Page 5 of Not Another Yesterday
I come to a stop, eyebrows raised. “Can I help you?”
She holds up her hand, catching her breath before she straightens up and plasters a bright smile onto her ochre face. The color of her big obsidian eyes matches her eyelashes and hair.
“Hi,” she gasps. “You’re… you’re Ronan Soult, right?”
I furrow my brow, digging through my mental archives, trying to recall if I’ve met her before. “Yeah?” It comes out more like a question.
Her smile widens as she adjusts the strap of her oversized leather satchel. Her puffy polyester coat sends the strap sliding right back off her shoulder. “I’m Rashana Yates.”
Nope. Definitely not someone I’ve met before.
“I’m so sorry to ambush you like this. You’re probably heading home. Or, that’s probably presumptuous. For all I know you still have three hours of classes and are just grabbing something to eat. Gosh, I’m so ready for a few days off and all that good food.” She giggles awkwardly.
The crease on my brow deepens. “Can I help you?” I ask again.
Another giggle. Rashana pulls her bag forward, opens the flap, and retrieves a notebook and pen. “I’m Rashana Yates,” she repeats. “I’m getting my master’s in investigative journalism.”
My stomach drops.
“I’ve been working on a criminal justice piece, and—”
“No,” I say. I turn on my heel and march away.
She flings her bag behind her and jogs to catch up, practically sprinting to keep pace. “No what?” she asks, breathless.
I stop cold and face her. Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open.
“No to whatever the fuck you want from me,” I growl.
She raises her hands in surrender. “I’m working on an investigative journalism piece involving abuse cycles in families and the failures of the criminal justice system. I came across your mom’s case. It took me forever to find you. I’d love to—”
“No. Whatever it is you want or think I can give you, the answer is no. I don’t know how you found me—I thought my name was redacted from all court—”
“It was,” she says, but smiles. “But that’s what investigative journalism is. There’s always a way to find a person if you’re willing to dig deep enough.”
This feels violently intrusive.
“Yeah, so, I’m gonna tell you right now to stop. Drop this. Take my mother, my story,meout of your… piece. Don’t approach me again,” I warn her, each word punctuated by a sharp pause.
I turn and walk away.
“You know what all investigative journalists have in common?” she calls. I don’t stop. “We’re determined. I have buried secrets I could share with you if you’d be willing to sit with me for an hour.”
“I doubt that. And I won’t,” I call back without sparing her another look.
“Yeah? So you already know about your mom’s sister?” she shouts.
I hesitate, my stride slowing as my thoughts stumble. My mom’ssister?
I know she has a brother—never met the guy—but I’ve never heard a single word about a sister. For a second, I’m tempted to turn back, to ask what the hell she’s talking about.
But I keep walking. It doesn’t fucking matter. It’s not like I’m going to rekindle some kind of familial relationship with anyone on that side of the family, and I sure as fuck won’t sit with some investigative-reporter wannabe and do a deep dive into things I barely manage to talk to my therapist about.
She can get fucked.
Cat
“Well, well, well, look who decided to join us today,” my dad says over Sam and Benny’s boisterous needling of each other when the three of them walk into the house this afternoon. “A rare but lovely sighting of my eldest.”
