she didn’t hate it. Hannah picked up her phone and opened her messaging app. Even if his name didn’t give her exploding fireworks, at least she didn’t have to hold off from texting him back, which was—nice.
Hannah: She should be. Tell her that next time she’s invited.
Guy Franklin: Sounds great.
Thinking bubbles trembled on the screen as he composed another message. They stopped and started a few times. Then his message came through. She watched with curiosity, still trying to figure out this man and what was going on behind his intriguing eyes and charm.
Guy Franklin: Can you tell Miss Mable that her part came in and I’ll be stopping by later to work on the Buick?
Hannah: Oh good! She will be so relieved.
It was her turn to hesitate. She didn’t know what it was about Guy or even Rosie for that matter, but they felt comfortable, safe. And bantering with them in the car over the weekend and exploring the cemetery with Guy was the most fun she’d had in a long time. Mamaw always told her she needed to be more social . . . She started typing again.
Hannah: Why don’t you two come for dinner? I’m sure Carla won’t mind.
As soon as she hit “Send” and the message went through, Hannah wondered if she’d made a mistake—jumped the gun. Maybe it was too early for an invitation according to whatever weird etiquette rules everyone else seemed to know and live by. The bubbles danced again, this time making her a little nervous, but when his answer popped in, she felt immediate relief and started typing quickly.
Guy Franklin: We’d love to.
Hannah: I’ll get the details and text you in a bit.
Guy Franklin: Sounds great. See you tonight.
Hannah: See you tonight.
He didn’t make her heart pound and palms sweat like Alex, and there were no butterflies when she saw his face or when his name came up on her phone, but she did like the steady way being around Guy made her feel.
CHAPTER 19
Hannah looked out over the landscape of the archive room, hands on her hips. In three weeks, she’d made her way through nearly two-thirds of the filing cabinets, and it showed. Last week, Monty started moving the metal storage units out once their contents were fully scanned. The room was beginning to feel cavernous in comparison to when she’d taken her first tentative steps into the chaotic basement.
When she’d started the assignment twenty days earlier, it’d seemed like a purgatory equal to one of Dante’s seven terraces. But there was a fascinating satisfaction to recording history—making it permanent in some way. And with each drawer she completed, the motivation to continue had begun to escalate beyond the desire to find more of Evelyn’s story.
Hannah made her way back to her portable workstation, which included a stool, notebook, pencil, and a few other supplies. She opened another drawer, almost finished with her second row of cabinets that week. The large pink Post-it pad sat by her side. As soon as she cleared out this drawer, Hannah would write Storage on one of the sticky notes and place it on top of the unit. The other seven filing cabinets in the row were similarly marked. Every time another line of metal towers disappeared, Hannah felt a sense of satisfaction but with an aftertaste of anxiety. It’d been an eternity since she’d opened a filing cabinet and known a piece of Evelyn’s story was inside.
Usually, Hannah could sense when a lead related to her was close. She wasn’t all New Agey, but there was an energy to a story that she could zero in on like a sixth sense.
But she hadn’t felt so much as a goose bump since her trip to Memphis. There had been a few leads that came out of her journey to the university and Maggie’s research skills, but most of them were dead ends. One would entail an overnight trip to Kentucky to look into a possible link to Harry’s life. She’d go check it out after the Thanksgiving holiday, hopeful that it was the same Harry she’d been pursuing.
Thanksgiving. More time off from work, which normally she’d be happy for, but not this year, when it meant less time digging for answers and more time hanging out at Mamaw’s house with her mom, who was coming to visit after turkey day, which would be spent in California with Brody and his two boys. Who could blame her? Brody and his wife had invited Hannah to join them, but there was no way she’d leave Mamaw alone, even though her grandmother was finally mobile enough to navigate her house with her walker now.
Hannah hauled out a stack of files and took them over to the computer. She shuffled through them quickly, having gotten pretty good at scanning a document with her eyes and knowing if it was from Evelyn. She was looking for the thin, cheap typewriter paper. It would likely be several pages long, single-spaced, typed, and written in a clear, first-person narrative. Most pages she could pass over just by the feel of the paper between her fingers. She used to look at every file with optimism and think, This one is it. This time I’ll find her.
But that Pollyanna outlook had disappeared after a week without any discoveries and had never come back. She sighed. Nothing again. Along with hundreds of others she’d picked through, this pile was bereft of anything helpful. It was difficult even to muster up disappointment anymore. She organized the pages by paper size and scanned them one by one.
