Skeletons in the Closet

A 3,000-Word Investigative Drama Starring Jodie Williams of the Seabrook Viking News

Jodie Williams had covered corruption before—mayors who skimmed a little off the top, council members who let their brothers-in-law cut in line for housing permits, police chiefs who looked the other way when a friend’s bar stayed open past 2 a.m. But nothing prepared her for Elroy Oakes.

The man smiled too much. That was the first thing she’d noticed. Politicians smiled, sure, but Mayor Oakes smiled like a man who was absolutely convinced he’d never be caught. His toothy grin stretched wide at every press conference, every ribbon-cutting ceremony, every parade. The friendly mayor. The charitable mayor. The man who once said, “My office is always open, and my hands are always clean.”

Clean.

Right.

Jodie clicked her pen against the edge of her desk inside the Viking News bullpen. Rain pattered against the windows, a steady, whispery rhythm like fingers tapping on a coffin lid. Outside, the newsroom hummed with the usual morning noise—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, Danny Van Hoosier swearing about the Seabrook Vikings’ terrible draft picks, and Sam Ihle mumbling something about coffee filters going missing again.

Sam glanced over at her, his glasses slipping down that Clark Kent nose of his. “You okay? You’ve been staring at that spreadsheet for an hour.”

“Spreadsheet?” she echoed. “No, Sam. This is a crime scene.”

He leaned over her shoulder, his breath warm against her ear. She tried not to react, because she always tried not to react, especially when it was Sam. “Wow,” he murmured. “That bad?”

“Worse.” She spun in her chair to face him fully. “Elroy Oakes has so many ghost projects around Seabrook it’s practically a cemetery.”

“You mean—?”

“I mean the city paid for parks that were never built. A library wing that doesn’t exist. A youth center that’s just an empty lot with a sign that says ‘COMING SOON — 2018.’ And that’s only the beginning.”

Sam whistled softly. “Skeletons in the closet, huh?”

“No,” Jodie corrected. “He has a graveyard in there.”

She had started digging two weeks ago when an anonymous tipster emailed her from a burner address: “Check the budget for the Seabrook After-School Initiative.” That was it. No attachments. No name. No explanation.

But that was all she needed.

Within a day, she’d discovered that the initiative—approved three years earlier—had received allocations every quarter. Except…there was no program. No coordinator. No staff. No activities. No anything.

The money just vanished.

From there, she dug deeper. Ghost projects multiplied like mushrooms after rain. Fifteen, then twenty-two, then thirty-three. Each one with a budget. None with results.

Then came the personal expenses.

“That can’t be right,” Danny said when she showed him the initial breakdown. “Is that—did he seriously charge the city for movie popcorn?”

“During an Avengers marathon,” she said dryly.

Danny’s face contorted. “Who buys popcorn for seven kids? Popcorn costs more than the tickets.”

“It wasn’t just popcorn,” she said. “It was candy, soda, and private screening fees.”

“Private?”

“He rented the whole auditorium.”

“For Avengers?” Sam inserted.

She nodded. “For Avengers.”

Danny flung his hands in the air. “Okay, he should go to prison just for that.”

The Viking News bullpen erupted in scattered snorts of laughter, but even humor couldn’t mask the simmering tension beneath it. What Jodie had uncovered wasn’t just petty theft—it was systemic. Methodical. Cultivated over years. A web so tangled it could have snared half the city government.

And it all traced back to Mayor Elroy Oakes.

That afternoon, she requested a press pass for the mayor’s weekly update at City Hall.

When she arrived, the hallway outside the chamber was filled with interns carrying stacks of glossy brochures: SEABROOK – A CITY OF PROMISE. The cover featured Mayor Oakes’ grin. His eyes sparkled artificially; they always did in print, as if someone had overused Photoshop’s “add gleam” tool.

Inside, Oakes was shaking hands with donors, the smell of his cologne aggressively announcing his presence like an unwelcome guest.

“Ms. Williams,” he said when he reached her. “Lovely to see you. Enjoying the sunshine?” He always asked about sunshine, even when it rained.

“Mayor Oakes,” she replied coolly. “I have a question for you today.”

“I imagine you do,” he said with a wink. “Fire away.”

Not yet, she thought.

Not until she had him cornered.

Back at the newsroom, she and Sam huddled in the conference room. Her laptop screen glowed with the financial documents she shouldn’t have had access to but did, thanks to a source who insisted on being known only as “Spiral.” Jodie didn’t ask what that meant—didn’t want to know—but Spiral’s information had never been wrong.

