Chapter 8
Jackson
One of the nice things about a career as a reporter is that combing through someone’s entire public footprint doesn’t count as ‘stalking’ when you’re calling it investigative journalism.
Which is exactly how Jackson justifies this morning’s sojourn to the Gazette’s basement to scour the archives for intel on the Bens Whitaker.
Mort’s nephew, who Jackson’s pretty sure has never once left the sub-level during working hours, is supposed to be organizing and digitizing years worth of print news.
He has been at this job with no discernible results for several years.
Jackson finds him hunched over his phone at the desk, scrolling his never-ending For You Page.
Jackson clears his throat loudly, noticing a flash of Chase’s gyrating torso in the kid’s feed. Lord, help us.
“I need everything we have on the Whitaker family,” Jackson says, pitching his voice down a notch to sound official.
“Sure, man,” Mort’s nephew says. He is pretty sure the nephew has a name, but Mort only ever seems to refer to him as ‘the nephew.’ The nephew gestures vaguely toward a particularly dank corner, then goes right back to watching short clips at full volume.
“Thank you so much for your help,” Jackson murmurs dryly, sidling past him. He rummages through the dusty file catalog, jots down some references, then wheels around the microfiche station with a resigned sigh. Microfiche. Christ, I used to have a real job.
He fires it up, squinting at the screen as years of local headlines flip past, forming a strangely intimate glimpse into Ben Whitaker III’s life.
Birth announcement. He’s a cute, chubby cheeked baby.
A mention in middle school: Ben winning a science fair with some kind of environmental project.
Jackson smirks at that detail. He won regionals, took fifth place at state.
Then, a short blurb about Ben placing third in a freshman-year track event.
Not exactly a star athlete, but respectable enough to make the leaderboard.
After that, there’s a more formal article about the dedication of a hospital wing named for the Whitaker family. Accompanying it is a photo of a teenage Ben standing stiffly beside his father at the ribbon cutting, looking politely unhappy about having to appear in public at all.
It’s the same year Ben’s mother’s obituary runs.
Cancer at forty-two. Jackson has a momentary flood of sympathy; no amount of money can shield someone from a loss like that, even if not all of us can afford a hospital wing.
He briefly imagines a teenage Ben navigating that grief under a community spotlight.
From there, the archives transition mostly to Ben’s father, a man who never met a camera he didn’t like.
Articles about business expansions, philanthropic gestures, endless quotes about “sustaining Silver Shoals’ prosperity,” all punctuated by his polished, camera-ready grin.
His son inherited some of his good looks, but not the ease with which he deploys them.
But Ben himself disappears out of the local press. A few childhood milestones, one tragic loss, and after graduation, basically nothing. He’s in the background of a few pictures, perhaps that’s how he prefers it. He may not like what happens next.
Sensing he’s wrung the archive for all it’s worth, Jackson leaves the claustrophobic basement behind.
Upstairs, he clears his desk, props his feet up, and embarks on the real research: scrolling through socials.
Ben’s Instagram is set to public—small-town openness or maybe he just doesn’t realize how easily prying eyes can find it.
The last year’s worth of posts mostly show Ben solo: he’s got a great body but a painfully awkward approach to thirst-traps.
Jackson chuckles under his breath, watching how Ben tries poses that never quite look comfortable.
Why post them, then? Jackson wonders, though he’s not necessarily hating their existence.
There’s a batch of photos from last December featuring some Paul-Bunyan-ass motherfucker in every frame: full beard, rotating wardrobe of flannel, ‘fuck-boy’ written all over his bored expression.
In half of them, he’s basically ignoring poor Ben, who’s clearly overcompensating.
Jackson, who shouldn’t care, ends up feeling a bristle of secondhand offense.
Before he has a chance to pinpoint exactly why, Eli appears on screen.
The same Eli who captains The Trans Atlantic.
Fuck, that explains his hesitancy to get involved.
In some ways he should have guessed. It is basically the destiny of all small town gays to date their way through huge swaths of the available dating pool.
For three uninterrupted years, he and Ben look positively delirious with happiness: beaming sunrise selfies, sweet embraces during campus Pride events, spontaneous beach picnics, and more than a few shots tangled together on a boat deck.
It’s the kind of lovey-dovey couples feed that makes Jackson feel like he’s intruding.
Of course, all those romantic tableaus can hide all manner of things.
He has to consider that Eli might just be an ex with a grudge. By all rights, he should kill this story right now. Filed DOA under ‘unreliable primary source.’
He stares a beat longer at an anniversary selfie: Ben and Eli on some dock, grinning like the world couldn’t touch them. It bugs him how much it bugs him. He drums his fingers on the desk, reminding himself he’s just a reporter collecting facts.
The fact was Eli hadn’t come to him slinging mud. In fact, the minute Jackson mentioned Whitaker Seafood, the guy clammed up completely. That hardly screamed ‘bitter ex hell-bent on revenge.’ If anything, it only heightens Jackson’s curiosity about what did go down between them.
He forces a breath, scrolling back to the top of Ben’s feed. A gym selfie of Ben in a snug white t-shirt, pecs and biceps front and center, cheeks decidedly pink with either exertion or self-consciousness. Probably both. Jackson’s mouth quirks upward in spite of himself. What a dork.
He can’t drop it, he is compelled at this point. He tells himself it’s a professional concern: ignoring so many unanswered questions feels sloppy, and refusing to dig deeper might cost him a solid piece. Journalism isn’t meant to be comfortable.
He studies Ben’s photo one last time before locking his phone. Jackson can’t imagine walking away. Not yet.