The Girl Who Read the Obituary
Rio found him in the storage room, sitting on the cot with his head in his hands. The overhead bulb buzzed like a trapped fly. She stood in the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, and watched him for a long moment before she knocked on the doorframe.
"You missed dinner," she said.
Dex looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, and the empty bottle of whiskey on the floor beside the cot caught the light. "Wasn't hungry."
"You're drinking again."
"I'm thinking." He picked up the bottle, stared at it, and set it back down. "There's a difference."
Rio stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The room smelled like sweat socks and old wood and the faint chemical tang of the floor wax the janitor used to use. The janitor who was dead now. The janitor whose name Dex couldn't stop seeing every time he closed his eyes.
"You've been in here for three hours," Rio said. "Practice ended at six. It's nine now. The girls are worried."
"The girls should be home doing homework."
"The girls are in the parking lot, Dex. They're not leaving until you come out and tell them what's wrong."
Dex laughed, but it came out hollow. "Six teenage girls sitting in a parking lot because their washed-up coach is having a bad night. That's a new low."
"It's not a bad night." Rio dropped her bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the cot, close enough that her knee almost touched his. "You've been different since the janitor died. Since before that, actually. Since the first blackout."
Dex didn't answer. He stared at the wall, where someone had tacked up a faded poster of the 1984 Vipers—the boys' team, all crew cuts and confident grins. Marcus Webb stood in the back row, taller than the rest, holding the championship trophy like it was a newborn baby.
"You're not just tired," Rio said. "You're seeing something. What is it?"
The words hung in the air between them. Dex opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. He'd been carrying the truth for weeks now, a stone in his gut that got heavier every day. He'd told himself he was protecting the girls. He'd told himself they didn't need to know. But Rio was looking at him with those sharp brown eyes, the same eyes that had seen him collapse on the court and hadn't blinked once.
"Promise me something first," he said.
"Depends what it is."
"Promise you won't run."
Rio's jaw tightened. "I don't run."
"You quit the team. First practice. You walked out."
"That was different. That was before I knew you were—" She stopped, searching for the word.
"Broken?" Dex offered.
"Not broken." Rio shook her head. "Haunted."
Dex let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "That's one word for it."
He stood up, crossed to the small metal desk in the corner, and pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside was a manila folder, thick with age, the edges soft and frayed. He'd found it in the records room that afternoon, buried behind a stack of old purchase orders and forgotten memos. He carried it back to the cot and set it between them.
"I spent the afternoon in the records room," he said. "After practice. I was looking for anything about the 1984 season. The championship game. Marcus Webb."
Rio's eyes flicked to the folder. "Did you find something?"
"I found a lot of somethings." Dex opened the folder. Inside were photocopies of newspaper clippings, yellowed and brittle, the ink faded to a ghost of its former black. He spread them out on the cot between them. "The Meridian Flats Gazette. November 1984. The Vipers won the state championship. But there's no trophy. No celebration. No parade."
"I know," Rio said. "Everyone knows. The trophy was never awarded. The team photo shows thirteen players, but the roster lists twelve. It's like the whole town agreed to forget something."
"Not forget." Dex tapped the top clipping. "Bury."
Rio picked up the clipping. It was a front-page story, the headline reading "VIPERS CLAIM STATE TITLE IN OVERTIME THRILLER." The photo showed the team mid-celebration, arms raised, confetti falling. But the story was short, almost perfunctory—a few paragraphs about the final score, the key plays, the defensive stand that sealed the win. No quotes from players. No mention of Marcus Webb.
"Read the last paragraph," Dex said.
Rio's eyes moved down the page. Her lips moved silently as she read. Then she stopped. "Marcus Webb, the team's leading scorer, was not present for the post-game celebration. Webb, a senior, was reported missing by his family the following morning. Police have no leads."
"Missing," Dex said. "Presumed runaway. That's what the paper said. That's what everyone believed. A kid with a bright future, a star player, the MVP of the championship game—and he just walked away."
Rio set the clipping down. "You don't think he walked away."
"I know he didn't."
