3. Chapter Three
three
Selena
I crack an egg into a bowl as I hear my front door open.
Most people would be on high alert if their apartment door just opened in the morning, but not me. My neighbor and new best friend, Madison, bounds into my apartment, already talking a mile a minute.
“What’s for breakfast?” she calls out, walking into my small space.
I laugh as I whisk the eggs before placing them in the skillet on the stove. I nod toward the fried plantains, shredded white queso cheese, and peppers sitting on the counter.
After spending most of the night and into the early morning hours researching Shadows, I couldn’t fall asleep, so I woke up early and began preparing breakfast for the morning.
Most mornings, Madison comes over to eat with me before she works at a small bookstore she owns on Main Street here in Sunnyvale.
“Yum, your breakfast Desayuno Típico is my favorite,” she says, pouring the ingredients into the pan so I can continue to cook.
“The tortillas are warming in the oven. Go ahead and get them out,” I instruct.
Madison smiles as she gets the tortillas, then puts them on two plates for us. “I love that my new BFF is Honduran.”
Rolling my eyes, I laugh. “You really lucked out.”
Once I finish cooking, I scoop the eggs onto our tortillas and then grab the avocado and salsa from the fridge before joining Madison at my small kitchen table. She has two coffees sitting waiting for us, and I am grateful for her intrusion.
“So, why do you look like you haven’t slept in days?” she asks around a bite of her breakfast.
“Do I look that bad?” I ask.
Madison doesn’t answer. I didn’t really think about my appearance this morning. I had pulled my messy brown hair into a high ponytail, and of course, I wasn’t wearing any makeup. I was sure there were dark circles under my golden complexion.
“What kept you up this time?” Madison asks.
Ever since I moved in next to Madison, we have been close.
The day I moved in, Madison helped me when I dropped an entire box of tampons and sex toys all over the sidewalk.
She laughed, but didn’t judge me. Since then, we’ve been friends.
I confided in her about my need to capture a juicy story to promote myself at work.
She’s shared her desire to become an author one day.
I glance at Madison with her shiny red hair curled in perfect waves, her blue eyes that seem to match the ocean waves, and that porcelain complexion that most women would die for.
She’s naturally gorgeous, and sometimes I envy her.
My parents were from Honduras, but I was born in New Mexico.
I have a tan complexion, dark eyes, and thick hips.
I’m not complaining, I love my body, but sometimes I wish I could look as flawlessly beautiful as Madison does.
I stop staring at her and realize I need to respond to her question.
“I had to finish that article about a fun and sexy place for tourists to visit in Sunnyvale. All I could think about was the Electric Nightclub downtown in Sunnyvale. Our town is so beautiful, but there’s not really anything that is dark, sexy, and tempting.
I need a story that will make my readers and listeners want to come here because it feels more like a craving, rather than a trip. Does that make sense?”
Madison wipes her mouth with a napkin. “I totally understand. I think the nightclub is a good start. I mean, it’s sexy, and all of the local athletes and celebrities go there.”
With both of our plates now clear, I grab them and take them over to the sink. “I just need something more…” I don’t really know how to finish my sentence. In my heart and mind, I can feel what the story is, but it is difficult to articulate.
Madison takes a sip of her coffee as she watches me fall back into the chair. “I’ve heard of something, but I am not even sure if it’s real,” she begins.
My curiosity is piqued. I swat at her arm playfully. “Don’t leave me hanging, what is it!”
“So, a friend of mine heard about this secret nightclub in Sunnyvale. Apparently, you have to find it on social media and wait until they open up a ticket link. If you don’t get a ticket, you don’t get in.
You have to wear masks, and it’s very secretive.
I even heard it’s like a big sexy party club,” she giggles nervously.
Neither Madison nor I are prudes. We’ve shared stories about one-night stands and hookups, but something like this feels more personal.
“Is it called Shadows?” I ask.
My heart begins to race as I nervously watch Madison. Her eyes light up, and her mouth drops. “I think so. Have you heard of it?”
