“What’s going on?”
“I need a favor.”
“Ellie…” she said knowingly. “You’re not supposed to be digging. I told you to let it go.”
“I know. I just… I found something in the journal, and I need to know what really happened. I think someone must have shown up on the day of the incident. I was thinking maybe…maybe you could…”
She sighed. “Spit it out.”
“There was the shooting, but I need to know who responded. If anyone else was there or showed up, anything else you can give me.”
“Ellie…no.”
“I know, I know. I promise, if it’s nothing, I will let it go. There’s nothing left to read. But I need some kind of closure, even if it just ends up being an accident like the article says.”
“This isn’t easy shit to look at. That file will tell the cold, hard truth of how that little boy and his father died. You may not want to see all of that.”
“I need to,” I whispered. “I need the details so I can move on.”
“On one condition.”
“Anything. Name it.”
“You truly let it go after this. Don’t let it haunt you forever,” she said, and it seemed like she wasn’t just giving advice—she knew what it cost to hold on.
“Okay,” I sighed.
“I’ll look and send you the information, but I didn’t do this for you. This will not trace back to me, understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hung up, and an hour later, my phone dinged with an email notification. I swiped it open, the subject line blinking back at me.
From: Lilah Dodge
Subject: Case Report — Hutchinson Incident
Ellie,
Here you go. It’s not everything, but it’s enough. Now let it go.
Lilah
My fingers trembled as I stared at the attachment, my heart thudding in my chest like a warning drum. It was a folder fullof cold, official documents—pages stamped and signed, marked with dates I knew too well.
I landed on the section I’d been dreading—the cause of death.
Patrick Hutchinson. Gunshot wound to the chest.
Lower on the page, the boy’s details caught my eye.
Cause of death: strangulation.
I blinked, rereading the words like they might rearrange themselves into something less brutal, but no.
Strangulation. The word was a blow to the stomach. I whispered it aloud, as if saying it might make it less real, but it didn’t. It echoed in the empty room.
It made no sense. The boy accidentally fired the gun. It was a tragic accident born from fear.