"How?"
Dex looked at her. The truth was a live wire in his chest, crackling and dangerous. He'd told himself he'd never tell anyone. He'd told himself it was his burden to carry, his madness to manage. But Rio was still sitting there, still looking at him, and she hadn't run yet.
"Because I've seen him," Dex said. "In the blackouts. I've seen the night he died."
Rio's face didn't change. She didn't laugh, didn't scoff, didn't look at him like he'd lost his mind. She just nodded, slow, like she'd been waiting for him to say it.
"Tell me," she said.
So Dex told her. He told her about the first blackout, the one at practice, when he'd collapsed in the layup line and woken up smelling cigar smoke and hearing a crowd that wasn't there. He told her about the locker room, the shattered trophy, the blood on the tiles. He told her about the janitor's face going white when he'd asked about Marcus Webb, and the way the old man had said, "That name's been dead forty years."
He told her about the second game, the win by two, when he'd blacked out in the final minute and woken up with a scar on his palm that matched a cut Marcus had. He showed her the scar, a thin white line that hadn't been there before.
He told her about the janitor, found dead in the boiler room, clutching a 1984 game program. He told her about the records room, the roster that listed twelve names for thirteen faces, and the way the missing player's face matched the one in his memory.
When he finished, the room was quiet. The bulb buzzed. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed, and a girl's laugh cut through the night.
Rio was staring at the clippings spread out on the cot. Her finger traced the edge of the front-page photo, the one with Marcus Webb holding the trophy.
"You said you've seen him," she said. "In the blackouts. What does he look like?"
Dex closed his eyes. The image came easily, like it had been burned into the back of his skull. "Tall. Six-four, maybe. Skinny, but strong. He had a gap between his front teeth and a scar above his left eyebrow. He wore his hair short, almost shaved, and he had a tattoo on his right forearm—a snake coiled around a basketball."
Rio's hand went to her bag. She unzipped the front pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, creased and worn, the edges soft from handling. She unfolded it and held it out to him.
"Like this?"
Dex took the paper. It was a newspaper clipping, older than the ones in his folder, the ink even more faded. The headline read "WEBB'S DISAPPEARANCE MYSTIFIES TOWN." The photo showed a young Black man in a Vipers jersey, standing on the court, ball under his arm. He was smiling, gap-toothed, a scar above his left eyebrow. The tattoo on his forearm was visible, the snake coiled around the basketball.
Dex's hands started to shake. "Where did you get this?"
"Found it in my grandmother's attic," Rio said. "She used to live here. She was a fan of the old Vipers teams. She kept a scrapbook of every season from 1980 to 1990. When I told her I was playing for the Lady Vipers, she gave it to me. Said I should know the history."
Rio reached into her bag again and pulled out a small photo album, its cover worn and peeling. She opened it to a page marked with a ribbon. The page was covered in clippings and photos, all from the 1984 season.
"I didn't think much of it at first," she said. "Just old sports stuff. But then you started having the blackouts, and you started talking about ghost plays, and I started paying attention." She pointed to a photo in the corner of the page. "That's the team photo. The one with thirteen players. My grandmother wrote the names on the back."
Dex turned the album around. The photo was the same one he'd seen in the principal's office—thirteen young men in Vipers jerseys, the championship trophy held aloft by Marcus Webb. He flipped it over. On the back, in neat, looping handwriting, were thirteen names.
He counted them. Twelve names matched the roster. The thirteenth, written in the same hand but slightly darker, as if the pen had pressed harder, read: "Marcus Webb. Gone but not forgotten. RIP."
"RIP," Dex said. "She wrote RIP."
"My grandmother never believed he ran away," Rio said. "She used to say that boy loved this town too much to leave it. She said something bad happened that night, and the town covered it up."
Dex looked up at her. "She was right."
"I know." Rio's voice was quiet. "I've known for a while. The way you talk in your sleep. The things you say when you're in the blackouts. You called out his name once. Marcus. You said, 'I'm sorry, Marcus. I didn't mean to.'"
Dex's blood went cold. "I said that?"
