“That sounds fun,” she said, starting to exit.
“Hey, Hannah?”
“Yeah?” She turned back, her feet already on the grass.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” he said, putting the car in drive. He said it in a way that didn’t sound hollow or fake.
Her ears rang as she fought unexpected tears. Guy would’ve gotten along with her dad; she was sure of it. Both intellectuals. Both soft-spoken yet strong-spirited. Both excellent fathers.
“Thank you,” she said as he rolled up his window and waved as he pulled away. She waved back, shell-shocked. Why did Guy make her feel so many things?
She watched his car as he drove off toward Senatobia Middle School, where she’d just learned that Guy taught a bunch of eighth graders about all the beautiful things she was passionate about in life: writing, poetry, journalism, literature. And nearly six weeks ago, it had also been the reason Guy saw Hannah for the first time—whether she had known it or not.
CHAPTER 18
When Hannah returned from her outing to the cemetery with Guy, she was windswept and distracted. Adventure suited Hannah. She liked being out in the field, and she loved spending time with someone who had caught the same itch for investigation that she’d been scratching. It was invigorating and inspiring and left her ready to get to work.
She made brief small talk with Dolores and found out that Monty was still out for lunch, his door locked and the lights dark. He’d seemed intent on having a conversation when she got back, but it must not have been that serious, which meant she could get back to work. First she needed to respond to Peter. She reread their conversation from earlier that day.
Peter Dawson: Hey there! Pete Dawson here. It was great meeting you on Saturday.
I know you had some questions about the Pines. Any way I can help?
Hannah: Mr. Dawson—thank you for reaching out. It was an interesting night, that’s for sure!
I do have questions about the Pines. Maybe I can give you a call?
Peter Dawson: Call me Pete. How about over drinks?
She pondered this offer. Drinks in exchange for information. That wasn’t unusual. But what kind of information would Peter Dawson bring to such an exchange? She needed access to files. She wouldn’t get that over drinks.
Hannah: I would love to talk, but I’m looking for some specific information.
Would you be able to help me out?
Hannah hit “Send.” Peter Dawson might be trying to get a date, but Hannah wasn’t interested in the flirty “playboy,” as he’d been called by the Daily Memphian in an article about his father, prior to the start of Peter’s own political career. But she’d let him help her keep the investigation moving forward. No text bubbles showed up, so Hannah flipped over to another message she needed to answer—this one from Alex.
Hannah: I’m up for dinner on Wednesday. I’ll clear my schedule. Aren’t you lucky? ;)
The winky face was a bit much; she knew it as soon as she’d hit “Send.” Hannah tamped down her guilt with all her carefully crafted excuses, the main one being her search for “closure.” But she wasn’t sure that was true. There was no guarantee that the visit would bring closure, but she’d missed his face and craved his voice for so long that she couldn’t deny herself the opportunity to experience it again one more time.
Then again, their meeting would be right before Thanksgiving. From her extensive online research, it was clear that Alex was getting married in December, so Hannah held no fantasies of a romantic connection. Truly, she also wanted to see Alex out of a hope that her feelings for him had faded, that the magic of his smile and touch had waned during their time apart, leaving her strong enough to let him go.
Her phone dinged.
Alex: So lucky ;)
I’ll give you the details in a few days. I’ll find someplace with some local flair.
“Local flair.” Hannah snickered. He remembered. Every time they were trying to decide where to go for dinner, when they found time for a rare date night and Alex would ask where Hannah wanted to go, she always said, I don’t care as long as it has some local flair. Alex would always say, We live in Chicago. What do you mean “local flair”? She never was able to articulate what she meant in those moments entirely, but Alex would inevitably find something new and fantastic that they’d try out together.
She forced herself not to respond, not even a smiley face or a laughing emoji, and put her phone in her desk drawer. Those stupid little things kept her feeling in control, like she was doing this on her terms, even if deep down she knew she was lying to herself.
Monty picked that exact moment to return from wherever he’d gone during his lunch hour that day. He didn’t say a word, just walked past Hannah’s desk and gestured for her to follow. He looked stormy and severe, and quiet little Dolores gave Hannah an accusatory look. She shrugged in response and followed without question. Even when Monty had been bossy or annoyed in the past, he still had an overarching air of joviality. But not today. Today he had something serious on his mind, and she knew it.
When Hannah walked into Monty’s office, he was already sitting. He pointed to a chair, and the gesture made Hannah swallow loudly, wishing she had had more for lunch than the nutmeg coffee. She had no guesses as to what had her editor so on edge.
He sat behind his desk, tie loosened a bit at the neck so it made an open triangle, revealing the top buttons of his dress shirt. He steepled his fingers and leaned his lips against them as Hannah settled into one of the chairs. She’d freshened up since the cemetery and had her hair brushed and pulled back into a high ponytail, and though she was missing the protection of her oversize jacket, she hoped her V-neck blouse and nicest pair of jeans helped her look at least a little professional.
“Miss Williamson, welcome back,” he said, as though she’d been on some trip instead of on an hour-long lunch break. She didn’t see the somewhat humorous caricature of a southern gentleman she often found humor and fault in. Today he looked like an editor. An angry editor.
