“No! Please don’t go,” she said, panic turning on her fight-or-flight reflex. She needed him here—not just to help her, but . . . She didn’t know how to finish that thought. She needed him . . . period. In some way, she needed Guy Franklin to be on her side. She rushed across the room to stop him from leaving, grasping his forearm, his muscles taut from the resistance of the heavy toolbox. At her touch, his momentum wavered and then stopped as he stared down at her.
She’d never noticed how tall he was until that moment—stronger than she’d expected too. She could tell by the way he leaned into her warmth as she stood next to him and by how easily he met her gaze that he didn’t really want to leave, which felt like an invitation to keep talking.
“I can’t do this without you.” Her grip tightened, willing him to stay. She didn’t just say the words, she meant them.
Staring down into her eyes, Guy’s resolve faltered and quickly dissolved. He let out a reluctant groan. “Fine,” he said, relaxing into her firm hold, fully surrendering. “What do you need?”
“Thank you!” Hannah blurted, flooded with relief like she’d swallowed an antidote. If there hadn’t been a giant toolbox in the way, she would’ve hugged him, but there wasn’t time for any of that with the quickly impending deadline, so Hannah forced herself to focus on the task at hand.
“I watched a YouTube video on how to get this door open, but I’m afraid I’ll make a mess of it on my own,” she said, leading him to Monty’s door, where she gestured for Guy to place his toolbox back on the floor. He knelt on one knee and inspected the doorknob from all angles and then unlatched the lid of his chest.
“This is a pretty standard indoor lock. You’re lucky there’s no dead bolt.” He started to pick through the neatly sorted collection of tools. Hannah knelt beside him, watching him search.
“I think I need a paper clip and a flathead screwdriver and a Phillips-head screwdriver,” Hannah listed, retrieving a large paper clip from her pocket and showing it to Guy to prove that she’d done some research.
“I don’t think we’ll need that.” He took out a tool with a wooden handle on the end and a long, thin, pointed metal shaft, and without a second thought, he pressed it into the neck of the doorknob, popping off the handle.
“Hey, I was going to do that!” Hannah said, squinting, not sure how he found the vulnerable spot on the lock without a flashlight.
“Eh, I’m already over my head in this thing. Might as well make sure it’s done right,” he said, lingering on her face a beat longer than she’d expected. Yeah, it did feel like they were getting in over their heads. He looked away first, switching tools until he could pop off the base of the knob and then unscrew the internal workings with a smaller screwdriver. The knob fell off, and the door opened like he’d said a password.
“Oh my God, you’re magic,” she said, touching his back as she stood to either find what she was looking for or leave knowing that it wasn’t meant to be, at least not today. Guy didn’t respond, quietly collecting all the pieces of the doorknob that he’d need to replace, not as satisfied with the successful break-in as she was. She’d make it up to him, she promised herself that. It was difficult to know that a man she was coming to respect found fault with her decisions, but the squeak of Monty’s door opening teleported those concerns right onto the back burner of her mind.
It was dim inside, but somehow a little brighter than the rest of the darkened office. To the right were the files, and to the left, Monty’s desk, which held the keys to the basement. She wanted to get to both, but the paper’s proofs were at the top of the priority list. The filing cabinets here were different from the ones in the basement. The basement cabinets were tall, with four square drawers, making her think of a morgue, where bodies were stored headfirst.
The ones here in Monty’s office took up a whole wall and consisted of long drawers, rectangles that opened up to massive rows of filed newspapers, the tallest of which she’d need a chair to examine the insides. More like what a morgue looked like if bodies were stored sideways, which was likely where the name for the storage of old newspaper files had come from in journalism. The drawers were filled with once-living information that lay forgotten, so pretty apropos after all.
Hannah opened one of the most easily accessible middle drawers. Folded newspapers encased in sturdy plastic bags were filed away inside, pressed together into one giant row without any dividers or numerals to guide her.
