Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
I did that.
Finally. I documented something strange and true. Why’d I have to experience it firsthand and almost get myself killed, to turn into a believer?
Well, I still don’t believe in psychics, so at least there’s that.
Wren leans back in her chair, arms lifted over her head in a lazy stretch. “Okay. This went in a different direction than I expected but I’ll admit, it’s good. Like, really good.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.” She nods toward the screen. “You didn’t turn it into a sensationalized ghost story for clicks.”
I scrunch my face into a frown and stare at the image of the cemetery on the screen. “You don’t think I lost my objectivity and drifted into an opinion piece?”
Wren mirrors my frowny face, then quickly shakes her head. “Not at all.” Her lips curve in a soft, sympathetic way—the warning sign she’s about to say something prickly. “It’s subject matter you have personal familiarity with. But you didn’t abandon your ethics. You make a compelling case for why now, more than ever, it’s important for us to know history. That it’s the only way to recognize the same harmful patterns of behavior today and prevent future generational trauma.”
“Okay.” I nod slowly. I can live with that. “Good. That was the goal.”
She glances at the timeline again, scrubbing back a few seconds, watching the way the light shifts across the ironwork. The Widow’s silhouette is barely visible in the background.
Wren slows the footage, eyes narrowing. “Don’t be mad, but can I ask you something kind of awful?”
I let out an aggrieved sigh. “I mean, when you put it that way, how can I say no?”
“I’m serious. Do you think that’s how they chose?” She nods at the screen. “The women and girls the Rider took. Were they unable to have kids?”
My stomach twists. “I’ve thought about that,” I admit. “The Widow thought she was sparing them her fate.”
“That’s fucked up,” Wren says. “And not very girl’s girl of her. Damn.”
I nod slowly.
“Seriously, it makes the whole story even crueler if it’s true.”
“I doubt there’s a way to know for sure. But I want this to be respectful. Of her story and so many others like her throughout history.”
Wren slowly turns her head and studies me. “It is. This is solid work. You back it up with facts and documents.”
I shrug. “Like any good journalist.”
She nods quickly, then returns to studying the screen. “What do you think happened to them?”
I’ve thought about that over and over. The way Declan stared into the forest as if he expected his sister to come walking out.
But she didn’t. None of them did.
“I don’t know,” I finally answer.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while. I make a few notes and adjustments while Wren tweaks audio levels. She asks me to record a few voice-overs. It feels good to focus on something that has a beginning and an end. A mystery that I actually solved.
“Do you want to talk about the tattooed elephant in the room?” Wren asks after we’ve completed a good chunk of work.
“Nope,” I reply, keeping my eyes on my notepad.
She waits.
I don’t offer anything else.
I’d given her the barest of details about my time with Declan. Leaving him still hurts too much to discuss.
She reaches over and nudges my foot with hers. A small, wordless check-in.
When we finish a few hours later, we have a four-part series on Crowsbridge Hollow. My longest videos yet.
“I think these are going to be huge,” Wren says, excitement bubbling up in her voice. “We need to release them strategically. Maybe one week apart? Give each episode time to land, gain some buzz, then drop the next one.”
I nod quickly. Wren’s my numbers expert. “Sounds good to me.”
We wrap up, sign out of the studio, and head for the parking lot.
Night’s fallen, but the lot is bright. I parked close to the door like I always do.
Tonight, a large black truck blocks my path.
“Who the hell parked like such a jackass?” Wren mutters, glaring at the truck.
Excitement flips my stomach, but I remain calm on the outside. It can’t be. Dozens of trucks exactly like this one pass me every day on the road.
My gaze drops to the New York plate on the front.
Hope swells inside me.
The driver’s side door opens.
Declan steps out.
Serious expression in place. Dark winter coat pulled tight across his shoulders. His gaze locks on me instantly. My entire word narrows down to his face.
Wow, I didn’t hallucinate how handsome…how big…how everything Declan is.
“Em, should I call 911?” Wren whispers, nudging me with her elbow.
“What?” I break my stare-off with Declan and frown at her. “No, why?”
“Uh, the big, serial-killer-looking dude blocking your car and staring at us like he wants to mount us on his wall as trophies.” Wren gestures wildly. “That’s why.”
The thought’s so absurd, I snort, then let out a louder laugh. “No. That’s Declan,” I whisper.