What's Left Unsaid

by Emily Bleeker

  Hannah had fallen asleep, phone in hand. She’d woken up three hours later with a sick feeling in her stomach that had to do with regret. She’d let her chat with Alex keep her from reading Evelyn’s letters and, worst of all, pushed her actual friend, Guy, out of her mind.

  She still hadn’t read his messages. Hannah had never been one to read the last page of a book first or search the internet for TV show spoilers, so she didn’t want to find out anything about the end of the story that didn’t come directly from Evelyn’s mind. Hannah’s focus on Alex always found a way to take precedence. She checked the line of clocks on the wall. It was past ten, and Monty wasn’t in his office—maybe he took an extra day off for the holiday, she thought, reaching for any explanation. If she wasn’t getting through that basement door anytime soon, then she had time to read the only remaining clue in her possession.

  March 17, 1936

  Mr. Martin,

  I have been wholly under the weather for some time. I am nearly recovered, and thank you for your patience. I have decided to put considerable effort into telling the rest of this story as concisely as possible, which is not always the easiest of tasks when speaking of one’s life, but I shall do my best. Soon you shall know who was responsible for my injuries, as will the rest of your readers. I promise.

  On July 3, at about midnight, we started out for Paducah, Kentucky. At that time it was Harry, me, Mrs. Strong from across the street, and her daughter, Lilly. Mother insisted the Strongs accompany me and Harry, talking about propriety and such, which steamed me up after what she’d let Mr. Fred do.

  We arrived there at about ten in the morning. I was a sick piece of humanity; we had eaten hot dogs at three in the morning, and that was more than I could stand. Harry’s mother was quite different than I had imagined her—tall and slender, and a bit stylish.

  She looked younger than Louisa, even with a grown son. His family was quite well known in those parts and doing well despite hard times. He introduced me as his girl, and that did not please his mother at all. She pinched her glossy lips and wrinkled her perfect powdered nose and said Harry and I were too young to think of such things.

  Harry and his brothers went to town, and the girl visitors and I went to lie down. I slept for some time but still felt nearly as sick as when the doctor thought I had appendicitis. I snuck down the back staircase and stopped when I heard Mrs. Strong talking with Harry’s mother.

  “How old is that girl you came with?” she asked, not even using my Christian name, although I know Harry told it to her. Mrs. Strong said to her that I just turned fourteen in the spring, and Harry’s mother tsk-tsked.

  “I wish she wouldn’t be so pally with Harry. They are too young for such things.”

  Mrs. Strong agreed, and that’s when I heard that Harry was only sixteen.

  What? Only sixteen? Hannah felt the echo of betrayal Evelyn must’ve endured. Harry lied. He was a strange man she’d met at a carnival, who worked his way into her life and lied about his age. And in order to date him, she’d been put in a terrible position and been assaulted by a man twice her age. Hannah suffered outrage on her behalf, the pages waving in her grip.

  You see, he had told me and everyone else in Senatobia that he was nineteen and ready to settle down. It was all a lie. I was so sick that I just went out the back door and through the alley and went looking for the boys. I needed to talk to Harry. I wanted to know if what his mother said was the truth. I went all over town. At one point there were three men following me, and I was so scared and sick enough that I thought my insides were going to turn out.

  Finally, I went up on a porch and asked an older lady and man sitting there if I might use the phone. I couldn’t find the number, and they asked if they might do anything to help me. When I told them Harry’s name, they knew exactly where his mother’s house was. The old lady suggested that the man might take me there. So we piled into his big old truck, and I held my head out the window so the night air could settle my stomach.

  When we got to the Westbrooks’ home, Harry scolded me terribly. He said that they looked everywhere for me throughout town and thought that something awful might have happened. He called me a silly little girl and told me to stop crying like a baby. He said I’d embarrassed him and that he’d never felt so angry in his whole life. I was shocked that he could be so changed, but I also wondered if I ever really knew him. Could I know someone after only a few short weeks?

