Chapter 49 Present
I felt a weight lift off my chest once I made it back inside the house—some kind of closure, I guess. Still, something tugged at me.
The box was still there, right where I left it on the kitchen table, like it had been waiting.
I carried it upstairs, shut the door to my room, and sat on the floor.
One by one, I spread out the letters and started reading.
Some were from Paul to Nick—rambling, sometimes angry, but always honest.
Others were from Nick to Paul—shorter, more guarded, like he didn’t know how to say everything he was feeling, but he was trying.
They talked a lot about their dad, about what Nick was leaving behind, about how Paul was going to have to be the one to hold it all together.
It was clear how much they leaned on each other—even when they didn’t say it outright. If there was one thing I knew about Paul, it was that he loved his mom. He loved Nick. And he loved me. But he hated his father — and for good reason.
The letters didn’t shy away from the truth.
His dad was a cruel man, abusive in every sense.
He used to beat Katie when he was drunk.
She was the only one who could calm the monster inside him, the only shield between her boys and the worst of it.
But after she got sick, she couldn’t protect them anymore.
Before she died, she told Nick, “Bad things happen to good people, but so do great things. Focus on that.”
And Nick tried. He focused on the good — every night, when his father would break into his room, he clung to those words.
Until he couldn’t anymore. Eventually, he fought back.
Stood his ground. And once Phil realized he couldn’t control Nick, he turned to Paul instead.
That’s why Paul installed all those locks. Why he always looked over his shoulder. His dad would black out trying to break in, and for a while, it got better. Until Nick left. Then it got worse.
Paul never told me any of this. I wish he had. God, I wish he had. Maybe I could’ve helped. Maybe something would be different. But wishes and anger don’t bring people back. They just haunt what’s left.
Reading them felt like stepping into the middle of something private. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be seeing any of this.
But I couldn’t stop.
My heart skipped every time Paul mentioned me—well, “his honeysuckle.”
I loved how much he loved me.
He wrote about the future he wanted with me—building a little house on the lake, raising a family, growing old together.
All the things we’d never get to do.
I wasn’t sure I could make it through the whole stack, but I did.
And when I got to the bottom, I found something different.
It wasn’t like the others—it wasn’t handwritten.
It was a carbon copy, the kind that left faint blue ink on your fingers.
As soon as I started reading, I knew what it was.
It was the letter Paul was reading the night he died.
Paul—
By the time you read this, I’ll be long gone. Not just from Shay, but from everything that’s tied us to this place.
I know you said not to dig, but I couldn’t help it. And I found it, Paul. I found the damn truth.
Dad killed her.
I don’t know how else to say it. He killed Mom.
She didn’t die by accident; she didn’t drown in that lake…at least not in the way he said she did. He lied to everyone—covered it up. And I can prove it.
The black book, the one he always carried. I took it from his desk drawer the night before I left, after he had passed out after our fight.
It’s all in there—names, numbers, payouts.
Blackmail material on half the town: the sheriff, the newspaper, judges, school board members.
Everyone. It’s how he kept control—dirty deals, stolen money, addiction cover-ups, affairs.
And worst of all… the entry about Mom. Her name’s in there—underlined.
There's a note about “losing control” and a payoff to the sherif.
I don’t know how deep it all goes, but I know it’s real.
I left the book behind, hidden in a place only you’ll think to look. If anything happens to me—or to you—someone has to know the truth.
Watch your back.
I love you, little brother.
—Nick
The words swam on the page, my vision blurred…I stood there with my hands shaking.
The breath caught in my throat, and suddenly, I was back in that moment.
Now it all made sense.
Phil must have thought Paul had the book. That he’d read it. That he was going to share it. His anger and fear got the best of him—so he pulled the trigger.
Then, to make it believable, he turned it on himself.
The entire town bought the story.
Because of course they did.
Phil still had friends in the right places—friends listed in that black book.
And Paul—
Paul had died for the truth.
The heat of anger rushed in like a wave.
He killed Paul.
He killed him—and lied about it.
And the town covered for him.
It was like Nick knew something like this would happen. That’s why he left the box for me.
He trusted Neal. He knew his dad hadn’t gotten to him. Neal would keep it safe until it made its way to me.
And now, I finally had everything I needed.
I laid it all out—my notes, the letters, the articles, the photos, the black book.
I played back Mrs. Betty’s interview, listening to every word like it was gospel.
And then, I wrote.
I connected the pieces. I named names.
I wrote the story Paul died trying to tell.
I didn’t stop.
I stayed up all night, my fingers pounding the keys until they ached.
When the sun finally slipped through my window, I was slumped over the typewriter—ink-stained, exhausted, but not broken.
Pages scattered across the floor—
the truth, no longer buried in bylines and margins.
I was tired, but I wasn’t done.
I gathered the pages and headed downstairs. Mom was in the kitchen, talking with Dad. I popped my head in.
“I’ll be back in a bit.”
I pushed open the screen door and breathed in the heat.
It fueled me in a way I hadn’t appreciated before. But now, I did.
I slid into my car. The stack of pages, clipped and bound, sat in the passenger seat.
I had somewhere to be. One last stop.
A short meeting—but maybe the most important one of all.
I drove through town, past the square and the old soda shop.
I followed the lake road all the way to Magnolia Manor, perched on a hill overlooking Shay.
Inside, I asked the receptionist to point me in the right direction.
She led me into a private sunroom—with a full view of the lake and the town that had kept too many secrets.
There he sat, in a wheelchair.
Freshly groomed white hair. A blue robe trimmed in red.
Phil Newsome.
Time had not been kind to him.
He couldn’t even turn to see me until I stepped fully into view.
I didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“You don’t know me,” I said. “But I know you. I know everything.”
His eyes widened—but I didn’t stop.
I opened the folder and read every word.
For Katie.
For Paul.
For Nick.
And for every voice he silenced on his climb to power.
He didn’t say a word.
When I finished, I looked him in the eye and said:
“You were the bad thing that happened to good people.
And I feel sorry for them—
because they deserved so much better.”
Then I walked away—leaving him there powerless.