Chapter 18 – The Journalist

They met in a public place—on purpose.

Harper’s Landing, a riverfront café just outside Owensboro, sat on a bluff overlooking the Ohio. The kind of spot with high tables, string lights, and a staff that didn’t bother you if you stayed too long sipping the same cup of coffee.

Ronny and Maya arrived early. They chose a seat near the back patio railing—open view, no blind spots. Ronny had brought a backpack with the originals, but the real prize—a flash drive with scanned copies, photos, and a timeline—was zipped inside Maya’s coat pocket.

At exactly 3:00 p.m., Kendra Blue arrived.

She was hard to miss. Tall, with silver-streaked black hair pulled into a tight ponytail and a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. No makeup. Faded jeans. Combat boots. Her presence was clean, focused, no wasted movement. She glanced around once before heading directly to their table.

“You’re Caldwell,” she said to Maya, shaking her hand. “And you must be Ellis.”

“Guilty,” Ronny replied. “Thanks for meeting us.”

Kendra sat, pulling a digital voice recorder and notebook from her satchel.

“I don’t usually drive an hour for a tip unless it bleeds,” she said. “But your message was… intriguing.”

Maya nodded. “We have proof of a murder covered up in 1939, tied to a woman named Margie E. Dalton. There are three prominent family names involved—Dawes, Collier, and Ellis. The documents are original. We've also uncovered remains.”

Kendra didn’t flinch. She clicked her recorder on. “Tell me everything.”

For the next twenty minutes, they laid it out—starting with the map Ronny found at the thrift store, the hidden message from Margie, the buried box at Rayburn Creek, the journal, and the photo from inside the Dawes barn. They showed her copies of the ledger pages, the signed “pact” between the three men, and the final journal entry Margie had hidden in the library book.

Kendra didn’t interrupt. She filled two pages of notes without looking up once.

When they finished, she leaned back, arms folded. “Okay. First question. Why me?”

“Because we don’t know who else we can trust,” Maya said. “We need someone who knows how to tell a story that can’t be ignored—someone not tied to local government, politics, or land.”

Ronny added, “And because the people connected to this still have reach. One of them already threatened us.”

Kendra’s eyes sharpened. “Who?”

They described the man at the barn—his warning, his message, and the way he seemed to know every move they were making.

Kendra nodded once, slowly. “There’s always a cleaner in stories like this. Sometimes freelance. Sometimes inherited.”

Ronny raised an eyebrow. “Inherited?”

“Old families protect their legacy. Doesn’t matter if it’s Kentucky or New York. There’s always someone who thinks silence is tradition.”

She slid her notebook into her satchel. “But this is more than a story. If we handle this wrong, it becomes a curiosity piece. If we do it right—it becomes a reckoning.”

Maya leaned in. “So… will you take it?”

Kendra stared at the documents again. Then at them.

“I’ll take it. But only if you understand what happens next.”

She ticked off with her fingers:

“One—this gets backed up in five different places.
Two—I publish an initial teaser post, enough to let people know I’ve got something. That gives you a layer of protection.
Three—I contact a forensic anthropologist I trust to examine the remains quietly. We’ll need to file a discovery report, but we can time it with publication.
Four—I start calling in markers with regional editors. We’ll get this on every desk from Paducah to Louisville.”

Ronny looked down at the river. “And if they try to stop us?”

Kendra gave a half-smile. “Then they’re going to learn something about Margie Dalton.”

Maya frowned. “What’s that?”

Kendra picked up the flash drive and pocketed it.

“That you can only bury the truth for so long before it finds its own way to the surface.”