What's Left Unsaid

by Emily Bleeker

  “Mamaw, you in here?” she called into the room, hoping for a relieved hello or even an angry scolding. But when Hannah finally caught sight of Mamaw’s bed, what she found was more disturbing—it was empty. Hell no. Worry morphed to panic, her ears ringing and feet moving uncharacteristically fast.

  No more tiptoeing or gently calling, now she ran through the house, room to room, searching the bathrooms in particular, the new back suite, Papaw’s office, the kitchen, the front room leading to the garage.

  There, by the door to the garage, she saw it—or didn’t see it would be more accurate. The row of hooks where the keys for certain things like the shed or the lawnmower were kept had one empty hook where Hannah had placed the key for the Buick just a few days earlier.

  “Oh no.” If Mamaw had tried to drive with her casts on, no one here to help her . . . Hannah swallowed back the rise of bile in her throat. If she had crashed on the side of the road somewhere, looking for her granddaughter, it was all Hannah’s fault. Everything was her fault.

  Hannah swung the door to the garage outward toward the set of wooden steps that she’d walked up and down countless times, day after day for the past several months. The car was there—she saw its outline immediately, thank heavens. But that respite from worry lasted only half a second because as the ancient garage door opened one inch at a time, Hannah’s focus left the car and zeroed in on the small lump of floral material on the garage floor, boots sticking out from underneath.

  “Mamaw!” Hannah screamed, horrified, dashing down the steps that must’ve tripped her as she tried to make her way to the car, the keys to the Buick still clutched in her knobby fingers. She’s dead, a voice screamed inside Hannah’s head. You killed her! She’s dead!

  No idea what to do, shaking and ready to vomit, Hannah knelt by Mamaw’s head and checked her breathing. She wasn’t sure, but there seemed to be just the slightest of breaths going in and out, weakly, which Hannah confirmed with a hand on Mamaw’s still-warm back. She was alive.

  “I’m here now, Mamaw. I’ve got you,” Hannah said, taking out her phone. She dialed 911 and rubbed her grandmother’s back, the only action she could do without worrying about hurting her further.

  “Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”

  “My grandmother fell in her garage. I think she’s been here a while. Uh . . .” Hannah scanned Mamaw for injuries, a pool of blood on the floor coming from a mystery source. Hannah’s whole body was shaking out of control. This couldn’t be the end. She’d come here to take care of Mamaw. To make sure things like this never happened. Damn it. “She’s bleeding, but I don’t know where. Do I move her? What do I do?” Hannah asked the operator, but the question was also meant for herself and God, in case He was listening after all.

  The emergency operator ordered an ambulance and then took Hannah through first aid, step by step. She wished that she could take back everything she’d done in the past twenty-four hours as quickly as Mamaw’s blood soaked into Hannah’s jeans where she knelt. She’d give up everything she’d learned about Evelyn and her connection with Pete Dawson. She’d even give the closure she’d found with Alex back if it meant saving Mamaw and keeping Guy safe. But it wasn’t that easy, and there were no take-backs in real life, and sometimes one person’s mistakes set off a shock wave of devastation in the lives of those around them. And she was the author of these mistakes.

  By the time the ambulance arrived, Mamaw’s breathing had become ragged. The paramedics allowed Hannah to climb into the back of the ambulance with Mamaw. Hannah couldn’t watch the things they were doing to her, knowing that they were saving her life but feeling each intervention as though they shared a body. Once the ambulance arrived at the hospital, Mamaw was rushed back behind double doors for immediate attention. It was bad—really bad, and it was all Hannah’s fault.

  Covered in her grandmother’s blood, Hannah sat in one of the ER waiting room chairs, eyes hazy with shock and fear. She sent a brief text to her mother, asking for a call, and then sent Brody a similar directive. Pam sounded almost as concerned for her daughter as for her ninety-one-year-old mother-in-law.

