Chapter 25 Present
My hands grasped the floor beneath me—reaching for anything solid, anything to steady myself and stop the room from spinning.
My heart pounded against my ribs. I had to get control of myself.
But it wasn’t easy.
All I could think about was the article—and the grip it had on me.
I closed my eyes, trying to focus.
Tried to remember the things my therapist taught me—
The tricks for when I feel like I’m spiraling.
Dr. Smith’s voice broke through the chaos in my mind:
“Use your five senses. What can you hear? Taste? Smell? See? Feel?”
I tried to focus, to ground myself in something real.
I inhaled sharply, my nails clinging to the fibers of the carpet beneath me.
Think, Bri... breathe... focus.
Smell: Mildew. Dust. Ink. Burnt coffee.
Hear: My own breathing—hard and uneven. The faint sound of keys clicking, distant laughter from the copy room.
See: Darkness. My eyes were still squeezed shut, trying to hold back the tears.
Feel: Bits of debris left behind by years of neglect—cleaners who didn’t bother opening the archive door. A rusted paperclip that once held an article together. Paper—the article that brought me to this moment.
Taste: Dry throat. Bitter coffee still coating my tongue. I searched for a trace of syrup from this morning’s pancakes, but it was gone.
I repeated the process—
The sharp pains in my chest had faded to a dull ache.
The storm inside me was finally settling.
I slowly released my grip on the carpet and covered my face, breathing deeper now—slower.
It took several minutes, but eventually, I regained my composure.
I knew I needed a break.
But I also knew…
if I left this room, I might not have the strength to come back.
One more inhale.
Slow exhale.
You can do this.
With a quiet pep talk, I rose to my feet and continued searching.
I slipped the article back into the file folder, tucking it away in the place it had lived all these years.
Then I closed the drawer slowly—
a quiet goodbye to the calm before the storm.
It was now or never.
I had to open the cabinet I’d been avoiding for days—
years, really.
My hands trembled as they reached the drawer labeled ‘60–‘65.
I hesitated, fingertips brushing the worn metal.
Then, with a deep breath, I pulled it open.
The drawer gave way with unexpected ease.
My fingers hovered over the folders, too nervous to touch them.
Each tab was handwritten, faded ink bleeding into the manila paper.
I inhaled again—preparing myself for what was waiting for me.
Like the first swim of the year, when the water’s still too cold to dive in,
I eased in slowly, inch by inch.
My fingers settled on the first file, pinching it gently between my thumb and forefinger.
The pull was careful. Measured.
Almost like I was afraid it might fall apart in my hands.
I lifted it to my chest and paused.
You can do this, I whispered to myself as I slid to the floor.
I cracked open the file and was met with an article—
the headline hit harder than I expected.
His name—Paul Newsome—was in bold.
So much for easing in, I thought, with a flicker of irony that could almost pass as humor.
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and let out a breathless sigh.
My hands were unsteady, still trembling from the shock of being met by the very thing—the very person—I’d been most afraid to face.
But I forced myself to read on…
The article became easier to get through once I saw what accompanied his name—
Paul Newsome, to the Rescue.
The featured picture helped ease my hesitation even more.
There he was, standing outside the new schoolhouse, a rattlesnake dangling from one hand like a trophy.
Katie stood beside him, one arm across her chest—hand resting at her heart—the other on her hip.
Her smile was polite, but her eyes told the truth.
She was proud.
And probably a little terrified.
Barely visible beneath the hem of Paul’s shirt was his pistol, tucked into his waistband.
It was easy to miss unless you were looking for it.
According to the article, the teachers had been moving classroom supplies into the new building when someone spotted the snake coiled under a desk.
Panic spread fast—screams, dropped books, the echo of feet scrambling down the hallway.
Paul had only stopped by to help his mom carry boxes.
But when chaos broke out, he didn’t flinch.
One clean shot.
Snake gone.
The school year saved—the paper joked.
They called him a hero.
—time settled in around me and a sense of relief flooded my thoughts.
I set the article to the side, knowing I could easily use it for the piece I was supposed to be writing—
at least, the one I was sent here to write.
Having ripped the proverbial band-aid off, I felt like I was going to be okay.
For the first time, I actually believed the pep talk I’d given myself earlier—
I can do this…
I have to.
So I kept flipping through the files.
And with every mention of his name—
every picture that captured his smile and those wild curls—
I breathed a little easier.
I was reminded of why it had been so easy to love him.
Why it was still okay—after all these years—that he held a piece of my heart.
Even if the articles I’d read in the past had felt saturated with half-truths and cover-ups,
the ones about him felt different.
They were real. Honest.
I wanted to stop there—
to stay in that moment of peace—
but I knew I couldn’t.
I had to keep going.
I had to keep pressing forward.
When I reached the ’63 files, I paused.
I knew that was the year Katie died—tragic and unexpected.
There was no need to reopen what I already knew.
I moved on to ’64—and felt my heart tighten.
There it was:
An article featuring the Newsomes—Phil, Nick, and Paul—standing beside the town fountain.
The same one that still sprays a soft mist if the breeze catches just right.
I hadn’t realized it until now…
but it was a tribute.
A memorial to Katie.
Dedicated to her memory.
The image haunted me.
Nick had a black eye—
there was no hiding it.
But, of course, in true Shay fashion,
the caption cleared up any speculation:
The Newsome men stand in solemn remembrance as the town dedicates the new fountain to Katie Newsome’s legacy. Nick, sporting a black eye from last Friday’s football game, smiles faintly beside his brother and father.
It was believable.
The best lies always are.
I knew where he got it—
you couldn’t convince me otherwise.
He probably got tackled, alright—
but not by an opponent from the other team.
It was someone standing a whole lot closer to him.
The looks on both boys’ faces were grim—
carved from grief over their mother,
and the secret they were keeping for their father.
I felt the anger rising—
not just at Phil Newsome,
but at myself.
I thought back to those summer days—
when I should’ve asked more questions,
pushed harder, paid closer attention.
The signs were there.
Looking back, there were so many.
And maybe… maybe I was no better than the locals.
Maybe I, too, refused to let the truth disrupt my happiness.