It Ends Here

by Willow Rose

  Margot lifted her eyes and looked into those of her daughter. The sight of them made her warm inside. There was no one she loved more in life. She shook her head.

  "Oh, Mom," her daughter said and put her head on her shoulder. "I’m sorry. They're just bastards, those journalists. They're trying to hurt you. I’m sure no one will even believe them."

  "Why they are even giving that crazy woman any airtime is beyond me," Theodore said. "Can anyone just say anything now and they'll hold out the microphone for her?"

  He sat back down with an exhale, rubbing his temples. Minna kept her head on Margot's shoulder.

  "It's gonna be okay, Mom," she said. "You don't have to care about what they say. They're nothing but mean bullies."

  "I'll call the editor in the morning," Theodore said. "I'll have them run a correction. They can't just spread lies about people and ruin them like this. I will not let it happen. What will your publisher think?"

  "I don't think I care much about my publisher right now," Margot said. "I just want to them to leave me alone."

  "You should care," he said. "Think about what it might cost you in book sales."

  "It's…it's okay, Theodore," she said. "You don't have to…"

  He rose to his feet again. "But I want to, and I have to. It's my name too that is being smeared. I will not let them get away with this."

  "Please," Margot pleaded. "You'll only make it worse. I just…I should never have done that interview in the first place. That's what started it all."

  "So, now it's my fault?" Theodore asked. "Because I encouraged you to do it? Because I thought it was a good idea?"

  Margot shook her head. "No. No, I didn't mean that. I just…I knew it was a terrible idea. Nothing good ever comes from talking to journalists."

  "You're darn right," Theodore said. "And from now on, we're not talking to any more of them. Never again. If they write more lies about you, we'll sue them."

  Margot looked up, and their eyes met. For just a second, she was certain she saw doubt in his eyes, but then it was gone.

  "It's late," he said and turned around. "I'm going to bed."

  37

  I went to my car first thing the next morning. Without eating anything, I drove out of town until I reached Margot Addington's estate. By going early, I had hoped I would beat everyone else there, but as I drove closer, it was obvious that I hadn't come early enough.

  A huge crowd swarmed the gates. Reporters from everywhere were set up there. Cameras were ready to snap a shot of Margot should she appear, and the journalists held their microphones ready to record her answer if they got a chance to yell their questions at her, maybe while she drove out through the gate. Photographers were in the bushes, their lenses pointed at the estate behind the trees, looking for just that one shot of her showing up outside. I sighed and slowed the car down to a stop. I spotted vans from all the major TV networks. This was a huge story now and out of my hands.

  What have I done?

  As I sat there in my car, my phone rang. I picked it up. It was the editor of the magazine.

  "Why the heck didn't you give us this story? Why did I hear it from somewhere else? Weren't you just with Margot Addington? You had better access to her than any reporter has ever had, and then this story breaks just a few days later?"

  I sighed. "I…I didn't know. This came out after I had been at her house."

  "It's the biggest story of the year, Rebekka, and you missed it. I don't think it will be easy for you to get work in this business again."

  Then she hung up.

  I couldn't blame her. I could see how it looked from her point of view. I had to be the worst journalist in the world for not finding this story myself when it was right under my nose. It didn't paint the picture of me as a very thorough journalist. Not in the eyes of an editor who wanted more readers in a world where most magazines were dying a slow death.

  I stared at the crowd of journalists who were waiting. I suddenly felt very much like the odd kid out. The last thing I wanted was to be one of them again.

  I got out of the car and walked up to them, then elbowed my way through. "Excuse me. Can I just…excuse me?"

  I managed to get all the way to the intercom. I could hear the other reporters whispering my name behind me. Guess I had somehow made a name for myself, even though it was in the worst possible way. I was now officially the journalist who had missed the scoop of a lifetime.

  I pressed the button, and a voice responded. "Yes?"

  It was her. Margot Addington.

  "Margot? This is Rebekka Franck. Listen, I…"

  "Rebekka Franck? How do you have the nerve to show yourself here?" she said.

  My heart sank. Her voice held so much contempt, I could barely stand it. She truly believed this was my fault.

  "I’m so sorry, Margot. I never meant for…"

  "Haven't you done enough?" she asked. "Please, just leave us alone and take all your little friends with you."

  "But…I’m sorry, Margot," I tried. "I had no idea it would end like this."

  "We have nothing more to say to one another. Goodbye."

  "But…Margot…I…"

  It was too late for my apologies. Margot was no longer at the other end. I felt so devastated. This was never my intention. How was I supposed to know this would happen? I wanted to tell her how sorry I was; I wanted to offer to publish her real story instead, to correct it and clear her name, but I didn't even get to say the words.

  Instead, I turned around, and that was when all the cameras were turned in my direction. Microphones were held out, and the cameras whirred. All eyes were suddenly lingering on me.

  "You’ve been to her house," a reporter said. "You’ve interviewed her. Is it true that she is a convicted murderer?"

  "Did she kill those boys?" another one yelled.

  "Has she killed again?"