“Welp, here goes nothing,” she whispered to herself, before picking a random spot in the middle of the drawer and wedging her hand in between the pages. She wiggled the newspapers apart, making enough space so she could get a look at the dates on the top right-hand corner.
July 5, 1968.
Too late. She skipped down the line and checked again.
October 1973.
“Okay,” she whispered to herself, quickly getting the lay of the land.
“Are they in there?” Guy asked from the doorway, standing now and watching Hannah’s search as he leaned against the doorjamb.
“I think so. I just need to find the right drawer,” she said, making sure every paper was back in place. She closed the row she’d been working on and knelt next to the lower two rows.
“Anything I can do to help?” he asked, taking a step inside, his hands shoved into his pockets like he was nervous. Distracted by the new supply of newspapers she was itching to explore, Hannah could only halfway pay attention to Guy’s anxious request. She pointed over at Monty’s desk.
“In the middle drawer—you know the thin one where they keep pens and pencils and stuff like that? There’s a key chain with a yellow elastic band on it. That’s the key to the basement. Could you get that door unlocked for me?”
“Sure, that sounds easy enough,” he said, seemingly more comfortable with their search-and-recover mission. “I found them. What now?” he asked just as she pulled out the first newspaper to the right in the current row to check the date. The sound of Guy closing Monty’s desk drawer set off a nervous shiver up Hannah’s spine.
“Uh, I mean, if you really don’t mind—in the basement there is a desk in the back corner. In the bottom drawer are some files with all the original documents. Could you bring all of them up?”
“Yeah, no problem,” he replied. She gave him a nervous thumbs-up and returned to her search as he left the room.
November 1945.
Still too late. If there was a consistent filing pattern used on these papers, that meant they were in chronological order from right to left. She double-checked her theory midway and then at the end of the line, finding her conclusion was correct. That meant she was close. There was one more drawer left. It sat nearly flush with the floor. She dragged it open, sat cross-legged on the thin carpeting, and took out the first newspaper all the way to the right.
January 29, 1881.
Tate County Democrat—the original title of the newspaper—was visible through the clouded plastic sheeting that protected the ancient artifact.
It was here, in this row. It had to be. July 1929. That was the month and year—she was sure of it. She skipped great chunks of time at first and then made fewer and fewer hops down the line until she found the 1920s. She could feel it coming closer. It was here—the story. This buzzy, alive feeling that went along with catching the next thread in the tapestry of a story was more intoxicating than anything in her life, and she wanted to savor every damn moment.
When she reached July 1929, Hannah retrieved all four of the newspapers from that month and laid them on the ground, marking their spot with a June newspaper turned on its side. July 5, 12, 19, and 26. Evelyn could be in any one of them.
Hannah removed the July 5 paper from its plastic sheath and carefully unfolded it. This edition was the least likely to hold any answers to the mystery shooting since, according to Evelyn’s last missive, she and Harry had returned from their trip on that same day. News moved more slowly in those times, and even if Evelyn had been shot o
n the fifth, it would be a whole week before it hit the local newspaper, but Hannah couldn’t risk it.
Each page was a tightly packed sea of words, hard to navigate at first. The article titles were barely more substantial than the stories themselves, and each column was separated by a few centimeters of space on the sides and a slight dash above and below. The first few pages held all the big news items, including patriotic pontifications, and each additional page was filled with more socially focused items, ads, and classifieds. As expected, there was no mention of a girl being shot in her home.
Hannah carefully folded up the July 5 paper and moved on to July 12. This one she looked through a little more purposefully, searching not just for Evelyn’s name, since there was no possible way to know if she was using a pseudonym, but also keeping an eye out for anything that sounded similar. After going through the pages twice, nothing stood out, and she started to worry that maybe she had her timing wrong, or maybe Evelyn did. According to Monty’s clock—it was a little past 3:00 p.m., and her car would be arriving soon. This whole thing was taking longer than she’d expected.