"You said it three times." Rio met his eyes. "I didn't tell anyone. I figured you'd tell me when you were ready."
The folder sat between them, the clippings spread out like evidence. Dex picked up the front-page photo from the Gazette, the one with Marcus holding the trophy, and stared at it.
"He's not trying to hurt me," Dex said. "I thought he was at first. I thought I was going crazy, or that I'd done something to deserve this. But he's not trying to hurt me. He's trying to show me something."
"What?"
"The night he died." Dex set the photo down. "He's been replaying it for me, piece by piece. The locker room. The argument. The trophy. Every blackout, I get a little more. It's like he's trying to make me understand."
"Understand what?"
Dex shook his head. "I don't know yet. But I know it's not over. The janitor's death—that wasn't a heart attack. That was him. Marcus. He took the janitor because the janitor knew something."
Rio's face went pale. "You think the ghost killed him?"
"I think the ghost finished something the janitor started." Dex rubbed his eyes. "I know how it sounds. I know I sound like a crazy person. But I've seen the floorboards in the gym. I've seen the way they warp in the corner near the boiler room. I've seen the spot where the wood is newer than the rest, like it was replaced."
Rio was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached into her bag one more time. She pulled out a folded piece of paper, smaller than the others, and handed it to him.
"I found this in the scrapbook too," she said. "It was tucked behind the team photo. My grandmother must have saved it."
Dex unfolded it. It was a handwritten note, the ink faded to brown, the paper thin and fragile. The handwriting was neat, careful, the letters of someone who didn't write often.
*To whoever finds this: I saw what happened that night. I saw Coach Briggs and Marcus fighting in the locker room. I saw the trophy fall. I saw Marcus go down and not get up. I saw them carry him out. I never told anyone because I was scared. But I can't live with it anymore. His name was Marcus Webb. He didn't run away. He's still here.*
There was no signature. But at the bottom of the note, in the same handwriting, was a date: November 15, 1984. The night of the championship game.
Dex read it twice. Then a third time. His hands were shaking so hard the paper trembled.
"He's still here," Dex said. "That's what the note says. He's still here."
Rio nodded. "My grandmother wrote that note. I'd recognize her handwriting anywhere. She wrote it the week before she died. She told me she had to get it off her chest before it was too late."
Dex looked at her. "Your grandmother knew."
"She knew something. She never told me what. She just said that if I ever played in that gym, I should remember Marcus Webb." Rio's voice cracked, just slightly. "I thought she was just being sentimental. An old lady remembering the glory days. But now—"
"Now you know better."
Rio nodded. She reached out and took his hand, the one with the scar on the palm. Her fingers were cool against his skin.
"I believe you," she said. "I don't know if I believe in ghosts. But I believe you. And I believe Marcus Webb didn't run away."
Dex looked at her. For the first time in weeks, the stone in his gut felt a little lighter.
"There's more," he said. "The blackouts. They're getting worse. Every time I have one, I lose something. A memory. A piece of myself. It's like he's taking pieces of me to make room for his own."
Rio's grip tightened. "How much have you lost?"
"Little things. The name of a song I used to love. The face of a teammate from my NBA days. My ex-wife's birthday." Dex swallowed. "I don't know how much longer I can do this before there's nothing left of me."
"Then we figure it out." Rio's voice was fierce. "We figure out what he wants, and we give it to him. Together."
Dex stared at her. Sixteen years old. A kid with a chip on her shoulder and a jump shot that could break ankles. She should have been worried about homework and boys and whatever else teenagers worried about. Instead, she was sitting in a storage room with a washed-up alcoholic, talking about ghosts and murder and the weight of a forty-year-old secret.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked. "You don't owe me anything. You could walk away right now and never look back."
Rio smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Because you're the first person who ever looked at me and saw a point guard instead of a problem. You're the first coach who ever told me I could be great instead of telling me to be realistic." She squeezed his hand. "And because my grandmother believed in Marcus Webb. She believed he deserved the truth. And I believe she was right."
Dex looked down at the note in his hands. The words seemed to glow in the dim light of the storage room.
