Into the Night

by Herb Scribner

  And yet I know it's almost too on the nose to be a coincidence. But I push those thoughts away for now. I can't put my attention on Minny when I'm about to go to Kayleigh's funeral.

  I have no idea what I'm going to see when I get there and I have no idea how I am going to handle everything there. But I know I might have a chance to finally find out more about Kayleigh.

  And now I have some more information about this Minny character. This is a pretty productive trip. If nothing else gets accomplished, at least I took steps closer to figuring out the mysteries surrounding me.

  Soon I'll be back writing about the senate hearings and the tech industry. Might as well work on some small wins while I'm out here just wasting time.

  I keep my eyes out the window as we roll on, thinking through what words I'm going to say to Tiffany and Kayleigh's family once I arrived at the funeral.

  The driver and I don't speak again for the duration of the drive. He's one of those drivers who rather keep it quiet and casual than perk up a friendship. I prefer the other types -- the ones who look out for you, the ones who tell you where to get the best food, drink, or nightlife entertainment. It reminds me of Paige, my friend back home.Had it not been for our conversation on that day back in Minnesota when I was trapped in the house with a psycho-killer -- again, you can read about that another time -- I don't know if I would have survived.

  As the sun peaks over its midday spot and we leave high-noon behind us, the Uber rolls into a small quaint suburb of Baltimore. Black limousines and hearses line the edges of the road. Each car parks against a high-fence with metal spikes at the top of each poll. An opening reveals a driveway that leads deeper into the cemetery.

  "Here's fine," I tell the drive.

  He pulls up close to one of the limousines. There's no traffic on the road going either way so I step out with ease. I thank him again. He acknowledges me with a small wave. Even at our goodbyes he won't speak.

  I walk around the car toward the opening in the fence. I can see a short rolling hill ahead that will lead to the full cemetery on the other side. The air is brisk. A brief wind brushes against my jacket so I bundle in closer to myself. I don't move yet because I'm wondering if this is the right move. Going to the funeral takes me down a path that I won't be able to change in the funeral. I will from now be considered someone who attended their funeral and now I'll be tied to her death. It's an odd feeling. We normally don't know what happens to us in life. We can't see the big moments coming. But this feels different. This feels like I can decide what happens to me now. I can make that decision, or not. Either way, I will have to own whatever happens next to me in the coming days. However this act will involve me in the death fo Kayleigh, I have to own it. It's my decision alone.

  My feet are frozen. But I warm them up with motivation of what's to come. I need to know more about what happened to Kayleigh. It's the only way I can connect her death to Senator Simmons, and that's the only way there can be justice for her killer.

  So finally I pick up my feet and walk cross the pavement path toward the rolling hill. It brings me up and over and into the cemetery below. Hedge stones poke out like rocks in a field. Some are rigid, some are shining new. A man walks alone farther down the path. There's a thick crowd of people off in the distance. It's impossible to see a coffin or a hedge-stone there. But that must be the funeral.

  The incline takes my stride away from me and I go soaring down the hill. I nearly trip on a small pothole at the bottom of the path. Avoiding it, I sidestep over toward the path and continue to follow it down to its conclusion to the crowd. I see the man who was walking alone moments ago huddled in the crowd. I wait at the back. It's almost impossible to move anymore forward than where I am now.

  The priest at the front of the gathering recites a verse or two. I wish I knew which ones but I've never been to close with the Bible. I grew up Protestant in an extremely WASP-filled town in Massachusetts (don't worry, the town had its fair amount of Catholics, too). I've heard Bible verses read again and again at funerals. It never made me want to read the full thing. It's associated with terror for me.

  The priest asks if anyone else will want to speak again. I peek through little crevices and holes that cut between the group. A woman steps up to the center stage. Tears roll down her cheek. Her mascara becomes a black smudge across her eyes. Dark circles encapsulate her eyes. She holds a piece of paper. Her hands tremble, shaking the paper.

  "I never believed my sister would be here. I never thought she would be the one to die first," she says, a frog caught in her throat. "I thought I would be the one who died. And we'd both be old women, sitting on our porch, and then she would pass away next to me. I thought we would die together. But the Lord had other plans for us. He had other plans for me and for you. We can never plan our lives.

  "I wish," she holds again, sucking down a wash of tears that we're about to flood out of her eyes, "I wish I had a chance to say goodbye to you. I remember the last time we talked. You were visiting Washington, and your flight wasn't allowed to land in Dulles so they rerouted you to Baltimore. It was like one in the morning and you called me, asking if I could pick you up from the airport in Baltimore and then tomorrow drive you to D.C. Of course I said yes. Who wouldn't say yes to hanging out with you, a fun and loving person, so soon? But then the airport, I remember this clearly, they wouldn't give you your bags. They said they wouldn't give any checked luggage while in Baltimore, and they were going to continue to Dulles. So we talked for a little bit about your plans and what you wanted to see when you were in the city."

  She crumples the paper in her hands and holds it in her palm. She crunches it again. She squeezes it like a stress ball, again and again making it smaller and smaller. She wants to destroy entirely.

