Never Gonna Tell (7 page)

I turn the key, revving my engine before gliding into drive and heading toward the library. I’d better have more luck there, or my story is dead on arrival.

THE LIBRARY IS practically empty, just a few old men checking out today’s headlines from the major newspapers and a couple of middle school kids playing on the computers. I ignore them and head to the archives, which are ironically located in the basement of the building.

I start by pulling out the piece of newspaper I stole from Hunter’s bathroom. With any luck, whatever is scrawled in the margins can point me in the direction of finding out why he threw those games. The newspaper itself is from last Monday, and it’s the national news section. I scan the article that is circled but it doesn’t seem relevant in any way. It talks about which polling stations will be open in a special election following the death of a councilman in a small town called Woodstock just outside of Atlanta.

The chicken scratch in the margin is almost illegible, as if someone was drunk when he wrote it. I can make out a few letters, but I can only guess as to whole words. I flip the paper ninety degrees, bringing it closer to my face. “Is that cook or crook? Is that even a K? Cool? Cruel? I am so confused.”

“Need any help down here, dear?”

My head whips up as I stifle my yelp. “You scared me to death!”

The librarian chuckles. “My husband always said I had little cat feet.”

She leans in, trying to see what I’m doing. I quickly turn over the paper. That nosy old bat is trying to eavesdrop on me. “I’m fine. I was just about to start using the microfilm machine. Could you tell me where they’re kept?”

She purses her lips. “Everything is stored by year in those cabinets over there starting in 1887 when the town was founded.”

I shove the scrap newspaper back in my bag and start my search, leaving the librarian alone at the table. I wave, encouraging her to leave. She finally does, muttering something about ungrateful brats on her way.

I don’t think I’m going to find my smoking gun in the archives, but I’m hoping that I’ll be able to do more research on all the players involved. If I can find that someone’s grandma’s house is being foreclosed or Uncle Joey has a history of trouble with the law, it might make a great motive and explain the sudden need to take a dive for money. I’d also like to find out who hired the therapist. My gut is telling me she didn’t come here on her own.

Two hours, three snack-size Snickers, one Red Bull, and a bathroom break later, I’ve come up with bubkiss. Nada. Zilch. I couldn’t find any scandalous or even questionable history from either Hunter or Beth’s families. And since his therapist, Dr. Marx, is new to town, there wasn’t any pertinent information on her either. Her house is in good standing, she has a thirty-year mortgage through the local bank, and her car title transferred from where she said she lived last. While I am discouraged, it just means I have to dig deeper. Hunter’s sudden turnaround seems too neatly tied up and miraculous for me. Yes, I am naturally a skeptical person, but something just doesn’t feel right. My gut is telling me there is a story here, and I can’t give up on that feeling.

The next step will be to try to recover some of the footage from when he was “losing” games. I want to look closer at his facial expressions, who was sitting in the stands and standing on the sidelines, or anything else that might prove it wasn’t just performance anxiety. I’m sure the coach has the films, and I have no idea how to convince him to let me take a look.

The intercom announces that the library will be closing in ten minutes, so I return the microfilm strips to the librarian and throw away my trash before heading for the exit.

“Find what you were looking for, dear?” the nosy librarian asks me. We are the only two who remain, which doesn’t surprise me. It isn’t like the library on a Thursday night is the happening place to be. Hell, kids don’t even sneak into the stacks to make out anymore. What is this world coming to?

I smirk at her, trying to keep the bite out of my tone. “Not quite, but I’m not giving up completely. Just for the night.”

She tilts her head to the side and clucks her tongue. “Well, with that tenacity, I’m sure you’ll ace whatever school project you’re working on.”

Her voice is dripping with sarcasm. Oh, she’s not a nice old lady at all! I start to reply, but bite my tongue. I’m going to need to use this library a lot, and I can’t afford to burn any bridges. I swallow down the snark threatening to come out and instead go the sugary-sweet route. “You were especially helpful, ma’am. Thank you so much.”

Her tone matches mine as she replies. “It’s young people like you who are the reason I do this job.”

“I bet.” I hitch my backpack up on my shoulder and walk through the turnstile. “You have a nice night.”

Pushing the front door open, I turn back to her and wave one last time.
Did she just give me the finger?

I laugh aloud. In another life, I’m pretty sure we would have been good friends.

THE CHURCH BELLS from St. Agnes Church chime, letting me know I have a half hour before Dad calls the National Guard out for me.
Hmm, maybe enough time to head to the Shake Shack and get a frozen salted caramel hot chocolate
—my new favorite addiction.

Gravel crunches under my feet as I cross the parking lot toward my car. My phone buzzes in my pocket and, as I pull it out, I see it’s from Charlie.

Made it to Bmore. Miss you already.

My heart hurts reading it, but I can’t help smiling. I know it pains him deep down a bit when he sees how close I am to my mom. He never had that, and even though I’m not holding my breath, I really do hope this time it’ll be different. My thumb swipes an emojicon blowing a kiss and taps send before sliding the phone back in my pocket. I can’t wait to hear his voice tonight.

As I dig through my backpack searching for my car keys, a yelp rings out in the distance. Pausing, I stand still and listen for the sound again. Was an animal hurt somewhere, maybe? The noise was muffled and not close by, so I can’t make out the source. The last bell chimes, reminding me I should hurry home, but the reporter in me won’t let me leave without checking. I wait a few minutes to see if I hear it again, scanning the area for the source.