“This line item,” she said, pointing at a column labeled ‘miscellaneous external support.’ “Two hundred thousand dollars in child support.”

Sam blinked. “Wait—he’s charging the city for child support payments?”

“Yep.”

“All of them?”

“Every single ex-wife. Every biological kid, every stepkid, every adopted kid. Twenty-seven dependents total.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t decide if this man needs therapy or jail time.”

“Both,” she said. “But mostly jail.”

She clicked the next tab.

“And this is shopping money for his wife and daughters.”

Sam squinted at the screen. “Does that say… handbags?”

“Designer ones.”

“And—please tell me that doesn’t say nail salon packages.”

“Deluxe packages,” she clarified. “Weekly.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Unbelievable.”

“Oh, it gets better.” She clicked the next line. “Yachts.”

Sam slammed his palm lightly on the table. “Plural?”

“Three.”

He stared. “How do you even use three yachts in a town like Seabrook? You can’t even dock them all!”

“Maybe he rotates.”

“Rotates—Jodie, this man is using taxpayer money like he won the city in a raffle!”

“And cars,” she continued, ignoring his meltdown. “Twelve purchases in the last four years.”

Sam counted on his fingers, then gave up. “Who needs twelve cars?”

“According to his records: his sons, his nieces, his nephews, his sister, his brother-in-law, and…” She raised her eyebrows. “His dog.”

“His dog?!”

“Yep. A custom-painted Jeep Renegade.”

Sam opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “I don’t even have comments anymore.”

She gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Get used to it. I still have the parties, gas money, and groceries spreadsheets.”

He sighed heavily. “God help us all.”

By the time evening fell, Jodie had assembled over 400 pages of irregularities.

Sam watched her with a mixture of awe and worry. “You’re not sleeping tonight, are you?”

“Probably not,” she said, flipping another page. “Coffee and I made a pact.”

He chuckled. “Don’t forget water. You’re gonna dehydrate.”

She gave him a small smile. “You sound like my dad.”

“Do dads typically look like Clark Kent?”

“Only in comic books.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, flushing faintly. “Well, I’m just saying—you push yourself too hard.”

“And you don’t push hard enough,” she shot back.

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” she admitted softly. “It’s not.”

Their eyes lingered. Long enough for Danny to walk past and say, “Oh my gosh, just kiss already.” They both turned bright red.

The next morning, Jodie walked into Editor-in-Chief Pat McKean’s office with her binder of evidence.

Pat leafed through it, his face darkening with every page. “Jesus Mary Joseph,” he muttered. “This isn’t corruption. This is embezzlement with a bonus track.”

“I’m running the first installment tomorrow,” Jodie said.

Pat hesitated. “You’re sure you want to be the face of this series? He’s got friends in high places. Friends who like suing newspapers.”

“Let them try,” she said. “Truth is a better lawyer.”

Sam, hovering in the doorway, added, “And she has me. I’m not letting her go at this alone.”

Pat sighed. “Fine. But I want both of you careful. If this blows up, I’ll have half the city council breathing down my neck.”

“Good news,” Sam said. “They’ll be too busy paying their own bills to throw stones.”

Pat groaned. “Get out.”

The story went live the next morning:

SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET: PART ONE — MAYOR OAKES’ VANISHING PROJECTS

Within an hour, the Viking News website crashed from too much traffic. Grace Orozco ran around the office yelling, “We’re trending on Twitter! We’re trending!”

Part One detailed the ghost projects. It was clean, documented, irrefutable.

The mayor’s office responded with a single-line statement:

“Mayor Oakes denies any wrongdoing.”

No specifics. No explanation. No counter-evidence. Nothing.

That alone told Jodie everything she needed to know.

Part Two launched the next day:

SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET: PART TWO — CHILD SUPPORT ON THE CITY’S DIME

The public lost its collective mind.

Talk-radio hosts called for immediate impeachment. Parents gathered outside City Hall holding signs: PAY FOR YOUR OWN KIDS. One woman held up a cardboard cutout of the mayor with a giant pacifier glued to its mouth.

By Part Three, detailing the movie nights, the nail salon trips, and the handbags, the avalanche was unstoppable.

Mayor Oakes went silent.

When Part Four dropped—“THE THREE YACHTS OF ELROY OAKES”—the city council convened an emergency session.