"He's still here," Dex said again.
"Yeah," Rio said. "And we're going to find out why."
"You missed dinner," she said.
Dex looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, and the empty bottle of whiskey on the floor beside the cot caught the light. "Wasn't hungry."
"You're drinking again."
"I'm thinking." He picked up the bottle, stared at it, and set it back down. "There's a difference."
Rio stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The room smelled like sweat socks and old wood and the faint chemical tang of the floor wax the janitor used to use. The janitor who was dead now. The janitor whose name Dex couldn't stop seeing every time he closed his eyes.
"You've been in here for three hours," Rio said. "Practice ended at six. It's nine now. The girls are worried."
"The girls should be home doing homework."
"The girls are in the parking lot, Dex. They're not leaving until you come out and tell them what's wrong."
Dex laughed, but it came out hollow. "Six teenage girls sitting in a parking lot because their washed-up coach is having a bad night. That's a new low."
"It's not a bad night." Rio dropped her bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the cot, close enough that her knee almost touched his. "You've been different since the janitor died. Since before that, actually. Since the first blackout."
Dex didn't answer. He stared at the wall, where someone had tacked up a faded poster of the 1984 Vipers—the boys' team, all crew cuts and confident grins. Marcus Webb stood in the back row, taller than the rest, holding the championship trophy like it was a newborn baby.
"You're not just tired," Rio said. "You're seeing something. What is it?"
The words hung in the air between them. Dex opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. He'd been carrying the truth for weeks now, a stone in his gut that got heavier every day. He'd told himself he was protecting the girls. He'd told himself they didn't need to know. But Rio was looking at him with those sharp brown eyes, the same eyes that had seen him collapse on the court and hadn't blinked once.
"Promise me something first," he said.
"Depends what it is."
"Promise you won't run."
Rio's jaw tightened. "I don't run."
"You quit the team. First practice. You walked out."
"That was different. That was before I knew you were—" She stopped, searching for the word.
"Broken?" Dex offered.
"Not broken." Rio shook her head. "Haunted."
Dex let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "That's one word for it."
He stood up, crossed to the small metal desk in the corner, and pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside was a manila folder, thick with age, the edges soft and frayed. He'd found it in the records room that afternoon, buried behind a stack of old purchase orders and forgotten memos. He carried it back to the cot and set it between them.
"I spent the afternoon in the records room," he said. "After practice. I was looking for anything about the 1984 season. The championship game. Marcus Webb."
Rio's eyes flicked to the folder. "Did you find something?"
"I found a lot of somethings." Dex opened the folder. Inside were photocopies of newspaper clippings, yellowed and brittle, the ink faded to a ghost of its former black. He spread them out on the cot between them. "The Meridian Flats Gazette. November 1984. The Vipers won the state championship. But there's no trophy. No celebration. No parade."
"I know," Rio said. "Everyone knows. The trophy was never awarded. The team photo shows thirteen players, but the roster lists twelve. It's like the whole town agreed to forget something."
"Not forget." Dex tapped the top clipping. "Bury."
Rio picked up the clipping. It was a front-page story, the headline reading "VIPERS CLAIM STATE TITLE IN OVERTIME THRILLER." The photo showed the team mid-celebration, arms raised, confetti falling. But the story was short, almost perfunctory—a few paragraphs about the final score, the key plays, the defensive stand that sealed the win. No quotes from players. No mention of Marcus Webb.
"Read the last paragraph," Dex said.
Rio's eyes moved down the page. Her lips moved silently as she read. Then she stopped. "Marcus Webb, the team's leading scorer, was not present for the post-game celebration. Webb, a senior, was reported missing by his family the following morning. Police have no leads."
"Missing," Dex said. "Presumed runaway. That's what the paper said. That's what everyone believed. A kid with a bright future, a star player, the MVP of the championship game—and he just walked away."
Rio set the clipping down. "You don't think he walked away."
"I know he didn't."
"How?"
