Obituary

I look frantically from left to right, trying to decide which way to go. I don’t know these Pennsylvania woods, and that’s a problem right now.

When I hear footsteps crunching through the leaves I just ran through, my heart starts to race even faster. I’m fighting to breathe normally, lest my heavy breathing be overheard by the man who has been chasing me for the past ten minutes. Were it not for my history as a sprinter and the morning jogs I’ve taken every day for the past three years, I’d probably be dead by now.

I crouch behind a wide oak tree, pulling my phone from my pocket. The screen is open to the last text I sent, to a group chat consisting of four people. Quickly I send a text to the group.

In the woods behind the office. SEND HELP.

I can’t hear my pursuer any longer, which calms and terrifies me in equal measure. I’m alone, and the people I just texted won’t be able to save me. This man has a gun.

I’m running for my life.

Which is bad enough as it is, but here’s the thing - I have no idea why.

*****

I am a person who likes to know the why of things. It’s one of the reasons I decided to study journalism. I like to ask questions, to follow up, to be thorough.

I’m a sophomore at NYU, and at the beginning of the spring semester, I started looking into internships. I really wanted to land a big one - the Times or the Wall Street Journal. But my grades weren’t great and it was my first summer internship, so I found myself in a small town in rural Pennsylvania writing what every aspiring journalist does at some point in their career - obituaries.

It’s a way of paying dues, learning the ropes; I’ve never minded doing the obits. It's mindless - you gather information and plug it into the right places. Add some color and feeling if you’ve got the time.

My fellow interns complain about the obits nonstop. There are four of us - Vivi, a local girl who is spunky and warm and wants to write for Rolling Stone someday; Eddie, who wears only soccer jerseys and is destined for sports reporting; Andrew, a quiet guy, the one most likely to end up as an evening news anchor someday; and me.

“Today the lady calling burst into tears while she was talking,” Vivi said one day in our break room. “I almost transferred her to you, Ella.”

I smiled. Vivi was uncomfortable when others were sad in a way that I was not; our life experiences probably had something to do with that.

“Ella should take them all,” Eddie said, dropping his lunch on the table with a little more force than necessary. “I hate doing ‘em.”

“Part of the job, though,” Andrew said simply.

“People are just so annoying,” Eddie continued. “Like the guy I talked to today had no idea about anything. Where his brother worked, when he got married, when he served in the Army.”

“You can find all that stuff with Google,” I supplied, smiling at Eddie.

“No, you can,” he retorted. “I hate doing all that.”

I had thoughts, but kept them to myself. There were certainly reasons why I was more diligent than my co-workers.

“Just transfer them to me next time,” I said simply. “I can help.”

*****

That conversation was less than a week ago.

Now, I’m in the middle of the woods that the newspaper building backs up to, running for my life.

*****

They took me up on my offer whenever I was available, which wasn’t always. We were busy with other projects, articles that we enjoyed researching and writing. I'd recently convinced the lifestyle editor to let me do a story on wedding proposals; it was an extraordinarily fun project, asking people to tell their love stories.

Much less depressing than talking to grieving families about their loss.

One Friday morning, I saw that my line was ringing. I was on the other line, but saw Vivi waving at me frantically from across the room.

“Please,” she hissed, her hands folded into a begging gesture. “The woman is hysterical.”

I was on the phone with a contact for my wedding story, but wrapping up the conversation. I felt a twinge of resentment for needing to once again rescue one of my co-workers. However, I had a clear memory of the day three years ago when I’d been the hysterical person on the phone.

That was enough for me to nod at Vivi, end my conversation, and pick up the blinking line.

“This is Ella with the Daily Trib,” I said warmly. “May I ask whose speaking?”

I expected sobbing. But the voice that spoke was steady.

“He fell,” the woman said.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I said, my voice polite and sweet. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Did someone fall?”

“My husband,” the woman whispered. “From the roof. He was doing repairs. I told him to hire someone, Lord knows we’ve got the money - but -”

Her voice broke and she began to sob. These were the moments when I knew how to support people in a way that my fellow interns didn’t.

“Do you want to tell me about your husband?” I said gently.

It was almost exactly the sentence that had been spoken to me three years ago.

“Yes,” the woman choked out. “I do.”

*****

I couldn’t hear footsteps behind me any longer, and that scared me more than if I heard them.

Where had my pursuer disappeared to?

I was still crouched behind the oak tree. Twenty yards ahead, there was a cluster of trees, and what looked like several large boulders, though it was hard to tell in the dark. Vivi had told stories about rock climbing in a spot behind the Daily Trib office; maybe this was the place she’d been referring to. Was that a place where I could hide better? Or was it a spot where the person chasing me was crouched down, waiting to spring up on me at the first opportunity?