  "You really are vultures, aren't you?" I answered, then turned around and walked away. A couple of them followed me, yelling more questions at me as I rushed back to my car, feeling so embarrassed about my own profession that I wanted to throw up.

  38

  Webster, Florida 1979

  It was getting worse. The Blacks’ boy hadn't shown up yet, and for two whole days, the town was turned upside down. Everything stopped. No stores were open; no one went to work. Everyone was searching for him, desperately going through every corner of town and every part of the swamps. Still, there was no trace of him, and now everyone had turned their eyes toward Carol's house and the little girl living inside it.

  Carol watched as they threw eggs at the façade and yelled for Anna Mae to come out and admit to what she had done. Meanwhile, Carol stared at the drawing that Anna Mae had made two days ago, holding it between her hands, her fingers shaking. It showed a little boy lying in water, his eyes closed.

  Ever since Carol had seen the drawing, she had locked the door, and they hadn't left the house. She didn't dare to go out because she felt terrified and had no idea what to do.

  She didn't even dare ask the girl about the drawing. She knew she had to at some point, but she didn't want to. She didn't want to hear the answer. She feared what the girl might say.

  Carol loved having Anna Mae in her house and having her with her. Even though John wasn't as pleased about it as she was. She would do anything for the girl. She was her one and only love.

  But lately, the girl had begun to frighten her a little. A week ago, she had come to their room at night. She hadn't said anything; they simply woke up to her standing at the end of their bed. It gave Carol a shock, and it took a few seconds before she could get herself together.

  "Anna Mae, dear?" Carol asked.

  When the girl didn't answer, Carol believed her to be simply sleepwalking. She got out of bed and grabbed Anna Mae’s hand. She had then led her back to her bed and tucked her in. But that was when the girl had said something that back then Carol hadn't worried about, but now she did.

  "It's more fun to hurt
someone who doesn’t fight back."

  Back then, Carol had thought she was talking about herself, about the kids bullying her in school, but now as she stared at the drawing of the boy, lying in the water, she felt more and more like it held another meaning.

  Carol folded the drawing, and with determined steps, she walked out to the backyard where Anna Mae was kneeling on the ground, roasting ants with a magnifying glass. Carol stood behind her for a few seconds, gathering the courage she needed for this.

  "Anna Mae?"

  The girl looked up, an eerie grin on her face. Carol held out the drawing for her, trying to keep her hands still. Then she pointed at it.

  "I need you to take me there. Take me to that place."

  The girl's face froze. Anna Mae rose to her feet, then looked at the drawing. She glanced back up at Carol, who realized that even her eyes seemed to be glistening in excitement.

  "I'll take you there. Come."

  39

  She shouldn't have come. Margot felt the many eyes on her as she walked inside with Theodore, her long dress sliding across the marble floor behind her.

  She had told him she didn't want to go, but he had insisted that they go. This charity was the event of the year, and they were expected to show up. Besides, if they didn't, then the vultures would win.

  Those were his words, and they still rang in her head as she slid across the floor, her high heels clicking on the tiles. There had been chatting and even laughter when she entered, but that all stopped now. Eyes lingered on her, looking at her dress, wondering if it was true, if what they said on TV and online could be real.

  They had to take the back entrance out of their house and the estate since the front was still occupied by the journalists. Margot wondered how long they would be camping out there in front of their gate. It was dark when she and Theodore left the comfort of their estate for this dinner, but there were still as many out there as there had been this morning.

  Were they never going to give up? Would they never go home? Was this nightmare ever going to end?

  "Just breathe," Theodore whispered in her ear, holding her hand in his. "Long, deep breaths. I promise it'll all be over soon."

  Margot tried. She tried to breathe and smile at the same time. She tried so hard to pretend like everything was just fine when all she wanted was to scream. She wanted to go home and just stay there forever behind those closed doors where no one could see her or judge her. She wanted never to show her face anywhere again.

  They had followed them to the event. Two cars with journalists and photographers in them had seen them leave through the back entrance and followed them there. They had driven up on the side of the car and yelled out the window, trying to get any reaction out of her or her husband, anything they could get a picture of that they could sell. She had heard the clicking of cameras as she rushed inside the Ritz-Carlton in Orlando, Theodore trying to cover her up so they couldn't take her picture.

  Her husband did his best, but he couldn't protect her against what had met them on the inside. People who used to be their friends were staring her down, their eyes oozing with condemnation. Even the lady showing them to their table gave her one of those looks that told her she was worthless; she was the scum of the Earth.

  "Can we go home soon?" she whispered as the event went on and she felt like she had shown her face for long enough. "I really want to go home."

  Theodore grabbed her hand in his and rubbed it gently. "Soon. Let's just stay a little while longer to make sure that people know you won't scare away easily. You have every bit as much right to be here as they have. You're doing fine; trust me."

  Margot leaned back in the chair and sipped her wine. As the soft drops touched her tongue, she kept going, and soon she had emptied her glass. She closed her eyes and let the drink do its job in her, letting the divine drops of heaven subdue her raging fear. The waiter then filled her glass again, and she soon finished that one as well.