The trail wasn’t totally dead. There was information at the Pines, and she was so
close to finally gaining access to their files while avoiding any run-ins with Shelby Dawson. It turned out her great-nephew was far more helpful than Ms. Dawson herself.
A few texts and one phone call later, Peter had promised to find a way around his aunt to get Hannah the records she wanted if she’d meet him for one drink. It felt a little skeevy trading a drink for information, but Peter was fun to talk to, crazy charming, and a great potential contact for her journalism career. They’d arranged to meet up when she was in Memphis on Wednesday before her probably-a-bad-idea dinner with Alex. But pairing Alex’s visit with a legit reason for making the trek to the city took the edge off her guilt.
Hannah wasn’t used to using her womanly wiles on a man, but if Peter Dawson found her grouchy reporter look attractive, she wasn’t beyond buttering up her source. But since the files for the children’s hospital were organized by surnames, it would take considerable effort to look through each folder and ascertain which one held Evelyn’s secrets—time and effort a state senator in the middle of a reelection campaign didn’t have. She had to find a last name for Evelyn, which was where things got tricky. Hannah had used LexisNexis, Newspapers.com, and Ancestry.com, as well as visiting the records room at city hall, to no avail.
She knew, absolutely knew, that if she was going to find Evelyn’s last name somewhere, the Tate County Record likely held that secret, but Hannah had still not found a way to get into Monty’s files. Especially after Shelby’s call.
Hannah dropped down onto the stool and replaced the documents, the folder crowned with a green Post-it that read Scanned. One more row and she’d be done for the day. Carla was making ribs again, and Rosie and Guy were coming over to finish the last few touches on Mamaw’s car. The first visit went off without a hitch, and they’d become semi-regular callers over the last week. Hannah had come to look forward to their visits.
Rosie liked to tell Hannah about school and, when her daddy wasn’t around, boys. And Guy, when he could get a word in between Rosie’s stories and Hannah’s questions, talked about teaching and carpentry and his dream of going back to school to become a principal, which Hannah thought he’d be great at, but it made Rosie scrunch her nose up.
The last item in the drawer lay flat, wedged between a partition and the rear, almost creating a false floor. It was difficult to find an edge to grasp. Hannah wiggled her fingers around the perimeter of the manila envelope, trying to find her way between the packet and the metal walls. After a few minutes, she pried the oversize rectangular packet out of its hiding place. It was old. The flap didn’t have adhesive. Instead, it had a string that looped around two cardboard buttons. She turned it over in her lap, and the word Rejected was written on the front of it in red wax pencil.
This time, no otherworldly warnings tipped her off as she unwound the red string that kept the envelope closed. Inside were several hastily folded documents. None of them in their original pocket and every single one shoved roughly into the small space without any seeming concern for possible damage.
Hannah selected one cluster of pages, crumpled together, and unfolded the thin paper. She gasped and nearly dropped the whole stack.
It was from Evelyn.
There was no mistake. Besides the familiar technical aspects, like the paper type and the quality of typewriter, Hannah would recognize that voice anywhere. Her eyes stung, and this time not from the dust in the air. She had missed this voice. She didn’t even know how badly she had wanted to find out the rest of Evelyn’s story until this very moment. It felt like talking to an old friend. Or like seeing her brother, for the first time in too many years, at her father’s funeral. It felt like picking up where they had left off. It felt like texting Alex.
She dumped out the remaining artifacts. One. Two. Three. Four. Fewer than she’d expected, but each installment was longer than the previous one. She was shaking now. The other submissions Hannah found had been filed at random. These three had been collected intentionally over the course of—Hannah checked the dates at the top of each message—six months. Someone back in 1935 had caught on that every few weeks a letter would show up, giving the next installment of this dramatic tale like it was a serial on the radio. Maybe they were collected for personal entertainment, or maybe another journalist thought they smelled the same story that Hannah did. Or maybe someone didn’t want this story told at all. Well, she wasn’t going to let that happen. Hannah flattened the pages to the best of her ability and put them in order.
The sound of the front door creaking leaked through the floorboards down into the basement. Usually, Hannah didn’t notice such minute details. Most of her day was filled with murmured conversations or the tromp of Monty’s footsteps or the click-clack of Dolores’s low heels. But today she knew what that creak meant. It was closing time. Dolores was heading home, and soon Monty would stand at the top of the stairs and call her name. There was no time to catch up now.