  “You okay, Hannah? Is there someone who can stay with you? I’m worried about you,” her mother asked at the end of a series of impossible-to-answer questions. Hannah wasn’t okay. Not even close to okay. She’d been strong for a moment tonight, and she was starting to make progress toward escaping from her inert state, but all her gains were canceled out by this failure. She was a failure. No wonder she was alone. No wonder her mother tried to run her life. No wonder her friends had dumped her during her depression. She was a shitty human. Alex was better without her. Pete too, and Guy . . . Oh God, Guy.

  Hannah called the police department, her voice small and childlike when she asked for Officer Allen. But he was officially off for the night, home for the holiday. The receptionist would only take her name.

  “But this is an emergency!” she yelled into the phone. “I need to speak with Officer Allen. Call him at home. Or put someone else on. Please!” She begged, but the receptionist calmly refused, only disclosing that someone had posted bail and Guy was no longer behind bars. She hung up and called him immediately, but there was no response.

  “Guy, I’m so sorry. I will fix this. I promise. Call me if you can. Mamaw fell down and we’re at the hospital. I hope you’re okay.” She hit the button to end the call. It wasn’t okay. It couldn’t possibly be okay if he’d been arrested. Oh God, she wished she could disappear.

  The timeline solidified in her head, and she understood—he’d been in jail. She flinched at the thought of Guy sitting in a cell because of her carelessness, angry at herself mostly, but also angry at Monty and the police department, who should know better. A swirling whirlpool of regret and guilt dragged her down deeper by the minute, inflicting physical pain she’d only experienced with abandonment and her father’s death. She’d pay Guy’s father back the bond money. She’d reason with Monty. She’d go to the police and admit everything.

  The world was a blur for the next few hours. A sweet nurse brought Hannah a pair of scrubs to change into and showed her to a bathroom where she could wash up. In the locked, oversize restroom, Hannah popped her phone out of its blood-coated case, pocketing the device and tossing the sheath in the garbage can.

  Someone must’ve contacted Carla, because she came rushing into the waiting room at some point, crying and wringing her hands, asking a million questions. And then Mr. Davenport hobbled through the sliding glass doors soon after, and Hannah told her story of what had happened for the fifth or sixth time that evening.

  “I’ll make this right,” she chanted, never running out of tears or regret. Hannah collapsed into her seat, feeling lost.

  Carla tried to comfort her. Her mother had tried to console her over the phone, and even Mr. Davenport gave some words of wisdom, though he was as much of a mess as anyone and ended up getting emotional and trailing off.

  “Oh, baby, come here. It’s okay.” Carla unbent Hannah and forced her into an embrace, thinking her melancholy was only about Mamaw and not her long string of sins. She buried her face deep into Carla’s soft shoulder, and instead of faking a smile or holding back tears or making a snarky comment or finding a reason to be annoyed or offended in order to avoid feeling . . . everything, Hannah let go and sobbed against the scratchy fabric of Carla’s holiday sweatshirt.

  And when Carla muttered what were intended to be sweet, comforting words, saying everything was going to be okay, Hannah listened, but she didn’t agree because she knew something no one else did—that was a lie people told when they knew it would not be okay. She had no control over whether Mamaw would survive, and she had no way of turning back time and leaving Guy out of her ill-planned reconnaissance at the Record. Whether Hannah listened to the truth in that statement or tried to believe the lie—it didn’t really matter in the end. With so much out of her grasp, she could help make one thing okay again, and that thought held her as tightly as Carl
a’s arms and calmed her more skillfully than some well-intended platitudes.

  CHAPTER 30

  “It was my fault, though,” Hannah said to the prosecutor for the fourth time in their meeting. “He had no idea I didn’t have express permission to be there—I swear.”

  “But he used tools to break into Mr. Martin’s office?” William Grant, middle-aged with a ring of salt-and-pepper hair half circling his scalp, asked half-heartedly, like he could hardly care about the actual facts of the case.

