Yes, I'm not dead. Life's tragically busy but the inspiration is flowing so I should be able to finish the book soon! We still have lots of plotline to get through but I'm sure it will be over before I know. I'll let y'all read now:) Enjoy! (Also, if you're a Les Misérables fan, you are immediately deemed as my fandom friend)
"Samantha! Samantha!" Katherine Pulitzer's voice rang out behind the dark-haired, street girl who halted mid-step at the urgency that flooded the journalist's words.
"What is it, Kath?" She questioned, whirling around, barely escaping being plowed over by her friend.
"I found something." Samantha narrowed her eyes at the statement, her mind racing with the possibilities of what could have sparked such a reaction from Katherine.
"Is it-"
"It has to do with the Second Refuge." Katherine flipped open her notebook, the one that never left her side, to reveal a stack of files, each stuffed to their utmost with papers. Passing it to Samantha, she glanced up at the girl's look of skepticism. "Just read it, it's too much to explain."
So Samantha led Katherine back to Jada's house and the two seated themselves in the sitting room, each with a cup of warm coffee in their hands, and she began to shuffle through the file, confusion never once leaving her mind.
From what she could understand of the file, eight years ago, three kids of well-known people in New York went missing, resulting in more than a few deaths and many interrogations. Samantha couldn't understand what the disappearances had to do with the Newsie attacks and the Second Refuge, but Katherine drew her attention to the dates of the disappearances.
Michael Patrick Smith went missing on June 4th, 1891 after his nanny had taken him out to Central Park. Professed by the nanny, she had been chatting with another mother when another child in the park began to scream. The nanny had turned to look for Michael, worried about the boy only to find nothing but a pair of boots left behind with a soundless scream of the three-year-old.
Clara Arianna Williams went missing on June 5th, 1891 while her and her mother were out on a walk. Her mother was found three hours after they had left, unconscious in an alley far off the path that the two were known for taking, the five-year-old no where to be found.
And finally, Jonathan Colby Hart, the disappearance that was immediately determined as a kidnapping when the two-year-old had been sighted being picked up by a tall man by three civilians on June 7th, 1891. His older brother had been watching him but had looked away when his friend had come to chat with him. The boy was never seen again.
It was impossible to overlook the near-same dates of the kidnappings, as they had later been labeled. It was clear that whoever had kidnapped Michael Patrick Smith had been the same person to kidnap Clara Arianna Williams and Jonathan Colby Hart. But Samantha struggled to see the line between the three missing children from eight years ago to the issue of the Second Refuge and the Newsie attacks.
"Don't you see," Katherine exclaimed, "it all adds up." She handed Samantha another file of papers before continuing. "My father began funding the Second Refuge eight years ago, two weeks before the kidnapping of these three children."
Samantha furrowed her brow, gazing down at the papers in her hand. "So ya think dat Snyder kidnapped three children an' has been holdin' dem in da Second Refuge fa eight years, a place dat is bein' privately funded by ya fadda?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
"But why? And what's da importance a these children?"
Katherine hummed, reached through the stack of files, drawing another one out and opened it. Samantha was beginning to think the girl had endless amounts of information pouring out of herself. "That was more difficult to uncover."
"Why would dat be a feat?"
"Because the children aren't from any special family, nor are their parents involved in anything overly important. In fact, Pier Hart works for my father as an editor."
"Jonathan's fadda?" Katherine nodded. "So, assumin' dat youse theory is true, why would Snyder choose dese children? Could he be makin' a statement?"
"Killing Ryder before the rest of the Harlem Newsies was making a statement. He didn't even show his face in the kidnappings. That wasn't making a statement."
"Not a public one, ya mean."
"What other kind of statement would he make?"
"Do youse know if da parents have any sort a relation ta Snyder?"
"I would have to look into it." Pulling on her notebook once more, the young journalist began to scribble herself notes. "It might take a while though."
"Take as long as ya need. I 'ave other things ta look into. Startin' with da Refuge."
"You're going?"
"Not like I 'ave much choice."
"Are you going alone?"
"Peter's with Maggie, so's yeah."
Katherine bit on the end of her pencil, not wanting to flat out tell the girl how stupid of a plan that was. "Just be careful. Snyder seems to have too many cards up his sleeve, and I'm worried what the next one will bring."