  "I wish I had a chance to say goodbye to you that night. I wish I had a chance to tell you how much I loved you and how much I wanted to spend time with you. But I didn't. I made a fool of myself and just acted like it was any other phone call. We never know when our phone call will be the last phone call. We should treat each call like it's the last. I should have said goodbye."

  She strolls away from the front of the crowd and off to the side. I see her stand next to another man who has a tight jaw and dark blue eyes. His hair is brown as mud. He grabs her hand and holds it. She protests at first, but then she relinquishes. She accepts his comfort.

  The priest returns to the stage again and asks anyone if they have anything to say. No one says anything. The quiet of the wind tickling the nearby trees fills the silence. At last, he blesses us all and wishes us to take the lessons we learned from this funeral and apply them to our own lives.

  As the gathering starts to break, I dip behind people who are walking past me toward the path. They're heading back to their cars on the road. I avoid them and try to seek out the woman. Her sister. Tiffany. She works at New Surge, too. That means she might know a little bit more about what's going on.

  Something lightly touches my elbow and so I turn to see who's behind me. It's a man with a deeply receding hairline. A plain, pale face, but with a hard jaw and eyes that stare through you and not at you. I see the slightest thin of a vein at his forehead. I'm sure it pops when he's angry.

  "Annette Gardner?"

  I don't like anyone who knows my name. "Yeah, hey."

  "It's me, Mack. From Simpson, Sampson and Crows LLC?"

  "Oh, Mack. Of course," I shake his hand. "How did you recognize me?"

  "I wasn't sure it was you. I saw you on CNN before and I thought it was you. And then I figured, why would someone who looks like Annette Gardner be there, at Kayleigh Donnowho's funeral? Seems a little too coincidental for me."

  "Of course, of course."

  "So you ended up coming over anyway?"

  "You did, too, apparently?"

  "Yeah, well, my brother is actually over there." He points forward. It's the man with the tight jaw who had been holding Tiffany's hands moments ago. "That's Aaron. He's Tiffan
y Donnowho's ex-husband."

  "Ex-husband? Really?"

  "Yeah. It didn't end too well. They got married when they were really young. All of that jazz. Once she wanted kids and he didn't, well, that usually spells disaster for a relationship."

  "I bet," I say.

  "So you ended up coming, then? What brings you here?"

  "Well, this is embarrassing, but I wanted to talk to Tiffany actually."

  He smirks, chuckles, and then lightly touches my elbow and brings me away from the remaining crowd. He doesn't want them to hear us talk.

  "You're a little crazy," he says. "You decided to come to a funeral to talk to a woman whose sister just died? Seems a little nuts to me."

  "I told you I was writing a story on all of this," I say. "I'm not doing anything major. I just need a color quote from her. Nothing big. You seemed okay with the story I was writing earlier."

  "Today just seems like an odd day to talk to someone about it, especially at someone's funeral. Are you void of all feelings?"

  "I've been through a lot. You see what I see, and it's hard to care if someone gets approached at a funeral about their sister. I think people are more open to speaking about their siblings at events like this."

  "Events?"

  "Yeah, sorry, a funeral."

  "You are a unique person, Annette Gardner."

  "Well, you're not the first to tell me that."

  "Okay. Here's what I'm going to do. I honor your reporting and your celebrity because, well, you're a pretty popular person and I don't think people should give up the chance to meet you, even on a bad day. We're having a little reception at a restaurant called the Pulp Steed. It's just down the road. Lots of room for people to gather, that sort of thing. After that, she's going to head home. I can arrange for you to meet her there and the two of you can chat for a minute. Is that good enough for you?"

  "It's perfect."

  "Good. Let me have your number."

  We trade numbers really quickly. I put mine into his phone and he types his into mine. We trade back devices. He offers a gleaming smile when we're done.

  "I'll text you when she's home with her address."

  "Thank you. This will really help my article."

  I start to walk away, but he calls me back. I turn to face him.

  "This better not be something bad. I am doing all this assuming you're writing an obituary or a beautiful piece about her sister. I don't want this to be a hit job against them. The family just wants peace and justice for whoever did this."

  "She'll definitely receive that."

  He nods, but I can see he's still not totally sure he trusts what I am going to do with my article. But I don't care. I'm the only one who needs to know what's going on.

  I walk along the path of the cemetery and out onto the main road. Many of the hearses and limos have already left. The overcast sky looks down on me, making my skin even more pale than it was before. I hail an Uber, knowing I have some time to kill.

  As I wait for my ride, my phone buzzes in my hand. Is this already Mack? That worked quickly.

  But it isn't Mack. It's Ben.

  My heart shutters and my heart thickens into a rock of pure lead. It drops down and I feel like relieving myself. I want to talk with him. I want to explain everything all at once and put the senator under the microscope.

  But then he will lose his job. He will lose everything. I can't do that to him.

  So I put the phone away in my pocket and keep it closed. The phone signs a second later. Probably a voice mail. I think about checking it, but then a blue Prius rolls up toward me with a driver in front.

  When I slide into the car, the driver nods at me from the front seat.

  "Rough day?"