“Last night, I saw something about it while I was looking up story ideas. Everything I found made it feel like it was just an allusion.” I pull up the sites I found on my phone and show Madison.
We found a few pictures; there are photos, but never from inside the club.
They are always just the building or the street.
The best ones are always grainy and half-obscured, taken from across the road or from the back seat of a car.
Everyone outside is wearing masks, so you can’t identify faces.
One user posts a shot at dusk: a black rectangle of a building, nothing to distinguish it, not even a visible door.
The only feature is a strand of white security cameras spaced evenly along the roofline, their lenses dull and blind in the failing light.
“How cool would it be to find this place?” Madison asks as she goes to stand. I finally take in her yellow sundress and white heels. She always looks like a model librarian, but way sexier.
“If I could get a ticket and get in, this story could be the lead I need.” I stand too and walk Madison out.
“If you find out anything, you have to take me with you,” she giggles, before leaving.
I promise to keep her posted and then close the front door.
Rubbing my eyes, I walk back into my tiny office and sit at my desk.
I’m a glutton for punishment because I should be getting some sleep before I meet with my editor later this afternoon.
Instead, I head to my computer and begin drafting ideas and notes about what I know about Shadows, what I need to know, and what I could do with this story.
The more I search, the more clinical it all feels.
Every new rumor gets a line in the document, tagged with time and source.
The best ones are contradictory, like the place is a myth that reinvents itself every time you mention it.
Some say Shadows is a “members-only kink club,” others that it’s a cover for a black-market casino, or a hub for local mafia ties.
I lean back in my chair until it creaks, stretch my arms overhead, and stare at the ceiling—my spine cracks in three places. I let my head loll back, let the blood drain out, and for a second the room spins with the afterimages of my laptop screen, blue and white and blinking.
Then I’m back. I rub at my eyes, then the corner of my jaw where a migraine is setting up shop.
For an hour, maybe two, I alternate between open tabs and my Word doc, curating the mythology of Shadows into something resembling a lead.
Every time I consider standing up or even peeing, the compulsion snaps me back: just one more page, one more forum, one more data point.
The sun is fully up now, melting gold stripes through the dust on my window. The apartment is brighter and more exposed. If my mother saw me now, she’d say I look like a girl who crawled out of a grave.
No longer able to keep my eyes open, I head over to my bed and finally allow myself to sleep. In a few hours, I will need to wake and be ready to face my editor. For now, I need to sleep.
Sunnyvale is awake, but barely. The street is empty except for a woman walking two dogs, both dressed in matching neon raincoats. The dogs glare at me as I pass, like I’m an affront to their morning routine.
I cut toward the beach, moving fast, notebook jammed under my arm.
The air is crisper this close to the water, and the salty wind is a kind of baptism.
For the first time in hours, my mind quiets.
Just a little. Enough to make me feel the hunger in my stomach, the ache in my calves, the sharp awareness that every question I’ve gathered still has nowhere to go.
But there’s no better place to think than the shore.
And nothing better to fuel a theory than the sound of the waves, unfiltered and endless.
The water is alive with foam and birds. The boardwalk is nearly empty, save for one old man on a bench, throwing bread at pigeons and grinning with the unrepentant glee of a sociopath.
Marcy texted me, asking me to meet her at the beach. She’s a free spirit, and I love working with her. Some days we meet in her office, while others it may be the beach or a fun coffee shop. She definitely keeps me on my toes.
I find a bench and sit down. When she arrives, I smile as I take her in, waving wildly. Her short hair flows in the wind, and her wrinkles glow against her tan skin.
She sits next to me, and I pause, my heart racing. If she hates the story, then I will need to spend another night looking for something else. Dread starts to seep in until she pats my knee. “I loved the article,” she gushes.
I sigh. “Really?”