On to the next paper, Hannah unfolded the July 19 Tate County Democrat and scanned the articles and headlines until she saw it. She had to read the headline twice—but there it was. It read like an odd, formal short story, a totally archaic form of journalism that made Evelyn’s articles seem more normal. Hannah read eagerly.
Girl Fights for Life So She May Marry Cowpuncher
Senatobia, Miss., July 19, 1929—
“Evelyn darling, if you’ll only get well, you and Harry can get married right away.”
And Evelyn Kensley, 14, who was found shot in her bedroom, groped for her stepmother’s hand and smiled contentedly, on the edge of consciousness.
Harry Westbrook, 19, a clean-looking boy with a beardless face and sleek hair, smiled at Evelyn from the other side of the bed and nodded his head in vigorous assent.
Dr. Shields Abernathy, who has been making a desperate fight to save Evelyn’s life ever since she was found with a .25-caliber bullet in her spine, is not so sure the wedding bells will ring for the schoolgirl. Evelyn already has had one blood transfusion.
Harry, whose head is in a whirl over the events of the last 24 hours, was initially held by the police for questioning. Once cleared of all wrongdoing, he now only thinks of one thing—he wants his sweetheart to live. He stands ready to give the next blood transfusion if it is necessary.
(continued on page 5)
Evelyn Kensley. There she was in black and white, real as day. Evelyn Kensley. The two names went together so naturally that it seemed like Hannah had always known it. The article was strangely casual, though, focusing so much on Harry, who also ended up being real. Nothing yet about who may have shot the poor, paralyzed child, and not even an ounce of suspicion cast on her doting stepmother. Hannah couldn’t get to page 5 fast enough.
(continued from first page)
He has not left her bedside long enough to drink a cup of coffee and vows to stay with her until the gun-wielding culprit is apprehended.
“I was at work when it happened,” Westbrook said Friday of the crime. “Everyone thought it was my doing, but it was love at first sight with Evelyn and me.”
Harry, nearly exhausted, sat on the chair outside of Evelyn’s door at Methodist Hospital. Any moment, he may be called upon for a blood transfusion.
Evelyn’s stepmother, too shaken to give an official comment, told the police that she’d found Evelyn on the floor of her room, shot on the afternoon of July 17.
“It is a terrible mystery,” Harry explained.
And this slim boy cowpuncher, who drifted into town last May with Dakota Max’s rodeo show, straightened his shoulders and signified his intention to find the assailant himself if necessary.
The notification on Hannah’s phone buzzed—her car was on its way. Shit. She was running so far behind. Unable to fully process the significance of what she’d read, Hannah took pictures of the article, refolded the papers, secured their plastic coverings, and put them back into place where they belonged. She could think through it all on her way to Memphis.
It didn’t take much to return Monty’s office to its original condition, leaving no trace of their break-in. Hannah rushed to the basement, the door left ajar. She stood at the top and shouted for Guy. He came up the stairs, arms loaded with files.
“That place is overwhelming,” he said, as he met her outside the door. “Is this what you were looking for?” She tried to decipher what exactly he was holding but knew whatever it was she didn’t have time to make a trip down into the basement to retrieve any additional items, so she just said yes and stashed the files in her bag, preferring the originals to the scans for fact-checking purposes.
Her phone dinged again, announcing her car’s arrival.
“I’m so sorry to do this, but I have to go,” she said, kicking herself that she was cutting it so close.
“Wait, you’re going now?” he asked, looking at her empty hands like she’d been slacking.
“Yes, I’m sorry, but my ride is here. I have my meeting—”
“With Dawson, yeah, I remember.” He sighed and took in the room while Hannah got ready to leave. Guy quickly locked the basement door. His tools were in their box, and nothing else had been disturbed. “You go ahead and get out of here. I’ll lock things up.”