  We drive on. And although he's a driver who wants to talk, I don't feel like doing that at all.

  No. Not at all.

  Chapter 14: Meeting the Sister

  I ride the Uber to a nearby coffee shop called Smoke Roasters. I spent the entire ride with my driver, Xavier, talking about the news industry. But instead of giving me his weird opinions about the media industry and what happened, he focused on the weirdest news stories he had heard. Like about a group of boys who disappeared in Massachusetts like fourteen years ago. He said he never forgot that story. He told me he also heard some weird events coming out of Baltimore and Washington, D.C., related to fake news that he didn't appreciate it.

  Eventually it came up that I am Annette Gardner. He marveled in excitement, asking all the run-of-the-mill questions that people have asked me over the years. How did it feel to survive? How did it feel to be chased down by serial killers? Do I wish I could change anything about what happened to me?

  Over the years, I've shortened my answers. I tell them where they could find more information. Some of the more intimate questions -- like how did it feel to find out than an ex-boyfriend as a serial killer - I put off and say it's inappropriate. I don't mind answering it in the right setting. But I hate thinking that everyone knows the truth about me and my feelings.

  He drops me off outside the coffee shop and wishes me well. He slaps the final sticker on my back by telling me he hopes that I stay safe and keep surviving. Like I'm in constant struggles. Like I'm always being chased down by someone.

  I guess the recent set of events indicate that I am always facing danger.

  I enter the coffee shop and order a latte, carrying my bag on my shoulder. I sit at a table in the back corner. I pull out my laptop and set it on the table. I scroll through news websites for a few minutes, catching up on the daily events. Turns out the government is scheduled to reopen soon and that the president is going to declare reopening in the coming days.

  A second story below that main one reports that Senator Simmons is planning to start her tour beginning next week. I click it open and see a wide photo that includes the Senator will of her aides behind her. One of them is Ben. He's staring down at his phone with his hand in his pocket.

  I miss him instantly. I miss his goofy grin and how he would smile at the most awkward times. He had such an unique laugh. A little bit of a chuckle mixed with a smirk. How beautiful it was.

  I pull out my phone and scan the front of it. No new notifications since the last time I check. I open up the call logs and see Ben's missed call. I want to call him. I want to message him and tell him I'm thinking about him -- tell him that I am sorry we broke up.

  But I can't, and I know I can't. There's too much at stake. If I call him, what can of worms will that open? Will it be more of a Pandora's box and unleash a slew of problems on the world? I have no idea about what the consequences will be.

  Knowing that I will only cause more problems, I stash my phone back into my pocket and focus on the computer screen again. I scroll through a host of more new stories about the government, about the presidential run, about everything that's going on in the world.

  I begrudgingly check my email and one from my editor asking how my story is coming. She says she's checking out for the rest of the week and just wants an update it so she can plan ahead. But I don't have anything to give her. The Senate hearing and New Surge and the aftermath of all of it is so far away from what I'm doing now.

  What I'm working on now is far more important. Focusing on Kayleigh and her death, and trying to figure out how it happened, is miles more important than anything else. If I can connect her death to New Surge, and I can connect Senator Simmons to New Surge, and just make it all work, boil it all together in a pot, then I will have the right answers for everyone. And it could potentially bring justice to this entire I miss.

  Thinking about my long-form articles ignites interest in my brain to check out my storm. So I open up and read through it. The story is long. There are big blocks of texts. Very few breaks. It seems like I wrote it years ago. My mind has been so far removed from all of that stuff.

  I begin editing it a little bit. Cutting words here, rewriting sentences there. All the details of the New Surge and government co
nnections come back to me. And as I edit, I realize how simple the story truly is.

  New Surge was accused of selling the government the data that I collected on people. The government is defending itself, saying it never reached out to New Surge. So, in a way to figure out the truth, the House Intelligence Committee and the Senate Intelligence Committee decided to work together to see what was the truth. Did the government reach out to New Surge for help? Or did New Surge willingly give over documents. All of the Senate hearings were devoted to witnesses testifying on what they knew about the business and their connection with the government.

  And at the end of it all, there was Kayleigh. She was the final witness. She was the last one on the list. And apparently she would be the one who would bring it all home.

  So what did she know? What information did she have that would change the course of the trials and hearings?

  And how hand't any of it leaked. Some of things leak to the press rather easily. Sometimes the press easily obtains information about what's going now with the government and the hearings.

  But no one knew. There isn't a trace of Kayleigh, other than the fact that she as listen on the docket as a member of New Surge. I even considered it to be a nothing burger -- just a random person added to the docket that could explain some more information about the technology of it all.

  But her death is a clear sing that there's something more going on -- there's more to all of this. She means much more to the case than we think. She probably has a slew of information for all of us that will change how the case was believed to be heading.

  But now she's dead. Murdered right in the national pool. Some killed her to keep her quiet. If not, it would be too coincidental. Coincidences are rarely actually coincides. Most events are planned.

  I have to figure out what happened with her.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out again. I think for a second that it's going to Ben on the other end. But it's not Ben. It's Mack's number finally calling me.