Hannah tended to ramble when she was nervous. It was either talk incessantly or argue, and she didn’t know what to argue about until he came out and said that he wanted to change her assignment. So instead, she let her nerves take over and started overexplaining her afternoon activities.
“Thanks. Sorry I got back a little late. I wanted to do some . . . uh . . . family history, and Guy offered to take me to the Bethesda Cemetery down on 51. We have a family plot there. My papaw and my uncle and a whole bunch of others. It was kind of cold but really interesting and—”
“I’m not concerned about your lunch activities, Miss Williamson.” Monty cut her off.
Hannah stopped speaking immediately. It was better to let him talk and find out what was going on than to waste time trying to guess. She held her breath, put her hands under her legs, and waited for Monty to find the words he was searching for.
“Can you tell me why I have a call from Ms. Shelby Dawson asking about you? She said you used your press credentials to get into one of her nephew’s fundraising events.”
Damn it. Of course Shelby Dawson had taken it upon herself to search her out. That curmudgeonly old battle-ax. In the days since her visit to the Pines, Hannah had been tempted to reach out to the Safe Place organization, as Peter had suggested, and search for more information on Evelyn, but there was something about Shelby and the way she had looked at Hannah like she was the enemy that kept her from taking the risk.
“I wasn’t trying to get into the event, and they weren’t press credentials—it was just my old ID badge. I visited the Pines to do a little research on a side project I’m working on. It was on a Saturday during my free time, and I didn’t know there was a fundraiser that night. I just showed up and was looking through the pictures in the lobby, and then this man came up to me, and you’ll never guess who it was.” Hannah tried to make herself sound as innocent as possible.
Monty did not seem entertained. He removed his fingers
from his lips, where they rested anytime he wasn’t speaking.
“Enlighten me,” he said, not playing into her narrative. She couldn’t get fired again. What would she tell her mother? Or Mamaw or Guy, even? And beyond her hurt pride, if she lost access to the archives, how would she ever finish Evelyn’s story? Hannah rushed to explain.
“It was Peter Dawson. State senator Peter Dawson. As in US senator Jack Dawson’s son.” Hannah paused for a reaction from Monty, but he just stared at her. “But I didn’t even know that. So we had this whole conversation. It turns out he’s a pretty interesting guy. But then Miss Dawson came up, and she thought I was trying to get information about their family, and she made me leave. But I swear Peter didn’t care. He gave me his phone number and everything. I can show you. The number is at my desk. He texted me.”
Monty put up his hand to make Hannah stop talking. “So let me get this right. You snuck into a fundraising event to work on a ‘personal project.’ And then used old credentials from the Chicago Tribune to fraudulently get information from a state senator?”
“ID. Not credentials. I swear. And no! No, I wasn’t there to get information from Peter Dawson or Jack Dawson or Shelby Dawson. I don’t give a shit about the Dawson family.” Monty flinched at her curse word. Hannah corrected herself, wanting to stay on Monty’s good side. “Sorry, I don’t give a crap about the Dawson family. I wanted to know more about the building. There used to be this children’s hospital there, and I wanted more information about one of their patients from the 1930s. That’s all.”
Monty put his hands on the paper-covered desk and sighed, making the random pages rustle like they were alive. “You fail to explain why you thought it was acceptable to use unethical methods. You were not on assignment. And this story you told Ms. Dawson about? I need you to kill it. Immediately.”
“Kill it?” She didn’t know how to “kill” this story, and she didn’t want to. Monty wasn’t exactly a journalist, but he’d have to see the potential in this story. Guy and Rosie were interested, and Mr. Davenport wanted to know more badly enough to push Hannah into her weekend research trip. So far the only uninterested party was Mamaw. There was no promise that this story would end up in print, but with her new leads, how could she give up now?
“Yes, kill the story and keep to your approved assignments,” Monty said, rummaging through a stack of files on his desk, searching for what was likely a new busywork assignment to keep her occupied.
“But it’s not for the Record, it’s for . . .” She hesitated, sure she shouldn’t admit that she was planning on pitching the story to a bigger newspaper than the Record if she ever found all, or at least some, of the missing puzzle pieces. “I don’t know yet, but it has a lot of potential news pegs, with potential true-crime tie-ins and angles on child labor and abuse laws. I’m not settled on one just yet, but as I keep researching, I know I’ll find it—”
“Miss Williamson,” Monty interjected, clearly not interested. “If the project is not for this newspaper, I must ask that you cease and desist your investigations while in our employ. Your actions over the past weekend have put a black mark on the Record and harmed our relationship with the Dawson family, and to be quite honest, your story sounds like a mess. You don’t even know what makes this thing current. You can’t have ten pegs—you need one. And it needs to be significant.”
Hannah narrowed her eyes at Monty, scooching to the edge of her seat, something off-putting striking her about his statement, and it wasn’t his critique of her pitch.
“What do you mean, our ‘relationship’ with the Dawsons? How does a small Mississippi county newspaper have a relationship with a political figure in Memphis?”