  His mother, who sat at the table smoking a cigarette in her dressing gown, glared at me. I knew I must look like a little girl to her. My heart was broken, and I went out on the back porch and cried until I couldn’t cry anymore.

  Harry decided that we had better leave in the morning, with me being so sick and upset and all. He called Mother long-distance and told her the plans. I hated causing such a fuss, but I couldn’t imagine sitting in a car for hours feeling as sick and low as I was at that moment.

  At six the next morning, we started back to Senatobia. I didn’t dare bring up any of the horrible things I’d witnessed and discovered during our trip, so I sat silent, watching life pass me by. And was I glad to get back? Yes, but for such a short time.

  The next time I write, I will complete my tale and answer the question that everyone had on their tongues seven years ago: Who shot Evelyn? The answer surprises even me to this day.

  Sincerely,

  Evelyn

  What the . . . ? Hannah flipped over the pages, scanning them with her eyes, to make sure she hadn’t mixed something up, but no—there were no more words or pages, just a terrible cliff-hanger that had no resolution and left her with the sickening knowledge that there must be more of Evelyn’s story orphaned in one of the basement files. Why did it seem like doors Monty had shut and locked were the only things keeping her from putting together the last few pieces of Evelyn’s puzzle?

  This mystery ending must’ve been what Guy was texting about the night before. Hannah read through his messages hastily, able to tell where he was in each article by his comments.

  Guy Franklin: This is getting so much creepier.

  Are you reading?

  Hello?

  You must’ve fallen asleep. I’ll send you my reactions for later. Warning—text bomb . . .

  No, Evelyn! Don’t go with him.

  Oh man, I really don’t like that Mr. Fred.

  I think her stepmom is evil.

  Oh my God—did what I think happened happen?

  Hot dogs at 3:00 a.m. sounds amazing right now.

  Harry is 16?!?!?!

  Wait—he’s mad at her? Huh?

  Happy to be home, but it didn’t last long—what is that supposed to mean?

  You’ll tell us the truth in the next letter, Evelyn? What next letter?

  Okay, not kidding this time, I don’t have another letter. Do you have it?

  Send it when you wake up. I’m on the edge of my seat.

  Sleep tight!

  She didn’t know what she felt worse about—the fact that she’d ignored Guy’s text chain so she could talk to a man who’d ignored her for ten months now or that she didn’t have another article to pass on to satisfy Guy’s request. With no idea where to even start apologizing or explaining, Hannah put her phone away, pushing her response off to later.

  “Hannah?” Dolores called from her desk, putting down the receiver to the landline she answered on behalf of the newspaper. Hannah hadn’t heard it ring, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t; she wasn’t the best at noticing anything outside her bubble of influence lately.

  “Yeah?” Hannah called back as she continued organizing her Evelyn files, nothing else to fill her time while she was stuck in the empty space between two locked doors.

  “That was Monty, hun. Some bad news. His wife had a heart attack. She’s at North Oak and going into surgery.”

  “Oh my God. Poor Monty,” Hannah said, sitting up straighter, the papers she’d been shuffling slipping from her fingers. She might not be the biggest Monty fan, but
he loved his wife as much or possibly more than any other man. Hannah didn’t envy anyone who had to sit by their loved one’s side as they fought for their life. Her father’s end was too fresh a memory to make her numb to what Monty must be going through.

  “Yes, dear. I know.” Dolores worked a tissue up under her glasses and dabbed at what must’ve been tears, though Hannah couldn’t see them from where she sat. “Monty said it would be all right if we started our holiday time early. No need to sit around here doin’ nothing.”

  Oh no. If Monty wasn’t able to come in today, then there was no way for Hannah to get into the archives to search for the missing final installment, or for her to make another attempt at getting into the proofs filed away in his office to attain Evelyn’s last name once and for all.

  “You almost ready, hun?” Dolores asked, somehow already dressed in her coat and gloves, likely anxious to get home and get an early start on her Thanksgiving dinner preparations for her husband and six children, their spouses, and all thirteen of her grandchildren.