Dex looked at her. The truth was a live wire in his chest, crackling and dangerous. He'd told himself he'd never tell anyone. He'd told himself it was his burden to carry, his madness to manage. But Rio was still sitting there, still looking at him, and she hadn't run yet.
"Because I've seen him," Dex said. "In the blackouts. I've seen the night he died."
Rio's face didn't change. She didn't laugh, didn't scoff, didn't look at him like he'd lost his mind. She just nodded, slow, like she'd been waiting for him to say it.
"Tell me," she said.
So Dex told her. He told her about the first blackout, the one at practice, when he'd collapsed in the layup line and woken up smelling cigar smoke and hearing a crowd that wasn't there. He told her about the locker room, the shattered trophy, the blood on the tiles. He told her about the janitor's face going white when he'd asked about Marcus Webb, and the way the old man had said, "That name's been dead forty years."
He told her about the second game, the win by two, when he'd blacked out in the final minute and woken up with a scar on his palm that matched a cut Marcus had. He showed her the scar, a thin white line that hadn't been there before.
He told her about the janitor, found dead in the boiler room, clutching a 1984 game program. He told her about the records room, the roster that listed twelve names for thirteen faces, and the way the missing player's face matched the one in his memory.
When he finished, the room was quiet. The bulb buzzed. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed, and a girl's laugh cut through the night.
Rio was staring at the clippings spread out on the cot. Her finger traced the edge of the front-page photo, the one with Marcus Webb holding the trophy.
"You said you've seen him," she said. "In the blackouts. What does he look like?"
Dex closed his eyes. The image came easily, like it had been burned into the back of his skull. "Tall. Six-four, maybe. Skinny, but strong. He had a gap between his front teeth and a scar above his left eyebrow. He wore his hair short, almost shaved, and he had a tattoo on his right forearm—a snake coiled around a basketball."
Rio's hand went to her bag. She unzipped the front pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, creased and worn, the edges soft from handling. She unfolded it and held it out to him.
"Like this?"
Dex took the paper. It was a newspaper clipping, older than the ones in his folder, the ink even more faded. The headline read "WEBB'S DISAPPEARANCE MYSTIFIES TOWN." The photo showed a young Black man in a Vipers jersey, standing on the court, ball under his arm. He was smiling, gap-toothed, a scar above his left eyebrow. The tattoo on his forearm was visible, the snake coiled around the basketball.
Dex's hands started to shake. "Where did you get this?"
"Found it in my grandmother's attic," Rio said. "She used to live here. She was a fan of the old Vipers teams. She kept a scrapbook of every season from 1980 to 1990. When I told her I was playing for the Lady Vipers, she gave it to me. Said I should know the history."
Rio reached into her bag again and pulled out a small photo album, its cover worn and peeling. She opened it to a page marked with a ribbon. The page was covered in clippings and photos, all from the 1984 season.
"I didn't think much of it at first," she said. "Just old sports stuff. But then you started having the blackouts, and you started talking about ghost plays, and I started paying attention." She pointed to a photo in the corner of the page. "That's the team photo. The one with thirteen players. My grandmother wrote the names on the back."
Dex turned the album around. The photo was the same one he'd seen in the principal's office—thirteen young men in Vipers jerseys, the championship trophy held aloft by Marcus Webb. He flipped it over. On the back, in neat, looping handwriting, were thirteen names.
He counted them. Twelve names matched the roster. The thirteenth, written in the same hand but slightly darker, as if the pen had pressed harder, read: "Marcus Webb. Gone but not forgotten. RIP."
"RIP," Dex said. "She wrote RIP."
"My grandmother never believed he ran away," Rio said. "She used to say that boy loved this town too much to leave it. She said something bad happened that night, and the town covered it up."
Dex looked up at her. "She was right."
"I know." Rio's voice was quiet. "I've known for a while. The way you talk in your sleep. The things you say when you're in the blackouts. You called out his name once. Marcus. You said, 'I'm sorry, Marcus. I didn't mean to.'"
Dex's blood went cold. "I said that?"
"You said it three times." Rio met his eyes. "I didn't tell anyone. I figured you'd tell me when you were ready."