"I'll be fine, Kath. Just get me Snyder's relations ta the kids' parents and we can start figurin' out what is goin' on 'round 'ere. Did youse find anything 'bout da Newsie attacks?"
Katherine sighed with a small shake of her head. "Nothing. Whatever Snyder's decided to start with the Newsies, my father isn't apart of it."
Samantha nearly laughed at the irony of their situation. "So much fa honest, loving faddas." She shook her head, Katherine watching her closely. "Who knew that one day we'd both be sneaking behind their backs trying to figure out why the want to rid the world of us and all our friends."
Katherine didn't say anything. She didn't know if she wanted to. The reality of their situation had hit her along time ago, but she couldn't help holding onto the hope that her father had at least an ounce of self-restraint. But looking at the papers in her hands, she couldn't deny the facts. She was a journalist. She had to learn to accept them no matter what cost they came at. Even if it meant that the speculations, the one that had been always lurching in the shadows, about the dirty dealings of her father were true. But still, she didn't say anything.
"I'se should be goin'." Samantha broke through the red-head's thoughts. "Thank ya Katherine. Fa everything."
"Oh please, I haven't had this much fun since the strike. Things truly were starting to get rather boring."
"If dese past weeks 'ave shown anythin', it's dat nothing will be borin' fa a very long time. It's up ta da two a us to determine if dat's a good thin' or not."
Being back at her house had felt like torture, the memories of such dark times flooding Samantha like nothing before, but it had no comparison to what she felt when she opened the window of the Refuge and slid herself in.
She could almost see Beth running around with what little strength the girl had left, checking on every child to make sure they had sufficient means of warmth to protect them from the chills of the oncoming eve, passing out the food that the Savior of the Refuge brought.
She remembered little Marcus, the sun-shine boy, as they called him, always ready with a new thought, some fantasy world to drag the rest of the dying children off to.
She could see little Tommy nearly tearing off an older boy's head for so much as casting a dirty look at his younger sister, or threatening to soak the Delancey's until their head's spun for every time they had ever laid hands on Maggie. Samantha covered her mouth, releasing a silent sob as the knowledge of Tommy's death flooded through her.
How much blood stained these walls? How many bodies cluttered the rooms? How many children struggled to fall asleep, fear of their nightmares becoming a reality, all because of the endless nights of torture? How many days, weeks, months, years, was each forced to lay, starving, parched, bones succumb to nothing more than ice, before the darkness finally swallowed them whole? How many? How many?
If she hadn't had such an important reason for bringing herself, she would have spent all day walking through each room to remember the memories of each child. They deserved it for what they had been forced to endure.
But she had a purpose to fulfill. So she moved on to the room she had come for, nearly letting out a shriek of surprise when she came face-to-face with her best friend.
"What on earth are you'se doin' 'ere, Peter?" She screeched, eyes wide at the near fright. Peter merely smirked at her reaction, turning back to what he had been doing.
"I knew you'd come sooner a later."
"Ya lied." It wasn't a question because now it was clearer than the sun what he had done.
"Obviously," he replied, his tone flat.
"How could ya possibly 'ave known dat I was coming 'ere?"
"I'se just dat brilliant, Sammy." He flashed her another smirk.
"You seem extra perky taday. What 'appened?" She past Peter and began searching through the filing cabinet he had already unlocked.
"Checked dat one," he said without glancing up. "'Aven't gone through da bottom two though."
Switching cabinets, Samantha shot him an expectant glare.
"Calm down, I'll answa. But I need youse ta keep an open mind."
"What's dat supposed ta mean?"
"Just-" The boy paused. "Jojo knows."
It took a moment for Samantha to catch his meaning, confusion at the brown-haired, brown-eyed boy who had been invading one too many of her dreams as of late being brought into the conversation. But when she did, it hit her hard.
"He what?" She whispered, unable to bring her voice any louder.
"He knows." Peter turned away from the desk to face Samantha, taking in her horrified expression of guilt and shock.
"How?"
"He came 'ere. Found ya birth certificate."
Samantha could do nothing but drop her gaze to the floor, a million thoughts rushing through her head so fast that she couldn't comprehend any of them.
