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Jacqueline Taylor

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The Journalist

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The Journalist

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The town of Carver’s Hollow was not much more than a collection of crooked streets and weathered storefronts, tucked away in the hills where the forest began to reclaim the land. A slow-moving river wound its way through the town’s edge, its murmur mingling with the distant echoes of children playing in the streets. It was a place that held its history close, the kind of town where every stone in the sidewalk had a memory, every weathered tree had a story. The locals spoke in hushed tones, not out of politeness, but because they knew—knew without question—that their lives were intertwined in ways that the outside world could never understand.

Miles from the busy clamor of the city, Carver’s Hollow was exactly the kind of place that didn’t mind being forgotten, yet always had a story to tell. But this story, the one that had made the name Evelyn Hale a whispered legend among the townsfolk, was one they couldn’t shake. And it was a story, the journalist thought, that he had come to unravel.

Jack Riley stepped out of the bus onto the cracked pavement, feeling the weight of his small suitcase in his hand. A faint scent of pine and damp earth filled the air, the town's lingering scent like an old memory clinging to his skin. He didn’t live here, hadn’t even set foot in Carver’s Hollow before. But there was something about this place, about her, that had drawn him in—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He had heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had.

Evelyn Hale. The woman at the center of a tragedy. A woman who, depending on who you asked, had either killed her brother in cold blood or acted in self-defense. A woman whose presence in town had become a riddle that gnawed at the heart of Carver’s Hollow. 

The brief for his project had been clear: interview the woman, get her side of the story, and craft a narrative that would answer the questions everyone had been asking since her brother’s death. 

Jack had agreed to take on the assignment without much hesitation. It wasn’t often that an editor handed him a project with such potential, such raw material. The kind of story that could catapult his career if done right. But there was something more—something visceral—that kept him from walking away. He had seen the interviews with the townspeople; the tension between the adulation they still held for her brother and the unease they felt about Evelyn was thick enough to choke on. They whispered about her, never offering more than fragments, the truth of her story hidden beneath layers of assumptions and half-told truths. 

And that was what intrigued Jack the most: the contradiction. How could someone so broken be the same as the woman who had once been seen as a saint, a loving sister? What had really happened the night her brother died?

His mind was already spinning with the possibilities, already tracing the path that would lead him to the woman herself. She lived in a house on the edge of town, a place no one dared approach unless they had to. It was a peculiar home—dark windows, heavy curtains, and a stillness that kept even the bravest of the townspeople away. Evelyn Hale didn’t exactly fit in with the tidy narrative that Carver’s Hollow had built around itself. But Jack, despite his initial skepticism, couldn’t help but wonder: what kind of woman was she, really? 

As he walked past the houses—each one more dilapidated than the next—he noticed the occasional gaze, eyes peeking through windows, faces half-hidden in doorways. They were watching him, or rather, watching the outsider who had come to uncover their secrets. Their curiosity was palpable, but so was the wariness. No one was eager to talk to him, not yet. And the few who did only spoke in half-truths.

"She’s just... broken," one woman had said earlier in the local diner. “She doesn’t need no one else meddling in her business.” But when pressed, the woman had hurriedly added, “I mean, who knows? The truth is—well, it’s hard to say.”

It wasn’t the first vague answer Jack had gotten. And it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

By the time he reached her house, the sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows over the crooked porch. The house stood there like a relic, an architectural puzzle with rooms that seemed to shift and change when viewed from different angles. Heavy curtains hung in the windows, blocking out any trace of light, giving the house an air of claustrophobia. A single door opened directly onto the porch, and Jack hesitated before stepping up to it.

There were no bells. No knocker. Just a simple door, slightly ajar, like a silent invitation.

Jack knocked anyway.

A moment later, he heard a shuffle from inside. The door creaked open, revealing the woman who had captured his curiosity. Evelyn Hale stood there in the dim light, her eyes dark and unreadable. She said nothing at first, simply stared at him as if weighing his worth. The air seemed to thicken around them, and Jack felt that old, familiar sense of discomfort—a journalist’s sixth sense—that told him this wasn’t going to be a simple interview.

"You're the one who wants my story," she said, her voice low and tinged with something Jack couldn’t place.

He nodded, taking a step closer. "Yes, I am. I think people deserve to hear it."

Her lips twitched, but her eyes stayed cold. "We’ll see about that."

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