  “Almost,” she replied, gathering her belongings, not ready at all but only in ways that she couldn’t express to the elderly woman who was beyond loyal to her boss. Hannah glanced around the room, half-frantic. She didn’t know what she expected to find, a Post-it with Hannah’s name? A big, flashing arrow pointing at the key to the basement? A neat stack of paper tied with a bow that told all of Evelyn’s story, filling in all the big, mysterious blanks? No such luck. All that stared back at her was Monty’s darkened office, Dolores’s tidy desk, a few files, and desks for the random part-timers who rarely, if ever, came into the office anymore. But no arrows or bows or keys.

  Defeated, she followed Dolores to the door, Hannah’s hope and drive shutting down with every light switch Dolores flipped. Going through the motions, Hannah wrestled her bike out of the vestibule and set it down at the bottom of the cement stairs, a task that had once seemed impossible and was now second nature. Finishing her shutdown routine, Dolores closed the inner office door and then joined Hannah outside.

  “Have a good day, dear.” Dolores waved to Hannah, while burying herself in a wool coat, clearly not used to the chill in the air.

  Hannah waved and was about to get on her bike when she saw something. Instead of heading to her car, parked on the street right next to the Record, Dolores remained standing at the top of the stairs like she was a lost child in a department store. Then, when she thought no one was looking, she attempted to stand on her tiptoes and reached up toward the top of the door trim, until a box was settled in the palm of her hand.

  Dolores slid the box open and retrieved a metal key from the compartment inside. With a few quick twists, she secured both of the locks and then returned the case to its proper location. Hannah turned away quickly for plausible deniability.

  With an official holiday farewell and a few more polite words about Monty’s poor wife, Dolores climbed into her car, the seat pulled nearly all the way up so she could reach the wheel, and left with a wave. Hannah let out a sigh of relief. It hadn’t been an arrow or a bow or an alarm or a trapdoor, but the universe, or whatever it was keeping her sane, did give her one thing—a key.

  It would get her inside before the files disappeared and let her search without needing to hide from Monty’s watchful and judgmental eye. But she’d need help—and Hannah knew just the person to call. She took out her phone and opened the messages she hadn’t known how to respond to just half an hour ago. But now she did.

  Hannah: Guy—can you meet me at the Record tomorrow at noon?

  She hit “Send” and was about to close out of the application so she could get on her bike to ride home when a return text vibrated in her hand.

  Guy Franklin: Absolutely. Dare I ask why?

  Hannah: Probably better if you don’t. Oh, and bring tools.

  CHAPTER 26

  “You said to bring my tools,” Guy said, tilting to one side, weighed down by a giant silver toolbox, heading straight toward Hannah, who had already retrieved the key and unlocked the front door. Carla was with Mamaw, prepping for the holiday, but would be leaving to get home to her own family and turkey stuffing, which left Hannah a little nervous. Even with Nancy’s visit in a few hours, Hannah was certain Mamaw would be alone for her bedtime routine. Thankfully, last night when Mamaw heard that Hannah was meeting with a state senator, she insisted she was ready to stay on her own for a few hours and Nancy agreed. Hannah knew it was time to let Mamaw start taking on some of her own self-care again, so she went along with the plan.

  During their evening together, they’d both played the game of “nothing happened / everything is fine,” ignoring the argument from earlier in the day. Hannah planned to revisit the conversation when Pam arrived the day after Thanksgiving. Maybe she’d be able to explain better than Hannah.

  “Wanna tell me what we’re doing today?”

  “I’ll tell you inside. Come on.” She waved him up the stairs and into the safety of the office, keeping an eye out for passing cars as they slipped inside, unseen. Guy wore a gunmetal-gray canvas jacket, dark jeans, and a ball cap and smelled lightly of cologne as he walked past her in the vestibule. He hadn’t been able to make it at noon after all. Still, after dropping Rosie at his parents’ house and finishing a few items for his side job with his father’s construction business, he’d texted that he could meet Hannah at the Record at 2:00 p.m., which would tighten her timeline, but it appeared to be the only way to get what she needed.