Too terrified to make a move, I stayed where I was. I felt my phone buzz slightly in my pocket, but I was worried that taking it out, allowing the phone’s light to shine freely, would be a fatal mistake. I hadn’t seen the man’s face when he burst into the Daily Trib office and started to chase after me, because he was wearing a balaclava that concealed his features. But I had seen his hands.

He was holding a gun.

*****

“I don't even know why I called you - I mean, the newspaper,” the woman said after she finished telling me the details of her husband's life. “I’m sure someone would have called me. It’s just when I was growing up, that’s what we did when someone died.”

“Of course,” I said reassuringly, though I really didn’t understand what she was talking about. I had a huge page filled with notes about her husband’s life that I now needed to transcribe and make some sense of. I’d scrawled his name across the middle of the page - DEXTER FITZGERALD. I realized suddenly that I was missing some information. “You said that Mr. Fitzgerald had three sons?”

“No,” the woman said quickly. “Only -”

The line suddenly was garbled, her voice breaking up. “Mrs. Fitzgerald?” I could hear her speaking, but the words were unintelligible. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, you’re breaking up. I’m going to write a draft and then I’ll e-mail it to you, okay?”

I thought I heard an okay from her before I hung up the phone, but I was distracted by a shadow falling over my desk. I looked up to see Andrew, his face frozen, mouth slightly agape as if he’d been about to speak and then lost the ability to do so. He was gazing down at the name: DEXTER FITZGERALD.

*****

When I heard a voice call out my name, I froze.

I assumed my pursuer was a random attacker - someone who’d been planning to rob the office and then been startled to find me there. How would they know my name?

“Ella!”

My heart filled with dread.

Because I knew the voice.

“Vivi?”

Her footsteps crunched through fallen leaves as she ran toward my voice. She was wearing jeans and boots and a sweater - she'd probably been about to head out bar hopping when she got my text.

“Ella, what the hell,” she said, breathing heavily. “What are you doing out here -”

I clapped a hand over her mouth. More footsteps, running right toward us. “Run!” I screamed, and I held Vivi’s hand as we sprinted further into the woods.

*****

When I caught Andrew staring at the paper with Dexter Fitzgerald’s life story scrawled across it, I looked at him expectantly. Vivi and Eddie were the chattiest of our crew, but it was Andrew that I felt the most comfortable with. He was quiet and thoughtful and intelligent.

To be honest, I liked him a lot.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, glancing back and forth between the paper and Andrew. “Did you know this guy?”

“He’s my father.” Andrew replied, his voice trembling as he spoke.

*****

“I know these woods,” Vivi whispered. “Come this way.”

We’d travelled some distance and the woods were quiet; a moment earlier, it sounded like our attacker had stumbled and fallen

I followed her to hide behind a large boulder.

“Tell me what's going on,” she demanded. “Who's chasing you? Is this some kind of joke?”

I took a deep breath. “An hour ago, I got a phone call.”

*****

Andrew was clearly shaken.

“I had no idea -” I typically knew what to say in these situations, but I was at a loss for words. From our conversations thus far this summer, I had the impression that Andrew’s father was not a part of his life. “Your mom -”

“She’s not my mother,” he said quickly.

“His wife, then - she said he had three sons?”

Andrew shook his head. “Two. Me - and Daniel. He’s a year older than us.” His face was pale. “Ella, I need to -”

“Go, go,” I said quickly, standing up to give him a quick hug. “Go home. I’ll tell the others.”

He left the office and I returned to my work.

*****

I hadn’t gotten a word of my story out when Vivi’s phone buzzed and we both froze.

She reached into her pocket and pulled it out. “Eddie texted,” she whispered. “He’s down on the trail.” A woodsy biking trail was located somewhere behind our office; I knew this from the others, who were all locals. “I’m telling him to climb up the rocks.”

“Vivi, no -”

“Ella,” she whispered sharply. “We need help.”

*****

The obituary for Mr. Fitzgerald was ready to be published. Thanks to Andrew, I had clarified the issue of his offspring, and verified it by checking the newspaper’s archive. Two birth announcements, a year apart, with Dexter listed as the father. I e-mailed a draft copy of the obit to the e-mail address Mrs. Fitzgerald had provided.

The office was deserted. I’d been so consumed with writing that I hadn’t realized I was alone.

That was when the phone rang.

I could have just let it ring. It was late, after all, and I was an intern. What could I possibly help someone with so late at night?

“This is Ella with the Daily Trib.”

“Are you the girl who wrote my dad’s obituary?”

I frowned. “Sir, can I -”

“Is it you? You just sent it - to me and my mom. Dexter Fitzgerald.”

I felt calmer now that I knew who was calling. It must be Andrew’s brother, Daniel. “Yes. Was everything okay?”

“No,” the voice said coldly. “Delete it immediately. Don’t publish it.”

