Unfinished Business

Chapter 1

Chapter One

I don’t believe in happily ever after.

People lie. Cheat. Slowly grow to disdain you over a twenty-year partnership.

They put you on a pedestal you’re terrified to topple from, so sometimes you take a flying leap to get ahead of it.

They hurt you. They leave. Marriage vows dissolve, and fiery honeymoon-phase passion banks its flames.

They say love is a choice, but what happens when the person you promised yourself to doesn’t feel like they’re even an option anymore?

And if, somehow, you manage to fall in love—and stay in love—well, there’s always death waiting to crush that joy beneath its thumb.

Maybe some people are lucky enough to live a Barbie Dreamhouse perfect life.

To pass peacefully in their sleep, hands linked with their beloved partner who—miraculously—expires at the exact same moment.

It’s peak Hollywood romance, isn’t it? Taking your last breaths simultaneously after a smitten lifetime together.

That’s not in the cards for someone like me.

I’m pretty sure I’m playing a different game altogether. Less Hearts, more Craps.

There’s nothing people want to root for more than a love story.

The more tragic and doomed, the better. They want the enemies to become lovers.

The grump to soften for their personal sunshine.

The exes to realize they made a mistake.

They cling to the tiniest sliver of misty-eyed hope for a happy ending that ties everything up in a pretty bow, completely ignoring how unrealistic it is.

Thankfully, this proclivity is exactly what’s going to save my and my brother’s web series from the worst fate possible: fading into forgotten internet irrelevance.

Because what love story is more doomed than one between two dead people?

“Winona? You got the shot ready yet?” River lets out the longest, most tortured sigh of his life, shoulders drooping harder than the force of gravity.

Clenching the stabilizer, I swoop the camera for one last pan of the ominous structure behind him. “Yeah! Got it.” Under my breath, I mutter, “Twerp.” He’ll catch it in post, but maybe he’ll also catch the extent of his dramatics.

River tugs at the collar of his oversized faded Star Wars tee where the lavalier mic is hidden, his intentionally-ratty jeans finally looking like they belong in the decrepit scene.

If there’s anything that never fails to remind me of our decade age difference, it’s his fashion choices.

Despite all the primping he did this morning, he runs his hands through the black coffee mop on top of his head before flashing a dazzling smile.

Butthole got the best teeth in the family.

“In 1952, an unthinkable crime was committed in a formerly quiet East Texas farming community not far from where we are now,” my little brother starts.

“A young wife and mother, Edith Page Milton, was found murdered on the banks of a river not even a mile from her home. Local law enforcement determined her neighbor, James Dewhurst, was the culprit. He was arrested, and although he originally entered a plea of not guilty, the very next morning he changed it to no contest—not claiming his innocence, but not admitting guilt either. He was quietly sentenced to life in prison, where he eventually met his end due to natural causes.”

River spreads his arms in presentation. “Here. At the now-defunct Black Magnolia Penitentiary.”

Set against a sinking cigarette-ash sky, it’s the perfect shot.

The imposing structure looms like a nineteenth century Gothic artifact—Manderley or Thornfield Hall reconstructed in the Red River Valley one limestone brick at a time—and River stands in the center of its stunning symmetry.

If it weren’t for the clue of a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire and the watchtower past the turret, it’d be easy to mistake for a grand austere estate.

“The case never went to trial, and eventually faded into obscurity. Until now.” He slips his hands in his pockets, and I pan the camera as he walks.

“A long-time fan who wishes to remain anonymous reached out to inform us that Edith Page Milton’s family recently found a series of letters from James Dewhurst to Edith—sewn into an heirloom quilt—that position him not as her killer, but as her lover.

The family no longer believes Mr. Dewhurst to be the one at fault. ”

I don’t know how he does it—sticks to his script so flawlessly, delivers it without a single hiccup. Maybe a penchant for performance runs in our genes. But I love seeing his broad confidence, his unabashed spirit, how at home he looks in his own joy.

We’ve come a long way the past two years.

“The viewer who reached out claims to be a close friend of the family, and said they wished for us to run an investigation here, at Black Magnolia, to publicly exonerate Mr. Dewhurst and try to make contact with his restless spirit. And between you and me, we’re hoping to dig up some details on what really happened to Edith Page Milton while we’re at it.

Maybe Mr. Dewhurst knows more than we think. ”

The corners of my mouth curl despite my initial doubts about this episode.

He makes the case sound so compelling when he says it like that.

Every guilty man claims he’s innocent, and loving someone isn’t a preventative measure against hurting them, but the twinkle in River’s eye is enough to draw in even a cynic like me.

When I first skimmed the anonymous fan’s email in our inbox I flagged it as spam.

When River begged me to take another look, I worried he might actually buy that a Nigerian prince needs thousands of dollars to unfreeze his accounts.

The email read like it’d been written by an AI bot, and the sign-off name was Apple.

River insisted that even if it was a prank, it might give us a good idea for a new location to scout.

What we got is a ghost hunt and a cold case in one, and in his words, True crime is, like, always popping off. He’s convinced this episode will not only revive our stagnating series, but bump our viewership enough to land some new sponsors and solve all of our financial woes.

