“You think I don’t know what kind of family I married into? You think I’m happy being a Garrett?” Ellen looked around. The office was empty. She lowered her voice. “Come into my office. We need to talk.”
The editor’s office was small and cluttered. Shelves of old newspapers, a computer, and some awards on the wall. In one photo, Ellen stood next to Jim Garrett on their wedding day. Young, happy, full of hope. “We got married in 2008,” Ellen said, following his gaze.
“I was 23, he was 30. I’d just finished my journalism degree. He was a rising star in the department. We had plans.” She sat down and gestured for Alex to take a seat. “The first few years were good. Jim was focused on his career, I was at the paper.”
“We had a daughter, Macy. She’s 13 now. A normal family, a normal life.” “And then?” “Then I started noticing things. Jim would come home looking like a ghost—pale, silent. He’d lock himself in his den and drink. I thought it was just the job, the stress. I tried to be understanding.” Ellen paused. “In 2015, I decided to write a series on cold cases in the county. I was drawn to the story of Amy Bell. She worked at the post office and vanished in 2013.”
“Her mother came to the office, crying, begging for help. I started digging and found that over the last twenty years, at least ten young women had vanished in Oak Creek. Not one was found.” “What happened to the story?” Ellen laughed humorlessly. “Jim found out.”
“I don’t know how. Maybe someone at the office mentioned it. Maybe he was tracking my computer. He came home and blew up. Said I was interfering in things I didn’t understand, that it would ruin his career, that I needed to think about the family.”
“Then… for the first time. God. I wanted to leave him. I packed my bags, took Macy. But he came after me, crying, begging for forgiveness. Said he’d just snapped, that it would never happen again.”
“And I… I stayed. Because I was a fool.” She clenched her fists. “I never ran the story. I deleted everything. I pretended it never happened.”
“But I remember everything I found. Every name, every date. And I always knew something was wrong.” Alex watched her, stunned. This woman was the wife of the man he suspected. And she was a victim of that family too.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked finally. “Because I’m tired of being quiet. Tired of pretending everything is fine. Tired of being a Garrett.” She leaned forward.
“Last night, when Jim came home, he was a wreck. I’ve never seen him like that. He locked himself in his office. He was on the phone for hours. Probably with his father. I heard bits of it through the door.”
“He said, ‘It’s over. They found it. What are we going to do?'” Alex felt his pulse quicken. “He knows. Your husband knows what’s in those bags.” “Of course he knows.”
“He’s always known. And his father knows. And his uncle knew.” “Father Bill?”