That evening, Jodie and Sam stayed in the newsroom long after everyone else left. Rain lashed the windows. Thunder muttered. The only light came from the desk lamps and the blue glow of their screens.

“You did it,” Sam said quietly. “You really did it.”

“We did it,” she corrected.

He shook his head. “Jodie… I’m just the guy who bought you coffee and held umbrellas over your camera bag. This is your work.”

“And I couldn’t have done it without you.” Her voice softened. “Sam… I mean that.”

He swallowed. “I know.”

Their eyes met again. The air changed.

Then Jodie’s phone buzzed.

Spiral.

“He’s going to run.”

She bolted upright. “He’s fleeing.”

Sam grabbed his keys. “Let’s go.”

They found the mayor’s SUV idling behind City Hall. Oakes was shoving bags into the trunk—expensive leather luggage that matched the kind sold at boutiques he’d allegedly purchased items from with city money.

When he saw Jodie and Sam, he froze.

“Ms. Williams,” he said, his fake smile trembling. “Out late, aren’t you?”

“Where are you going, Mayor?” Jodie asked, voice steady.

“A retreat,” he said. “Personal matter.”

“With three suitcases and an overnight bag?”

Oakes’ jaw clenched. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand you used taxpayer funds for your personal expenses.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know about the yachts,” she said. “The salon packages. The movie nights. The child support. The cars. The groceries. The gas. The ghost projects. Everything.”

His face drained of color.

Then anger surged in.

“This is a witch hunt!” he snapped. “You’re destroying my family. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I didn’t do this,” she said. “You did.”

He lunged toward her.

Sam stepped in front of her instantly, shielding her with his body. “Back off,” he growled, surprising even himself.

The sudden movement drew attention. Security guards rounded the corner. Oakes froze again, realizing he was trapped.

He dropped the suitcase. It hit the pavement with a dull thud—like the sound of a coffin closing.

The headline the next morning read:

MAYOR ELROY OAKES ARRESTED ON 149 COUNTS OF FRAUD, EMBEZZLEMENT, AND MISUSE OF PUBLIC FUNDS

Seabrook erupted. Cheers. Relief. Outrage. Vindication.

And gratitude.

Messages poured into Jodie’s inbox. Parents thanking her. Business owners thanking her. Teachers thanking her. Even the librarians wrote a thank-you card, which Danny proudly delivered like it was a Pulitzer.

By noon, the newsroom held an impromptu celebration. Pat ordered pizzas. Grace hung a banner that read, YOU GOT HIM, QUEEN! Danny played the Rocky theme song on repeat.

But Jodie slipped out onto the balcony, needing a moment alone.

Rain clouds were breaking up. Light filtered through like hope finally punching through corruption’s fog.

Sam joined her quietly, leaning beside her on the railing.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“I think so.”

“You should be proud.”

“I am. And I’m exhausted.”

He laughed gently. “I told you to drink water.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “Thanks for having my back.”

“Always.”

They stood side by side, the wind brushing past them.

“You know,” he said, voice steadier than she’d ever heard it, “you never answered Danny’s question.”

“Which one?”

“The… kissing one.”

Her breath caught slightly. “Oh.”

“Well,” he said, pushing his glasses up, “do you want to?”

For once in her life, Jodie Williams didn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” she whispered.

She leaned in.

Sam did too.

Their lips met softly, carefully, like turning the page of a fragile old book.

When they separated, Sam looked stunned. Awestruck.

“Wow,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Wow.”

The door behind them swung open. Danny poked his head out and yelled, “FINALLY!”

They turned crimson as the entire newsroom erupted in cheers.

Jodie covered her face. “I hate you all!”

“No you don’t!” Grace yelled.

“No,” she admitted, lowering her hands. “I really don’t.”

A week later, Jodie published the final article in the series.

SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET — EPILOGUE: A CITY REBORN

It detailed the city’s recovery efforts, the investigations into Oakes’ accomplices, and the community’s renewed hope.

But the last line wasn’t about corruption at all.

It was a quiet truth. A small truth.

A truth she’d earned the hard way.

“Secrets rot in darkness. But truth—truth always finds a way to open the door, even when the closet is full of skeletons.”

She clicked PUBLISH.

Sam appeared behind her, sliding a coffee onto her desk. “You did it,” he said again, softly.

She didn’t correct him this time.

Because she wasn’t alone anymore.

And Seabrook—finally—wasn’t in the dark.

THE END