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Today, he looks different. Tired, like he’s not getting sleep like me. And paler than usual. But at his sides, he’s clenching and unclenching his fists, more nervous than angry.
Given Syn’s comment, it’s probably related to his initiation, but I find it hard to be sympathetic.
I also don’t have the time. I’ve got to be at the library in half an hour so I can look through the past Ledger articles. With Syn distracted by Declan, I finish the last half-spoonful of rice, swallow down the water, and then leave.
The library is busier than it’s ever been. Midterms must be scaring people into studying. I have to wait at the desk first for Ethel to finish helping other students, and then while we wait for the other librarian to cover the desk.
Finally, I’m led into the basement of the library. Unlike beneath the church, it somehow feels creepier down here. The lights come on as we walk down the corridor, over tiles which look like they were laid in the seventies. We walk past door after door, below ceiling tiles which look more suited to a public school, not this place.
Wherever else the money gets spent on this campus, the basement of the library doesn’t seem to be on the budget list.
Eventually, Ethel stops in front of a door and unlocks it. The room inside is as big as a classroom. Just like upstairs, there are rows and rows of shelves, only these are metal. Each one is full of cardboard boxes.
“How far back do these go?” I ask, my eyes wide as I peer into the room.
“Everything in here is post 2000 when the Keyingham Ledger launched its online edition.”
“Is that all?” There are hundreds of boxes. Although the first few shelves closest to the door are empty, the boxes on the shelves I can see are labeled by month and year. It seems like more than two or three hundred boxes in here.
“Why?” She looks at me, frowning. “Do you want older copies because you really should have said that sooner. Anything pre-2000 is stored in temperature-controlled archives off-site and needs approval from—”
“No,” I say, hurriedly. “I only want to go back a few years. I was just curious.”
“Oh, good.” She looks relieved as she glances at her watch. “Mr. Bernard finishes in an hour. I can only let you have forty-five minutes before I have to lock this area off.”
Had my plans for the day not been completely screwed up, I’d have been here earlier. But hopefully, that’s all the time I need, and if not, I can come back tomorrow.
Ethel has barely left before I’m searching for the box that should contain the news about JP’s death. The further back I go, the more dust there is, and there’s a thin layer covering the box from November three years ago.
After pulling it off the shelf, I lower us both to the ground and take a deep breath. Then I take the lid off. Inside are ten newspapers: two copies of each weekly edition and the specialin memoriamedition. Although the paper has started to brown, the newspapers don’t look like they were ever read before they were put in the box.
JP was murdered November 6thand Cole was arrested the same day. The newspaper was published two days later. The articles in this edition are exactly what I’ve read online, only seeing photos of Cole being led to a police car with his hands handcuffed behind his back still makes me feel like I’ve been punched in the chest.
Trying to ignore that sensation, I scan every article in the paper related to JP or Cole. Just like online, there’s nothing here that tells me any details.
No matter how I look at this, it just doesn't make sense.
People are fascinated with murders and murderers—countless documentaries and shows have been created to cater to this interest. Even the murders where the suspects still haven’t been caught and evidence is lacking get hyped up because of the ongoing mystery surrounding them. And yet, somehow, this one, the one with a victim who might not garner sympathy given his wealth and privilege, would certain have people discussing whether or not he deserved it and there’snothing. Not even a conspiracy theory.
Evidence might “disappear” but not to this extent.
Steadily, I work through each week’s paper. By the end of the month, each newspaper has become progressively more wrinkled, pages no longer lining up, as I’ve dumped them in piles to the side. The news has almost dried up, and by the time the paper was printed the following week—days after the special edition—Cole had already been charged. There weren’t weeks of trying to work out who killed him, no further investigations, and no breaking developments.
Frustrated, I sit back and rub the back of my neck where my muscle is aching from leaning over and reading at an awkward angle for so long. I was so sure there would besomethingin here.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. I’ve got five minutes before Ethel comes back. My plan was to check the papers from the court case, as well as those that were released in between, but it looks like I’ll have to come back another night for those.
Carefully, I start placing the newspapers back in the box in the same order they were originally. I pick up the lid, ready to set it back on, when I notice something on the front page of the original paper. In the top right-hand corner, under the date, in a font so small I hadn’t noticed two words:2ndedition.
Curious, I put the lid down and pull out the newspaper so I can look at the one underneath. This one’s dated the same as the first, but I hadn’t looked at either because I assumed them to be the same. Only this one didn’t have any text about the edition.
“Ms. Anderson?” Ethel’s voice calling into the room startles me.
“Sorry, just a moment,” I call back. Before I can change my mind, I thrust the paper into my bag, put the other back in the box, and then get to my feet. Stepping out into the small corridor between the shelves, I hold the box up to her. “Just going to put this back on the shelf, and I’m all done.”
She nods, and I turn to scoop up the lid, quickly returning the box to its home. Then I bend down to grab my bag, cringing as the paper rustles inside as the bag rests against my body.
Ethel is too far away to hear, and she doesn’t seem to notice as we walk back upstairs. I wait for her to lock the doors before I thank her.