He’s seventeen. Of course he thinks that.

But maybe—just maybe—I have a good feeling about this one too. This could be our best yet. I can’t explain it; it’s my intuition. Or maybe it’s River’s naive dedication to proving this dead man’s innocence that’s getting to my head.

“Welcome back to another episode of Halbach Hunts Paranormal Investigations”—River’s voice drops with gravitas—“at the notorious Black Magnolia Penitentiary, which is scheduled for demolition next month. This may be our last chance to reach the spirit of James Dewhurst, if he still remains. And if he does, we intend to find out.”

He signals he’s finished and I cut the recording on our intro, lowering the camera. “Crushing it, Riv. Did you already get the drone footage? You wanna go inside?”

His phone’s already in his hands—it’s an extra appendage at this point. “Yeah, I did that first thing. I think we can—Hang on, it’s Payton.”

He turns his back to me as he picks up the call from his girlfriend, pacing a few steps away in the overgrown dry grass.

He’d drop anything for Payton. Which would be sweet if it didn’t happen at the most inopportune times.

Like when I’m serving dinner, when I’m in the middle of a conversation with him, or when we have a ghost hunt to kick off.

Craning my neck, I swallow. Photos online don’t do this place justice.

A shroud of fog drifts from the dense tree line of slouching branches, the woods set back from the property, yet completely surrounding it.

Dried and dying vines choke the formidable stone walls.

Large cathedral windows line the entrance with panes like bared teeth, but I feel it in my gut as I gape up—there’s nothing holy about this place.

It may be built like a place of worship, but Black Magnolia is the furthest thing from a sanctuary.

No one would ever guess a brutal prison was tucked behind the miles and miles of quaint, pastoral farmland two hours north of Dallas.

Even out here the energy feels heavy. Dense. Restless. More intense than any of the other three dozen or so haunted locations we’ve filmed at since the show’s inception. I can only imagine what it’s like inside.

“Shit’s fucked.” River drags a hand down his face, walking back toward me.

Before I can decide if I should say something about his language, he barrels out, “Payton’s stuck on the side of the road somewhere.

She sent me her location. Her tire popped—she hit something, I guess.

She’s okay but she wants me to come get her. ”

“She can’t call an Uber?” Him leaving was not part of our plan.

“She was, like, hysterical, Win. Fuck. I’m not telling her to call an Uber.” His glare is precious—dare I say. His response makes me proud. And they say chivalry is dead. It’s not. It just curses like a war veteran and wears clothes three sizes too big.

“What about her parents?”

“She said they’re staycationing at Zaza.” River groans and I’m tempted to parrot it. Staycationing wasn’t even in his vocabulary until I moved him to Dallas. “They’ll be pissed if she calls.”

For as much as I want to snark at him about bailing on me again for a high school girlfriend he probably won’t even remember in a few years, I reel it in. He’s young. He’s still the main character in his world. He’s still convinced Payton is his forever.

There’s one small corner of my heart not completely dead and iced over yet, that wants him to hold onto that hope for as long as he can. He deserves it—after everything. And an even larger part of me feels a personal responsibility to make sure River grows up to be a good male partner.

“Okay.” I dip my chin in a surrendering nod. “So, go pick her up.”

“But the episode . . .”

Hesitance folds into his features and the war plays out clear as day on his face: help his girlfriend, orrrrrr hunt ghosts on his most anticipated investigation of the year on the one day the historical society agreed to let us in?

I could whack him over the head with the EMF reader. I don’t remember ever being so indecisive as a teen—I’m not sure I had the luxury.

I school my features into a flat, I-can’t-believe-how-dense-you-are look and angle my head. “Go help your girlfriend, Riv. I’ll keep busy and capture B-roll.”

“Okay. Yeah. Okay, you’re right. I should.” He casts one more longing look at the prison. Forget the EMF reader, the camera is feeling more apt. I’ve never been a good shot, but he’s got a big ass head. Boys.

“You know how to change a tire?”

His brow furrows. “. . . Yeah?”

I know he’ll just Google it, but I can’t, in good faith, send him off into the wilderness without a little guidance.

“Break the bolts before you jack it up. Loosen in a star pattern. Don’t forget the emergency break. And check the air pressure on the spare if it hasn’t been used in a while—might be flat too.” I scrunch up my shit-eating grin. “Oh, and lefty-loosey-righty-tighty.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Got that.”

Because I’m trying to be a good big sister, I say, “If you really want to impress her, take her to get her favorite treat after.” But because I’m more than just his sister now, I tack on, “And drive safer than Payton does. Please.”

I underhand him the keys and he catches them.

Standing at the edge of the parking lot, I watch him drive away until the rusted red paint of my shitty old sedan disappears beyond the trees.

Seconds later, the bump of the engine is swallowed by the foliage and I’m surrounded by silence.

Like the thick summer air has squeezed out even the slightest sounds of nature.

I take a slow breath and turn, gazing up at Black Magnolia.

What are the chances I’m really alone here?

If there is anyone I will go to the ends of the earth to make happy, it’s my baby brother. For better or for worse. Even if that means exploring an abandoned prison with the wandering souls of convicted felons entombed within its walls forever.