  "Let's go," Theodore finally said when the event was almost over. "I think that ought to do it. If we go now, we can make it out to the car before everyone else. That should give us a head start."

  Margot rose to her feet and staggered toward the entrance, holding the hand of her beloved husband. They reached the door, and he held it open for her, so she could walk ahead. Margot walked outside, feeling woozy but thankful that it was all over, and she could finally go back home.

  As Theodore closed the door behind her, she spotted the crowd of journalists. When they saw her, they bounced forward, all of them simultaneously yelling her name.

  Margot froze as they approached with their clicking cameras. But it was no longer them she was seeing.

  It was the small woman in ragged clothes standing in front of them that had caught her eye. The woman had gotten old. The eyes were older, yet the same. They had the same spite in them as they'd had earlier in Margot's life.

  "Well, well, well," the woman simply said. "How you have made your way up in this world, my Anna Mae."

  Margot stared at the woman, her heart thumping in her chest. She tried to walk around the woman, still holding her husband's arm, but the woman wouldn't let them pass.

  "You think you’ve fooled the entire world, don't you? But not me, Anna Mae. You'll never fool me. I know who you really are."

  "Leave me alone," Margot said. "I don't know who you are. Get away from me."

  That made the woman laugh. "You don't know who I am. Now that is one for the books. My own daughter doesn't even recognize me."

  The cameras were flashing as the words fell like rocks from the sky. Margot felt her legs begin to shake and knew she had to act. She had to get away from here now before her entire world crumbled.

  "Please, leave us alone," Theodore said. He was speaking politely, yet with the authority of a doctor.

  "You even have him fooled, don't you?" the woman said.

  Theodore shook his head in contempt, and she could tell he was about to get agitated. This was beneath him. He wasn't used to humiliation; he wasn't used to people talking to him without an air of awe and respect.

  "Listen to me," he began. "I don't know who you are or why you believe you can just come here…"

  But he didn't make it any further before the woman walked closer and looked him straight in his eyes. Behind them, the cameras were flashing like a lightning storm. The reporters were watching it all, gobbling it down, mouths gaping, and drooling over the story they were about to get, probably already making up sensational headlines in their minds.

  "No, you listen to me," the woman said. "Your wife is my daughter. I would recognize those eyes anywhere. And she's a murderer. You ask her about that when you get home. And ask her about the scar she has on the lower part of her back. Because I gave it to her when she was seven, trying to kill her with a fire poker. You ask her about that, and then you tell me who is lying."

  "I don't have to listen to this," Theodore said, shaking his head. "Please, just leave my wife alone."

  Margot felt his hand on her arm, and she was pulled away. His determined footsteps walked across the pavement to the car that the parking valet had ready for them. There was something more to those steps now, wasn't there? There was an anger in them that she hadn't heard before.

  Margot got into the car, and they rushed off, the engine roaring, while the cameras flashed and the reporters yelled, trying to suck out the last of what was left of the famous and mysterious Margot Addington.

  40

  I saw it on Facebook. I had decided to boycott the TV and went on Facebook for just a few seconds when it popped up in my feed. A live broadcast from some charity event in Orlando. I watched as Margot Addington faced the woman who claimed to be her mother. I saw Joanna once again claim she knew who she really was. I couldn't believe what was happening to her. I felt so disgusted with the entire situation and could tell how terrible it made Margot feel. But they didn't care. All they wanted was some reaction from the woman everyone talked about these days
. They just trusted this strange woman who suddenly made all these claims.

  Was this what things had come to now? Was this what they called journalism now? Was it all about destroying people's lives to get clicks and sell magazines? I remembered a day when it was all about the truth and finding it. That's what it was like when I chose to get into journalism. That was what it was all about when I was in Afghanistan and when I took down corrupt politicians.

  I missed those days.

  What if they're right, Rebekka? What if she is Anna Mae Burke? What if she did kill Alexander Cunningham?

  I shook my head to get rid of the thought. There was no evidence that connected Margot to the boy, and until there was, I chose to believe she was innocent. I wasn't going to let some lynch mob dictate what I believed. I needed proof, and I needed facts.

  I hadn't gotten anywhere on the case all day, but in all fairness, I hadn't been able to concentrate either. I had been so angry and felt so terrible for Margot. I had really liked her when I met her, and I couldn't understand why they were so busy smearing her.

  I also felt like I ought to somehow make it up to her, and that's what I was trying to do. I wanted to figure out what the heck was going on in this strange town. Why was the sheriff lying to the parents and the public about Alexander's death? Was it just because he didn't want a repeat of what had happened back in seventy-nine? Did he know more than he let on? I had looked him up and realized he was a young deputy back then. He had been one of the deputies on the scene when they found the Blacks’ boy. Maybe he had a personal reason for lying?

  I shook my head and closed my computer, feeling awful for Margot. They were so busy calling her a liar and asking themselves if she might have killed again. The worst part was that there wasn't much I could do about what was happening to her, except try and find the truth in this story. It was out there somewhere; I just had to dig a little deeper.