  “Yes, but . . . I asked him to do it. He didn’t know it would be a problem. God, I didn’t even know it would be a problem. I thought the worst thing that could happen is Monty would get mad at me and maybe I’d get fired, but—burglary? No. Never. A charge of burglary means there was intent to commit a crime, right?” Hannah had done some research and tried to get her mother’s help until Pam realized what she was doing and insisted on Hannah getting her own representation rather than playing armchair social justice warrior.

  “This will all be addressed by Mr. Franklin’s attorneys in front of a grand jury.” It was like he was bored. Hannah held up her phone in front of his face, trying to wake him from his apathy.

  “Here . . . look . . . you can see in my texts. Two weeks ago I asked him to meet me there, and I didn’t tell him why I needed his tools. This was entirely my fault,” she said for the fifth time now. She hadn’t seen Guy since the day she turned him into a criminal. He’d been distant via text and had turned down every suggested meetup. Hannah was disappointed; she missed him so much, but she understood. She hated herself too.

  Mr. Grant sighed in the way Monty used to when he found her petulance childish but also wished to act like a gentleman. It made Hannah want to throw her iPhone at him, though, little good it would do looking as crazy as she felt right now.

  “Yes, I read your police interview in the file, Miss Williamson. But I can’t go off of your word on this matter. Mr. Franklin was found in possession of burglary tools, inside the Record offices after hours where files were found to be missing.”

  “I was the one going through Monty’s files—not Guy. I told him to go into Monty’s desk. I asked him to bring up the files from the basement. Me. Not Guy Franklin. Why won’t you all listen to me?” Hannah, on the edge of her chair at this point, slammed her fist on the desk, making the gold pen perched in Mr. Grant’s fancy holder jangle and nearly fall. He stabilized it, eyeing Hannah cautiously.

  “Miss Williamson, you seem like a well-intentioned young woman, but you are going to find yourself in trouble if you keep this up.”

  Hannah resisted rolling her eyes. She’d heard this enough from her mother, who was wholly against Hannah’s willful confessions.

  “Exactly! If anyone should be in trouble, it’s me.” She leaned in, the tiniest glimmer of hope stirring inside her heavy, tired heart.

  Mr. Grant squinted, suspicious. “A false confession helps no one.”

  Outrage boiled inside her at the accusation.

  “I’m not lying. I swear.”

  She didn’t break eye contact, even after it had gone beyond the polite length of social norms. The statement seemed to mean something to Mr. Grant. He leaned back in his padded leather chair and spoke more thoughtfully than before.

  “If Mr. Martin could corroborate even one of your claims, I would gladly listen. But for now my hands are tied. I’m sorry.” Hannah grunted in frustration, and Mr. Grant rushed to address her aggravation. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ve found that the truth seems to come out in these cases. If Mr. Franklin is as innocent as you say, I’m sure it will come to light.”

  Dead end. Another dead end. Damn it. Hannah shook her head, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Yeah, I’m sure Guy will get treated fairly—in Mississippi. No way he could face any kind of prejudice.”

  “Now now.” Mr. Grant stood suddenly and stared coolly at her. “Let’s not bring race and such into this. This has nothing to do with discrimination—”

  Hannah cut him off, refusing to stand. “Doesn’t it? Then why aren’t I facing the same charges as Guy?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Williamson. There is no proof you were there. Now”—Mr. Grant opened his office door—“I have another appointment. I’d like to ask you to leave.”

  “I bet you would,” Hannah grumbled, leaning over to retrieve her bag. She took her time standing, shifting her weight so the heavy bag on her shoulder, packed with research, books, and notes, didn’t make her tip over.

  Mr. Grant stayed by his office door, holding it open even though a stopper kept it in place. The fury inside Hannah demolished any self-control she’d built up over the past four months in Senatobia. No friendly goodbye or half smile would cover her outrage today. Hannah stormed out, fueled by a fury that was becoming commonplace in her life.

  “I will be back,” Hannah said, storming past Mr. Grant. Once past the waiting room, she yanked out her phone with a new idea playing in her head, but the screen was filled with texts.