In the past, Hannah had scanned the Evelyn letters and then taken the copies home, storing away the originals to keep them safe. But she didn’t have time for that today. And she wasn’t going to wait. The neatly arranged papers slid easily into the manila folder.
She closed the flap and secured it with the button and string closure, quickly wrote Storage on a pink Post-it, and slapped it on the end of the row. Hannah cleaned up her station, making sure every drawer was closed and locked for easy transport. She flew up the stairs with the envelope of letters clutched tightly by her side.
“Hey, I’m heading home,” she called out from across the room in the direction of Monty’s open door.
“Miss Williamson, one moment, please!”
Almost, she thought, looking at the exit only a few feet away with longing. Her jaw clenched, but she responded sweetly and calmly as she pulled on her stocking cap and gloves for the ride home. “Yes, sir?”
“Oh, there you are,” he said, rounding the corner and meeting her by the door. “Where are we on the files in the basement? Mrs. Tonya Sellers is lookin’ to start renovations beginning of December. Lots of engagements around Christmas, you know how it goes.”
She literally did not know how “it goes” and wasn’t exactly in the mood to think about engagements, weddings, deadlines, or pretty much anything other than the story in her bag. But her ability to pretend to care had grown exponentially.
“Yes, I’m sure.” She grinned, but then shifted to an “I regret to inform you” scowl. “I do think it will take two or three weeks at least to get the rest of the room scanned.”
“I was afraid of that.” He sank his hands deep into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I think I’m going to have to cut your project short, hun. I’ll have Terry clear things out down there over Thanksgiving, and he can finish this grunt work of scanning and filing at the storage facility. Then you can get back where you belong—on assignment. What do you think about that?”
“No, thank you,” she said, rushing to reject his offer as soon as he stopped talking. It made sense why he’d expect her to be overjoyed at the change, just like when he’d suggested taking her out of the archives a few weeks earlier, but the idea made her panic. It wasn’t only because of her dedication to Evelyn either. She wanted to finish what she’d started, complete something that she could be proud of, and not hand it off to Terry to toss together in his spare time. She wasn’t inching forward anymore. Her momentum was building, and it felt fantastic to be successful again, even if it was by sorting files in a basement.
“I was worried you might say that.” He took out his handkerchief and used it to wipe his head and then dab at his nose, which normally would make Hannah gag, but today it made her impatient. “I know it can be frightening to get back on the horse, dear, but you can’t keep hiding from it anymore.”
“I’m not worried about . . . the horse . . . whatever that is a metaphor for.” Hannah tilted her head, wishing she had a translation guide for Monty. “I like my assignment, and I’ve put in a lot of hours down there. I want
to see it through.”
“Well, no matter the reason—I’m sorry, but I need you elsewhere.” He drove the handkerchief back into the recesses of his pocket and shrugged. “When you get back from break, you’ll be back on traffic and education.”
“Oh, come on, Monty. This is ridiculous . . .” Hannah stomped and clenched her fists by her side, helpless.
“No, dear, this is business, and I have to make decisions that keep this newspaper working. If you want to continue your tenure at this establishment,” he said, getting formal in his speech like he always did when he was getting worked up, “I advise that you do as you are told.”
“But—” She pushed one more time, knowing that the soft, friendly Monty couldn’t be too far under his gruff, no-nonsense exterior.
“Have a good evening, Miss Williamson,” he said, cutting her off before she could form a sentence and walking away, putting a solid end to their conversation.
“Whatever,” she muttered, feeling like a teenager as she huffed out of the office and roughly wrestled her bike to the street. As she sped through the black roads, the nip in the air bit at her cheeks. It was a nostalgic feeling that reminded her of childhood and autumn in Chicago. It also helped cool the resentment that was boiling up inside her. Outside the rumble of her tires and the wind in her face, Hannah’s only comfort was knowing that she carried with her four new letters. Maybe they held the answers she’d been searching for, or perhaps they didn’t, and she’d never find out who shot Evelyn.
CHAPTER 20
Hannah’s legs ached as she made the turn into Mamaw’s slanted driveway. The light was on in the garage, which meant Guy was inside doing whatever he needed to do to Mamaw’s car. Gliding to a stop inside the garage, Hannah jumped off her bicycle and lifted it onto its holder on the rear wall, just over Papaw’s old workbench. The sound must have gotten Guy’s attention because he peeked his head out from underneath the propped-open hood of the Buick.
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