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My name is Reagan Wilcox: high school senior by day, kick-ass investigative journalist by night. I’ve always loved observing people—especially when they think no one is paying attention. I thought I was ready to cover any story. Work any angle. Nothing could have prepared me for what happened that night. I wasn’t ready for what I saw. And I certainly wasn’t ready for him. I always knew I’d write the headlines. Now, I just might become one.
THE CHURCH BELLS from St. Agnes Church chime, letting me know I have a half hour before Dad calls the National Guard out for me. Hmm, maybe enough time to head to the Shake Shack and get a frozen salted caramel hot chocolate—my new favorite addiction.
Gravel crunches under my feet as I cross the parking lot
toward my car. As I dig through my backpack searching for my car keys, a yelp
rings out in the distance. Pausing, I stand still and listen for the sound
again. Was an animal hurt somewhere, maybe? The noise was muffled and not close
by, so I can’t make out the source. The last bell chimes, reminding me I should
hurry home, but the reporter in me won’t let me leave without checking. I wait
a few minutes to see if I hear it again, scanning the area for the source.
Across the street, dark shadows fill the doorways of the
now-closed shops that line the main road, setting my nerves on edge. The voice
in my head nags that this is how horror movies begin, but I shake off the
ridiculous thought. Horror movies aren’t real. The idea of scooping a story
before anyone else—that’s a real possibility. Nothing moves except for the
leaves as the breeze picks up. Just as I’m ready to give up, I hear the noise
again, this time followed by what sounds like shuffling feet—like something
sliding through gravel.
“What in the world was that?” I mutter. The sounds together don’t
make any sense. If it was an animal yelping, what was that other noise? Had
someone maybe captured an animal in a trap? This is rural Tennessee, so it
wouldn’t surprise me. Everyone around here is well-versed in hunting, starting
in elementary school.
My naturally inquisitive mind begins imagining several
scenarios, and I can’t walk away. Not until I know. Lord knows if I just get in
my car and leave, I’ll be up all night thinking about how I might’ve missed out
on a story. Bye bye, scholarship.
I sigh, shoving my overflowing backpack in the passenger
seat before slamming the car door as I head toward the source of the noise. I
make my way toward the river, cutting through an alleyway. The single
streetlight flickers, barely illuminating the area and making it feel even more
desolate out here. Ominous, almost. I can’t help thinking that with my luck,
it’ll end up being a skunk that sprays me for trying to help.
The alley is more of a narrow path between buildings, not
even wide enough for a car to fit through. Overflowing dumpsters from
surrounding businesses line one side while the other is a dirty brick wall
covered in graffiti. If this were Baltimore, I might have been more cautious,
but while Hope Mills isn’t Pleasantville by any means, I don’t feel afraid,
only curious.
“Get your hands off me, you son of a bitch. You’re never
going to get away with this!” a man growls in the distance, the final word
echoing off the water.
I whip my head around, barely missing smacking it on an
underhang promoting JT’s Soul Food Buffet. Okay, that definitely wasn’t an
animal.
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