Across the street, dark shadows fill the doorways of the now-closed shops that line the main road, setting my nerves on edge. The voice in my head nags that this is how horror movies begin, but I shake off the ridiculous thought. Horror movies aren’t real. The idea of scooping a story before anyone else—that’s a real possibility. Nothing moves except for the leaves as the breeze picks up. Just as I’m ready to give up, I hear the noise again, this time followed by what sounds like shuffling feet—like something sliding through gravel.

“What in the world was that?” I mutter. The sounds together don’t make any sense. If it was an animal yelping, what was that other noise? Had someone maybe captured an animal in a trap? This is rural Tennessee, so it wouldn’t surprise me. Everyone around here is well-versed in hunting, starting in elementary school.

My naturally inquisitive mind begins imagining several scenarios, and I can’t walk away. Not until I know. Lord knows if I just get in my car and leave, I’ll be up all night thinking about how I might’ve missed out on a story. Bye bye, scholarship.

I sigh, shoving my overflowing backpack in the passenger seat before slamming the car door as I head toward the source of the noise. I make my way toward the river, cutting through an alleyway. The single streetlight flickers, barely illuminating the area and making it feel even more desolate out here. Ominous, almost. I can’t help thinking that with my luck, it’ll end up being a skunk that sprays me for trying to help.

The alley is more of a narrow path between buildings, not even wide enough for a car to fit through. Overflowing dumpsters from surrounding businesses line one side while the other is a dirty brick wall covered in graffiti. If this were Baltimore, I might have been more cautious, but while Hope Mills isn’t Pleasantville by any means, I don’t feel afraid, only curious.

“Get your hands off me, you son of a bitch. You’re never going to get away with this!” a man growls in the distance, the final word echoing off the water.

I whip my head around, barely missing smacking it on an underhang promoting JT’s Soul Food Buffet.
Okay, that definitely wasn’t an animal.
I hesitate, my gut telling me something isn’t right. My journalistic side smells a potential story and demands I investigate further, plus if someone is hurt, I can’t just leave him. Grabbing my cell phone and switching the camera to “on,” I tiptoe down the darkened alleyway, careful to stay in the shadows.

“You had your chances, Daniel. Many chances. Our generosity can only be stretched so far before it snaps. You hear what I’m saying?” The man speaking has a thick accent that holds nothing of Southern charm. It’s cold and has a hard edge, sending chills down my spine.

“Listen, just listen,” a man whimpers. “I just need—”

The whimpering turns to crying. The hairs lift on the back of my neck.
Maybe this isn’t the best idea
. I rock back on my feet, unsure if I should continue.
No, I’m being silly. This is Hope Mills, nothing bad happens here.
I push forward cautiously, watching each step I take so as to not make a sound.

“It’s not about what
you
need, Daniel. It’s about what
I
need. And what I need is for you to keep your promises. Do you understand me?”

I don’t recognize the voices, unsurprisingly. What I do recognize is that someone is in trouble. I slow my steps in order to stay unnoticed as I slink through the alley, keeping my back against the bricks of the buildings. My pulse quickens, and I lick my lips.

I side-step, silently placing each foot down softly as I move, the voices becoming louder as I get closer. The path brings me directly across from the men, but with no streetlights, the darkness of the alley keeps me from being seen. At least, I hope they can’t see me. I hold up my phone as I walk, the camera shaky in my hands. I’m not sure if I’m more afraid of being caught or excited to catch a good story.

“Please. Please, Nicky. Just a few more days, that’s all I need. I can get you a few grand. I know it’s not everything, but that’s got to buy me a little time, right?”

I duck behind a rusty dumpster, which obviously hasn’t been emptied in weeks, making the whole alley stink to high heaven. The smell of rotting cabbage and spoiled meat is making my eyes water. Holding my nose, I peer around the corner just in time to hear a loud crack. Deep crimson blood is smeared on a wooden baseball bat, and a man is writhing on the ground, even more blood smeared over his mouth, hands, and knee. I don’t have to be Woodward or Burnstein to figure out that someone’s getting a beat down for not paying a debt. I can also safely assume that A-Rod with the now-bloody bat slung over his shoulder is a loan shark.

I know uncovering crime for a living is bound to mean I’ll see some violence in my life, but I’m not prepared for it now that it’s in front of me. My stomach turns seeing so much blood. I thought
Breaking Bad
and
Sons of Anarchy
had prepared me, but TV dramas can’t capture the real look of horror on a victim’s face and the coppery smell that fills my nostrils—even from this distance.

A-Rod takes another swing, the bat coming down on the man’s knee with a hard crack. The sidewalk’s painted scarlet like a Jackson Pollack piece. My stomach churns again at the sight, and I gag a little at the thick coppery smell in the air.

Okay, shit just got real. It doesn’t matter how bad someone’s choices are, no one deserves this. I want to run out of the alley, terrified that if I’m caught the next swing of the bat will be at me, but seeing the agony on his face makes my decision for me. I have to stay and try to help, even if all I can do is call 911 and get the guy medical attention once the goons leave.

The thug swings the bat again and I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut—but it can’t keep out the sound of bone cracking. Peeking one eye open, my stomach drops, and I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. A-Rod wipes flecks of blood from his face with his sleeve, leaving a crimson trail across his forehead and cheek.
I think I’m going to be sick
.