Chapter 22 Present
I took a deep breath—hoping it would fill my empty lungs—I returned to the open drawer, my fingers brushing the edge of the manila folders.
I hadn’t expected to be so shaken by a wedding announcement, but Katie’s smile—and those eyes—still lingered in my mind like a whisper I couldn’t quite make out.
There was more here. I could feel it.
I wasn’t just looking for answers anymore—I was chasing the questions I hadn’t let myself ask.
What happened after the “I do”?
What turned a bouquet of lilies into a funeral wreath?
I kept reading, hoping the pages would offer some clue—some sign of when things began to shift.
Multiple articles referenced Phil and Katie, recognizing their separate successes, but consistently tying them back to the beneficial impact they had on Shay.
One showed Katie planting hydrangeas outside the schoolhouse, her smile as bright as the flowers.
Another praised Phil for securing state funding for a town beautification project.
Together, the clippings painted them as Shay’s ideal couple—the picture-perfect face of small-town charm and community pride.
Page after page—story after story, all the same. Good deeds, posed smiles, and perfectly printed captions.
I refused to give up.
I knew there was something—I was just missing it.
I could almost hear the ghost of Katie begging me to keep going.
Whispering through the silence between the lines.
So I searched.
Every article.
Every headline, every caption, every grainy photo buried beneath the praise.
At first, it was all the same.
Smiles, Awards, Recognition.
But repetition can only hide the cracks for so long.
I found it.
A pregnant Katie.
Glowing.
Her bump pronounced.
The article boasted that she had single-handedly set up a town canned food drive.
I mean truly—with one hand.
Her left arm was in a sling.
There was no explanation. No byline hinting at what had happened.
An accident? A silly mishap? Nothing.
The silence was louder than any headline.
If anything, it only made me more intrigued.
I kept flipping through the files, but the mentions of Katie became fewer—and that didn’t sit right with me.
It wasn’t until May 1947 that Shay’s golden couple reappeared—this time to announce the birth of their son: James Nicholas Newsome.
At first glance, the article featured exactly what you’d expect: a happy couple, beaming over the birth of their healthy, 7-pound, 10-ounce baby boy.
Katie cradled the newborn in a soft cotton blanket, her hair pulled back loosely, a tired but genuine smile on her face.
Phil stood beside her, one arm around her shoulders, the other resting protectively over Nick.
They looked picture-perfect—proud, content, complete.
But the longer I studied the photo, the more I noticed things I couldn’t unsee.
Katie’s smile didn’t quite meet her eyes.
And just beneath her right one, there was the faintest hint of swelling—barely visible, easy to dismiss as exhaustion or the strain of labor.
But something about it made my stomach tighten.
Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it meant more than I wanted to admit.
I expected to find less about Katie—she was a young mother with her hands full—but still, her absence in the record felt louder than any article I’d read. She faded from the pages.
Phil, on the other hand, remained front and center. Newsome Brings New Businesses to Shay. Phil Wins Big.
The next time Katie appeared in the paper, it was as a footnote—standing beside her husband, smiling tightly, nearly one-year-old Nicholas balanced on her hip at the county fair ribbon-cutting.
Her dress was pristine, her posture perfect—but the curve beneath the flower printed fabric made it clear: she was pregnant again.
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed.
I laid the article down in front of me, hands trembling as the truth settled in.
Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.
She was pregnant with Paul. My Paul.
It felt silly—crying over a photo, crying over a moment that existed decades before I was ever part of his life. But it wasn’t just that.
From this point on, everything I touched—every file I opened—held the risk of him.
Of finding pieces of Paul I hadn’t seen before. Pieces that could break whatever part of me that had started to heal.
I couldn’t breathe.
The walls were closing in—I had to get out.
I stood and rushed to the door, but the weight of it felt heavier than before.
I pushed. Nothing.
My arms and legs weakened. I dropped to my knees as tears spilled over. Inhales turned to gasps.
I’d had a panic attack once before—but this was different.
This time, I was trapped.
Trapped in a room full of ghosts—one of them still had my heart.