“Yes, it was everything I wanted. It adds a fun nightlife appeal to a younger audience, which is what the town is looking for. Most people think of Sunnyvale as just a college town, but it is so much more. We want younger generations, older than college, but not retirees, to come here for fun. It’s a great start. ”
I’m flattered by her notes and grateful that I was able to deliver what she wanted. We talk for a minute about which photos to include and how the podcast can interview the nightclub's owners. Right before we wrap up our meeting, I gain the courage to bring up an idea to her.
“So, I have an idea I wanted to run by you,” I begin.
Marcy looks at me expectantly. “So, I heard about a secret nightclub that runs out of Sunnyvale—nothing like Electric. I want to find out about it, interview the owners, and get some inside information. It could either blow up as a juicy story or be a myth, but I would like to try it out.”
I watch as Marcy takes in what I just said. For a moment, I worry I misspoke and shouldn’t have brought it up at all. After all, I don’t even know if Shadows exist or not.
Marcy glances around before speaking. “I’ve heard rumors about Shadows, but I have no idea if it’s true or not.
Look, if you think you could get an inside scoop, I would give you a thirty-minute podcast episode.
Plus, if it brings in more followers and subscribers, it could lead to potential promotions and bigger stories. ”
I can’t help the smile that grows over my face. This is exactly what I want. My dream could come true if I can make this work.
“I promise, I will do everything I can to bring you the best story,” I tell her.
“I believe in you. Selena, you are one of the most determined and motivated journalists I’ve ever met.
If anyone can find out if Shadows is real and bring the story to life, then it’s you.
” She squeezes my hand, and I feel like I’m with my mother.
Marcy is my mentor, and her approval means the world to me.
Once she leaves, I am on cloud nine. On my way back to my apartment, I stop by the bookstore to tell Madison the good news.
I text her that I’m stopping by, and when I walk into her quaint little shop, I smile.
Madison has created the cutest bookstore with a small cafe inside.
She has local authors stop by on weekends for live readings and signings.
“So,” she says, fingers dancing along the wooden counter where she’s parked behind the register. “How did it go?”
I rave about how Marcy liked my article and gave me the green light to work on the Shadows story. She doesn’t interrupt, just listens, eyes fixed on mine.
Madison’s mouth quirks. “What would you even write? There’s nothing on the record.”
“Yet,” I say, a little sharper than I mean to.
She nods, biting her bottom lip. “Shadows.” She says it like she’s tasting the word.
I glance around and notice that the shop is empty. “I’m going to look for a ticket, and I’m going. Once inside, I’m going to interview people. Then, I will find the owners and see what’s going on. All of the rumors swirling around it have me mesmerized,” I explain.
“What else do you think it could be, other than a naughty club?” Madison tucks a loose strand of red hair behind her ear. “Like the mafia?” She says it as a joke, but the word hangs between us, sour and plausible.
I nod, slowly. “Or worse. Maybe something new.”
She looks at me for a long moment, then says, very quietly: “Don’t get yourself hurt.”
I want to laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. “I’m just following the story.”
She rolls her eyes. “Selena, you don’t follow stories. You crawl inside them and try to swallow them whole.”
It’s true, I don’t just write stories, but I make them come alive. I give everything I write my all, and if I have to become part of Shadows, then I will.
“Just be careful. I spent some time looking into it once things slowed down here. The stories are wild.” Madison starts to unpack a box of books.
I reach across the counter, squeeze her wrist for a second, and let her warmth pass into me. “I’ll be fine. I always am.”
She makes a noise of doubt, but smiles anyway. “You’d better be. I’m not letting you turn up dead in a river; I’d never live it down. Plus, who would feed me?” She laughs, and I can’t help but laugh too.
“Glad you are so worried,” I joke.
We promise to get together Friday night for our weekly wine and housewives night, where we watch reality television drama shows about rich housewives while drinking a bottle of wine. Once I leave, I feel a strange sense of excitement coursing through me. I need this story.
The story is out there, somewhere in the glare and the ocean spray and the heat rising off the blacktop. And if I have to bleed a little to get it, that’s just the cost of doing business.