“You will?” she asked, in the middle of texting her driver that she’d be out in a minute, so filled with anxiety that her head was pounding along with her heartbeat.
“Yeah, there’s nothing left to be done, really. I’ll just add it to the list of things you owe me for.” He gave her a sideways look and half smile that, when not already in pre-heart-attack mode, sent her heart a little flutter every time. She put her phone away and went on her tiptoes so she could wrap her arms around Guy’s shoulders. He stumbled back a half step, but once he got his footing, he wrapped his arms around her waist gradually, like he wasn’t sure if he was invited to return the embrace. But once they were firmly in place, Hannah thought she felt him pull her in a little closer until their cheeks pressed together. His skin was smooth as the corner of her mouth grazed it, and she tightened her clasp as well. If she hadn’t had a car outside waiting, a meeting with Peter, and a reunion with Alex, she would’ve held on longer. But she had to let go.
“You are the best,” she whispered in his ear and then planted a quick kiss on his cheek before stepping away. His arms slipped off her as she stepped back, and neither of them seemed to know what exactly to say.
“I’d better go.”
“Oh yeah. Well, you don’t want to keep good ole Pete waiting, do you?” Guy said, that twang of bitterness returning to his voice, almost like . . . like he cared about her. No, she took a step back. She couldn’t think that way with him. Not today. Not when she was about to meet up with Alex.
“I guess,” she said, taking a few more steps backward, needing desperately to leave but also wanting to stay in a way that was hard for her to wrap her mind around. “Oh, don’t forget to put Monty’s keys back in his drawer. And the key to the front is on top of the door trim.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, touching his fingers to his forehead like he was taking orders and waving goodbye at the same time. She waved back, and he headed off toward Monty’s office. She was about to make her final exit when she realized she hadn’t even told him about Evelyn and the article.
“Oh! Guy, wait,” she called out as he turned the corner. He reappeared at the mention of his name.
“You need to get out of here, missy,” he scolded. “I know I’m enthralling, but you’ve got places to go. People to see,” he joked, his accent always making anything he said in mock seriousness that much funnier to Hannah.
“Shh. Listen.”
He pretended to lock his lips.
“I found her—Evelyn. I’ll send you the article, but she’s absolutely real,” she said. The only way those words would feel any more sig
nificant would be when she sat down to type them out when she finally wrote the entirety of Evelyn’s story.
“Well, damn. This was all worth it, then.” She knew he meant the B&E she had just conned him into, but it wasn’t the only way that statement applied to her life. This whole search made her life feel worth it.
“Yeah, I guess it was.”
CHAPTER 27
Hannah felt massively underdressed, sitting in the swanky Peabody Hotel bar. Most of the women were wearing high heels and skintight dresses, with hairdos that looked like they’d been put together with a curling iron and cement. And Hannah’s best efforts at doing her makeup paled in comparison to the lashes, blush, and lip color that populated the room. She hid her jeans and booties under the bar and took another sip of her gin and tonic. It had been a while since she’d had alcohol of any kind, but with the night she had lined up, Hannah needed something to take the edge off her nerves.
She was going to take the night one man at a time, focusing first on her meeting with Peter Dawson rather than lingering on her appointment with Alex. But it was getting difficult not to lose focus. It was half past five and Peter was a little late, but she couldn’t blame him. She’d texted him Evelyn’s last name as soon as she’d jumped into her hired car, but that was only a little under two hours ago. She finished the last few drops of her drink and gestured to the bartender for another, feeling zero percent less anxious.
She didn’t mind waiting, even though she felt a bit like a hobo next to the boobs and diamonds pressing in from all sides. Her only concern was with any possible overlap for her reservation with Alex. When she’d texted to confirm their meeting that morning, he’d responded with a simple Yes. See you tonight. She’d been worried all day that he might be having second thoughts, and showing up late would make it far too easy for him to back out.
“Hannah?” She recognized the voice immediately.
What's Left Unsaid Page 25