I paused, surprised. Of course, obituaries didn’t need to be published; it wasn’t a requirement. But I’d spoken with Mrs. Fitzgerald at length and been clear on her own wishes. “Sir, can I speak with Mrs. Fitzgerald?”

“Are you going to delete it right now?”

“Well, sir -”

“You’ll regret this.”

He ended the call.

*****

“He’s climbing up the rocks,” Vivi whispered.

I was amazed at how quiet Eddie could be when he climbed. His head was the first body part visible, and then he lifted his body up onto the ledge where we were crouched. “Ladies,” he whispered. “What the hell is going on?”

“Ella was just about to tell me,” Vivi whispered, looking at me expectantly.

*****

Fifteen minutes after I ended the call, having left a message on Mrs. Fitzgerald’s voice mail asking her to call me back regarding the obituary, I heard the sound of glass shattering.

I was standing by my desk, which was twenty yards from the front entrance to the Daily Trib building. I don’t know why I didn’t run immediately.

I suppose I was confused about why I would possibly be in any danger.

The man in the balaclava came running from around the corner. I spotted the gun in his hand, turned, and sprinted through the office, heading for the back exit - the one that led out into the dark woods.

*****

“Do you think they’re related?” Eddie said in a hushed tone. “The phone call about the obit and this guy?”

“They can’t be,” I said. “Why would Dexter Fitzgerald’s family want to kill me?”

“Dexter Fitzgerald?” Vivi and Eddie said in unison, then shushed each other simultaneously. Luckily, for whatever reason, there was only quiet in the woods behind us. Was our pursuer injured?

Or was he crawling along quietly, ready to pounce, just as we rested near a ledge with a thirty-foot drop?

“Yes,” I answered them. “Who is he?”

“He’s massively wealthy, that’s who he is,” Eddie said. “Former professional football player. How do you not know that?”

“She’s not from here,” Vivi told him, then looked at me. “He’s also - well -” She bit her lip, looking as if she were deciding whether or not to speak. “He’s Andrew’s father.”

“I know,” I said. “Andrew told me tonight. Right before I finished writing.”

“You didn’t - put Andrew in the obit, did you?”

I looked at Vivi, who was wide-eyed. “I did. The wife told me he had - well, I guess I didn’t hear her straight, but I thought she said -” I shook my head. “I can fix it. Are they - was Andrew estranged from his father?”

Vivi nodded, looking at Eddie. “That guy is crazy famous, and incredibly rich,” he said. “If he has a son that his wife didn’t know about - a son who’s entitled to money - well, that’s the kind of thing people go crazy about. I think we know who’s chasing us now.”

“Not us - me,” I said quickly. “You guys have to get out of here.”

“We’re not leaving you,” Vivi snapped.

“Then you’ll die right along with her,” said a voice, and then Daniel Fitzpatrick stepped around a corner, his handgun aimed straight at my chest.

*****

When my parents died in a car accident my senior year of high school, I was the one who called the newspaper to give them information for the obituary. I’d seen my mother do the same when my grandmother died, and I knew it was what needed to be done.

When the writer - probably an intern - answered the phone, I started to cry.

“I’m so sorry about your parents,” she’d said kindly. “Do you want to tell me about them?”

I did. I told her, and she wrote a beautiful tribute to them; she was thorough, looking up the year they got married and their college graduation years, and she was kind.

That’s why I’m thorough. That’s why I do my best to write an honest, kind reflection about the person who died.

Because someone did that for me - for us.

*****

“I can delete it,” I said to Daniel. “It’s not published yet.”

“You sent it to my mother,” he growled. He had Andrew’s eyes and wavy brown hair.

“We can get it back,” Eddie supplied. “We can unsend it -”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Daniel snapped at him. “I’m not going to let you, or some bastard who has nothing to do with my family, take everything from me.” He aimed and cocked his gun, preparing to fire.

“Please,” Vivi said, clinging to my arm. “Pl -”

It happened in an instant. Daniel Fitzgerald fell to the floor. A figure behind him held up a rock.

“Andrew,” I said quietly.

Eddie rushed toward the body. Andrew stepped closer to me, crouching down in front of me, his hand touching my cheek tenderly. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I should have said more. I was just -”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” I said.

“He’s dead,” Eddie said, his hand to Daniel’s neck.

Andrew nodded. He didn’t look scared. He stood up. “We should go call someone,” he said.

“Or not,” I said.

They all looked at me.

“We roll him off the ledge. We make it look like an accident. We go home and we say nothing.”

Eddie let out a low whistle. “Ella. Who would have thought?”

“We can’t do it,” Andrew said, gazing at me. “It’s a crime.”

I smiled at him - the biggest smile I could muster under such circumstances. These three people had shown up when I was running for my life.

“We’re writers,” I said quietly. “It’s time for a rewrite.” Then with one solid kick, I sent Daniel Fitzpatrick’s body rolling off the edge of the ledge to the rocky trail below.