"Sam, it's alright."
"No it's not."
"I spoke ta him. He understands why ya kept it a secret."
"No it's not," she repeated, quieter this time.
"Sam, what do ya mean? I'se swear, he understands. He just wants ta talk to you'se."
"No."
"Sam-"
"No!" She whirled away from Peter, barely missing the corner of the filing cabinet. "You don't understand. No one does." She dug her hands into her hair, drawing in a choked breath.
"Den 'elp me," he said, gently touching a hand to her shoulder. She flinched away from Peter, and his hand fell to his side, fear suddenly grasping hold of him.
"Samantha, what is goin' on?"
"I won't let it 'appen again," she muttered, a defiant tone entering her voice. "Not again."
"Samantha!" Peter yelled, grabbing the girl by the shoulders, giving her a hard shake. She barely blinked. "What is goin' on?" He questioned, drawing out each word, needing his best friend to hear him, to understand him, to answer him. He had never seen her like this and it had shaken him to his bones. He would have been trembling in fear for her if he hadn't needed to retrieve an answer from her.
"Nothing is goin' on," she snapped, fixing him with a sharp glare. "Let go a me, Peter."
"Not until ya give me an answer."
"I don't have da answers youse want."
"Well then give me da ones ya have." She stayed silent, even breaths falling from the two of them until her eyes slowly raised to his, and she spoke.
"Why did ya tell Jojo?" She had no clue what words had fallen from her lips until she watched his jaw drop open, his hands falling from her shoulders as he stepped back in shock. Why she had muttered what she did was beyond her. She hadn't even thought Peter had been the one to tell Jojo, pinning it on the boy's untamable curiosity, but there was no mistaking the truth as he gaped at her.
"How-"
"You'se did, didn't ya?"
"I-" There was no point in lying. "Yes."
Why? She wanted to ask it so badly, but the word wouldn't form on her tongue. It didn't matter why he had told Jojo anyway. There was nothing she could do about it, no way to fix it or take it back. All she could do was try to protect the two of them with the only thing she had left to do.
Samantha hated running. It was painful, stole all of your breath, and it always meant you were leaving something behind. She hated the cowards who chose to flee their demons rather than stand up and face them with all the strength they possessed. It was a sign of weakness in her eyes, but maybe, she supposed, she had always been weak and it was only showing itself now. There had only been one time in her life that she had chosen to run and it only opened her eyes to the knowledge that running got you nowhere but in a worse place than you were when you began.
But Samantha also hated denying the truth. And the truth that faced her was one of resolve. If she didn't run, all of her friends would die. If she did run, she would save them all from a fate worse than that of which she had spent her childhood enduring.
"Samantha, please say somethin'," Peter begged. The boy was so afraid that he had been the one to cause this reaction from his best friend, so afraid that she would forever hate him for what he had done. He had tried to help. He knew it wasn't fair to Jojo for Samantha to hold her secrets, and it wasn't fair to Samantha to force her to hold the weight alone. But the more he ran it through in his head, he realized how stupid he had been. It wasn't his secret to share. It had never been. If anything he had just torn Jojo and Samantha father apart.
"I don't really know what ta say." He gave a solemn nod, knowing that he deserved the full weight of the pain these seven words brought with them.
"I'se sorry Sam," he said, unwilling to meet her eyes.
"I know ya are." Despite herself, she took a step forward. "Dis ain't ya fault, Peter."
The boy's gaze shot up, but the moment it did, he wished he would have kept his eyes on his shoes. Burning brightly in her eyes was resolution. And it wasn't the kind that spoke of deciding to become a new person, or one a making different decisions. No, this was a resolution of goodbye, and Peter knew with blinding certainty that it was his fault.
"Sam-" He began. But someone else cut him off. Someone that Samantha would have given everything for the promise that she would never have to see him again.
"Isn't this a nice sight." She could have died right there. That voice, the one that haunted her sleep, her memories, her life. Because you're the one killin' her. She held herself still, barely hiding her wince as she turned to face the man that had hurt her more deeply than anyone could even dream of, schooling her features as she prepared herself for his next words.
"Quite the nuisance you've become, Daughter."
Psalm 28:7 - The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me. My heart leaps for joy, and with my song I praise him.