  “This is a little more covert than I feel comfortable with,” Guy said, scanning the dark interior of the room.

  “I know, but I was afraid if I told you my plan ahead of time, you’d say no.” She gave him a forced, cringing smile that admitted her guilt.

  “I don’t think I like it when you call something your ‘plan,’” he said, following her instructions, and then turned around to face Hannah. His mouth was open like he was about to finish a thought; instead, he stopped and took a good, long look at her instead. His eyes were tracking over her hair, flowing white blouse with a fitted leather jacket that she’d bought years before at a consignment shop, fitted jeans, and heeled booties. It was the one “professional-looking” outfit she’d brought from Chicago. She’d worn it only one time, during her interview for the newspaper position.

  “Uh, you look nice,” he said, swallowing loudly and then taking off his jacket and holding it in his arms.

  “You can put that on my chair.” She pointed at his jacket, her neck hot under her lengthy hair, especially after his compliment, afraid if she acknowledged it that she’d be back in that place where she wanted to be close to him.

  “Is this how you always dress for dabbling in espionage?” he said, adjusting his belt at his hips, a loose-fitting button-up hanging open over an orange V-neck. He looked a little more rugged than usual; the outfit was like something an actor in a movie would wear to go to Thanksgiving dinner with his big, loud, but also oh-so-amazing family.

  “This is not espionage. You don’t even have to do anything—I’ll break all the rules. You can just stand there telling me to stop the whole time if it makes you feel better.”

  “Reminder—I still don’t know what we are doing, and you still have not told me why you are dressed like that,” he said, squinting like he wanted to see her better.

  “I’m dressed like this ’cause I have a meeting with Peter later,” she said, mumbling the confession a bit. Hannah had told Guy about their first run-in. Plus, if she told him about drinks with Peter, then she didn’t have to mention her more embarrassing appointment for the evening with Alex, whom they had not discussed yet. Peter was a business contact, but Alex . . . maybe it was Hannah’s guilty conscience, but she feared Guy would judge her for meeting with him. Likely because she judged herself for doing it.

  “As in Peter Dawson?” he asked, hands in his pockets, shoulders raised, trying to look casual. “You two are on a first-name basis now?” he asked. Hannah swore that there was a slig
ht edge to his question, making it sound like an accusation.

  “I guess,” she said, hating the touch of hurt in his voice. She tried to explain. “I finally caved and I’m meeting him for drinks. He can get me files from the Pines but only with Evelyn’s last name. So . . . here’s where you come in. Question: If one were to need to pick a lock that looked something like that one over there, how might he, or she, do it?”

  Her timeline was insanely tight. Hannah would need to contact Peter immediately once they found Evelyn’s information so he could have time to retrieve the proper files from the Pines before their meeting. That would give Hannah and Guy a little over an hour. Hannah had an Uber set to pick her up at three thirty.

  “Damn it, Hannah, you intend to break into Monty’s office?” Guy asked, his voice louder than what felt comfortable in the dim room. He didn’t seem to find her humor very interesting this time around.

  “Maybe?” she said sheepishly, her heart racing just enough to let her brain know that deep down she thought this was a bad idea, but she also knew that people did insane things when they were backed into a corner.

  “This is a little risky,” he said, shaking his head. “I love this story—seriously, just as much as you do, but breaking and entering and going on dates with strangers is just insane.”

  “Is it risky, though?” Hannah liked Guy a lot, but she didn’t like it when he tried to tell her what to do. “As long as I don’t scratch the door, there’s no way he will even know I’ve been here. I’m not taking anything. I’m only looking at documents that should be open to anyone. And it’s not a date. It’s a professional meeting.”

  “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble, Hannah. I don’t like it. There has to be another way.” Guy leaned down to pick up his tool chest and made an oof sound as he lifted it off the creaking floorboards, taking a step toward the exit.