Monty’s chair squeaked beneath him as he shifted in his seat. A few nerves seemed to transfer back to the other side of the desk. He took a moment to slip out of his suit coat and stood to hang it on the coat hanger in the back corner of his office, right next to his line of diplomas and awards.
“The Dawsons are an old family and, as you found from your research, are involved in many causes. This newspaper would never have made it financially if it weren’t for their charitable efforts. We would have had to close our doors years ago.”
He returned to his chair, more like himself, almost like he’d forgotten to be outraged at Hannah for the moment while he was on the defensive himself.
“Are you saying that the Dawsons own this newspaper?” Hannah asked, more confused and disturbed with every layer of this conversation. Never mind that she’d been caught. Never mind that Shelby Dawson apparently called the Chicago Tribune looking for her and ended up being pointed to the Tate County Record instead. Those things didn’t even bother her at the moment.
“No, of course not. They don’t own it.” He cleared space on his desk and made a pile of random pages and envelopes on either side as if Moses parting a sea of paper. “This newspaper is dedicated to community news and has been supported by charitable grants for decades. Shelby Dawson sits on the board of the SVC Group, which just happens to make my salary—and your salary for that matter—possible. Surely you didn’t think those piddly little ads for Anne’s Greenhouse or Piggly Wiggly were keeping us afloat.”
It made sense. Hannah knew it was happening more and more often, especially with small local newspapers. The Salt Lake Tribune had sent shock waves through the newspaper business when it was approved for nonprofit status with the IRS, and even the New York Times took funding from foundations. But this wasn’t how it was supposed to work.
“But you can’t give the Dawsons special treatment just because they fund your newspaper, Monty. Killing articles because a donor tells you to? Talk about unethical . . .”
At the mention of ethics and the Record possibly being on the wrong side of them, Monty sat up straight as a rod and stopped messing around with the disaster on his desk.
“Unethical? You were not on assignment for the Record. You made me and this organization look unprofessional. I am of half a mind to send you out that door and never let you back in.” Monty’s voice crescendoed as he spelled out the potential consequence for her, and any confidence and fire Hannah had gained was immediately doused. She couldn’t lose another job. She couldn’t lose her access to Evelyn’s story. She couldn’t fail—yet again.
“No. Please, no.” She clasped her hands together on her lap, tears pooling on her lower eyelids, willing to do anything to make it all better. She could research the story without Monty—or Shelby Dawson—knowing. It would be hard—but possible. One day she’d have to get his permission to use Evelyn’s rejected articles, or perhaps build up enough of an appetite for lying that she could invent a different origin story, but those were not today worries. Today, she was facing failure just when she was starting to taste success again, and anything looked preferable to that low. “I am so sorry. I overstepped, and I made a big mistake. I promise that I will just stay in the basement and do my work.”
The silence in that moment was like the two sides of a vise closing slowly, squeezing Hannah from every direction. Monty made that smacking sound that usually made Hannah feel sick, and a rebellious tear ran down her cheek, unveiling more emotion than he probably ever knew she possessed. He let out a rattly breath, his answer rumbling in his chest as he proclaimed it.
“All right. One more chance.” He slapped the bare spot on his desk and then leaned as far forward as he could manage. “But listen here: If you get yourself into trouble even one more time, there won’t be a warning. You’ll be let go.”
Hannah wiped at her cheeks and put on her best impression of a pleasant face. She sniffed, and Monty continued to soften right in front of her eyes.
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“And . . . and I’m gonna need that ID you’ve been using. I’ll keep it safe if you want to put it in your scrapbook one day, but for now, it’ll be safer in my desk.”
Hannah nodded and blinked away the last traces of her emotional moment.
“And
. . . and . . .” He stuttered again, going through a list he must’ve created inside his head but also seeming to find it difficult to stay angry at a tearful young woman. She should be offended, but she was grateful for the one time misogyny was working in her favor. “This project you’ve been working on, does it have anything to do with Guy Franklin?”
“No! Not at all.” At least that was the truth, though it was the only bit of honesty she could afford at the moment. She’d literally just promised to be a straight arrow and was already about to break that vow. “I am just trying to compile an accurate family history for my grandmother. It seems that her father took some charitable interest in the children’s hospital, in particular one patient, who I mentioned to Ms. Dawson, and I thought she would like to have a picture or something if they happen to have any.”
Monty clapped his giant hands together thunderously. “Well, why didn’t you ask me? Then we could’ve saved ourselves all kinds of difficulties. I don’t exactly have any pictures of your papaw at the children’s home, but I have every single proof of every single edition of the newspaper since my great-granddaddy founded it in 1881. Why, I could find you stories about the Williamson family going back to when the Record was still the Tate County Democrat.”
“Oh, you do?” she asked innocently and hated herself just a little bit for manipulating Monty’s weakness for frail women. If she could look in those files, there was no doubt she could find more information about Evelyn, maybe even her last name, which would open up all kinds of doors when it came to tracking down the truth.
“I sure do. Just tell me what you want, and I can get it for you.”
“Well,” she hedged, “maybe I could just take a look?” She added a flutter or two of her eyelashes. Overkill or not, it didn’t seem to faze Monty either way. He shook his head.
What's Left Unsaid Page 18