  There were four long texts from Pam Williamson, asking where Hannah had gone and when she’d be back, and then tersely reminding Hannah that she wasn’t to just take the rental car without permission since she wasn’t on the rental agreement.

  But she’d had to leave without telling her mom, or else Pam Williamson, attorney-at-law, would insist on coming with her “unstable” daughter.

  Yes, she felt a little out of control; the whirlpool of depression and sadness nibbled at her toes each day Mamaw stayed unconscious and each day Guy’s charges were not dropped. The whirlpool was getting stronger, pulling her deeper into the murky depths, waterlogging every exposed bit of her heart and soul. She was holding her head above it this time, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a daily—no, hourly—struggle.

  But it wasn’t too late to get out of the spiral. There was one man who could fix it all, one man who had no reason to prosecute an innocent man: Monty Martin. He’d been ignoring her calls and emails, and as far as she could tell, he hadn’t been back to the Record since his wife’s heart attack, leaving it to poor, trembling Dolores to fire Hannah. But thanks to Google, Hannah knew where Monty lived his quaint little life with Momma and his two cats and a chicken coop full of hens, and today he’d have an unexpected visitor.

  CHAPTER 31

  Hannah slammed the dust-coated door to her mother’s rental car, squinting down the dirt driveway to see if she could make out the highway from her parking spot. No luck. She turned back to examine the blue-and-white turn-of-the-century Victorian farmhouse. The faint whooshing of cars rushing by was the only indication that she hadn’t traveled back in time a century.

  Monty had spoken of his home before; the house itself was built in the early 1900s after the old plantation home had burned down from being struck by lightning. Soon after, the Martins parceled out to smaller farms, got a big payout when I-55 snaked its way down through the heart of Mississippi, and finally sold off the last tidbits to housing developers, until eventually the only part the Martins still owned was the acreage this house sat on and the dusty road that led up to it.

  It was a beautiful relic; Hannah couldn’t deny that. The fascia looked like icing on a carefully constructed gingerbread house, the bright red of the door like licorice, the round stained glass window under the roof gable and vent like a whirling peppermint. Inside wasn’t a witch waiting for hungry children, but even without cages and ovens and a pointy hat, Monty wasn’t exactly the Pillsbury Doughboy he seemed to be.

  Hannah collected her bag full of evidence from the passenger seat and closed the car door with her best attempt at stealth. Her stomach turned, and she coughed to clear her dry throat, her tired eyes gritty from lack of sleep and likely some of the dust from the road, trying to decide how much to tell Monty.

  She’d kept Evelyn from Monty on purpose—he couldn’t be trusted with her story. He’d have killed it from day one if Hannah had walked up the stairs of the Record and presented her findings to him when this all started nearly
two months ago. Then the story never would’ve had a chance, and Evelyn’s voice would’ve been ignored forever.

  She stopped at the bottom of the porch stairs, the rumbling in her stomach turning into what felt like a deep fissure. It was easier to tell herself that she’d played all these secret agent games of hide-and-seek with the answers for purely altruistic reasons, but that wasn’t really true. She wanted to break Evelyn’s story out from the rejection pile, to give her tumultuous life some grander meaning, but Hannah’s true motivations were not exactly pure. Hannah wanted to be a real reporter again—have her words mean something. Maybe he’d see her vision. Maybe he’d listen and change his mind, not just about Guy but about Evelyn too.

  A cool breeze broke through Hannah’s reverie. She shuddered, held her flak jacket closer to her torso, and forced herself up the steps. She was reaching to ring the doorbell when the front door swung open unexpectedly. A petite woman with bobbed hair and wearing purple scrubs stood on the other side. Hannah let out a small “Eep!”

  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you. Mrs. Martin saw you on the doorbell camera,” the young woman said in a half whisper through the top half of the screen door. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Martin. My name is Hannah. I’m one of his employees . . . down at the newspaper. I know he’s busy with a”—Hannah searched for the term, needing to sound professional and polite—“family emergency, but I have an urgent matter I need to discuss with him.”