The folder sat between them, the clippings spread out like evidence. Dex picked up the front-page photo from the Gazette, the one with Marcus holding the trophy, and stared at it.
"He's not trying to hurt me," Dex said. "I thought he was at first. I thought I was going crazy, or that I'd done something to deserve this. But he's not trying to hurt me. He's trying to show me something."
"What?"
"The night he died." Dex set the photo down. "He's been replaying it for me, piece by piece. The locker room. The argument. The trophy. Every blackout, I get a little more. It's like he's trying to make me understand."
"Understand what?"
Dex shook his head. "I don't know yet. But I know it's not over. The janitor's death—that wasn't a heart attack. That was him. Marcus. He took the janitor because the janitor knew something."
Rio's face went pale. "You think the ghost killed him?"
"I think the ghost finished something the janitor started." Dex rubbed his eyes. "I know how it sounds. I know I sound like a crazy person. But I've seen the floorboards in the gym. I've seen the way they warp in the corner near the boiler room. I've seen the spot where the wood is newer than the rest, like it was replaced."
Rio was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached into her bag one more time. She pulled out a folded piece of paper, smaller than the others, and handed it to him.
"I found this in the scrapbook too," she said. "It was tucked behind the team photo. My grandmother must have saved it."
Dex unfolded it. It was a handwritten note, the ink faded to brown, the paper thin and fragile. The handwriting was neat, careful, the letters of someone who didn't write often.
*To whoever finds this: I saw what happened that night. I saw Coach Briggs and Marcus fighting in the locker room. I saw the trophy fall. I saw Marcus go down and not get up. I saw them carry him out. I never told anyone because I was scared. But I can't live with it anymore. His name was Marcus Webb. He didn't run away. He's still here.*
There was no signature. But at the bottom of the note, in the same handwriting, was a date: November 15, 1984. The night of the championship game.
Dex read it twice. Then a third time. His hands were shaking so hard the paper trembled.
"He's still here," Dex said. "That's what the note says. He's still here."
Rio nodded. "My grandmother wrote that note. I'd recognize her handwriting anywhere. She wrote it the week before she died. She told me she had to get it off her chest before it was too late."
Dex looked at her. "Your grandmother knew."
"She knew something. She never told me what. She just said that if I ever played in that gym, I should remember Marcus Webb." Rio's voice cracked, just slightly. "I thought she was just being sentimental. An old lady remembering the glory days. But now—"
"Now you know better."
Rio nodded. She reached out and took his hand, the one with the scar on the palm. Her fingers were cool against his skin.
"I believe you," she said. "I don't know if I believe in ghosts. But I believe you. And I believe Marcus Webb didn't run away."
Dex looked at her. For the first time in weeks, the stone in his gut felt a little lighter.
"There's more," he said. "The blackouts. They're getting worse. Every time I have one, I lose something. A memory. A piece of myself. It's like he's taking pieces of me to make room for his own."
Rio's grip tightened. "How much have you lost?"
"Little things. The name of a song I used to love. The face of a teammate from my NBA days. My ex-wife's birthday." Dex swallowed. "I don't know how much longer I can do this before there's nothing left of me."
"Then we figure it out." Rio's voice was fierce. "We figure out what he wants, and we give it to him. Together."
Dex stared at her. Sixteen years old. A kid with a chip on her shoulder and a jump shot that could break ankles. She should have been worried about homework and boys and whatever else teenagers worried about. Instead, she was sitting in a storage room with a washed-up alcoholic, talking about ghosts and murder and the weight of a forty-year-old secret.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked. "You don't owe me anything. You could walk away right now and never look back."
Rio smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Because you're the first person who ever looked at me and saw a point guard instead of a problem. You're the first coach who ever told me I could be great instead of telling me to be realistic." She squeezed his hand. "And because my grandmother believed in Marcus Webb. She believed he deserved the truth. And I believe she was right."
Dex looked down at the note in his hands. The words seemed to glow in the dim light of the storage room.
"He's still here," Dex said again.
"Yeah," Rio said. "And we're going to find out why."