14 GROUNDCOVER NEWS CREATIVE Jane DONNA LOMELINO Groundcover contributor I didn’t like Jane at first. She didn’t seem to care. She was blunt in a way that made people uncomfortable — sharp, sarcastic, openly irritated by anyone who approached her with practiced concern or polite curiosity. She had no interest in being agreeable, grateful or easy to help. The first time I spoke to her, she didn’t look up. She just said, loud enough for others to hear, “Oh great. Another one.” A few heads turned. Jane didn’t flinch. She had long ago stopped performing politeness for people who wouldn’t be staying. When I sat down beside her, she sighed. “What do you want?” Not: Can I help you? Not: Who are you? Just: What do you want? It wasn’t hostility for sport. It was assessment. Jane used sarcasm the way others use armor. Rudeness kept people at a distance. Intelligence kept her in control. She had learned exactly how to expose fake compassion and deflate people who came in believing they were different. So she tested me. Why are you talking to me? What makes you think you can help? Oh please — spare me. Every sentence was a challenge. Every pause dared me to leave. What I didn’t understand then was that Jane wasn’t trying to push me away. She was trying to find out if I would stay. At the time, I still believed helping meant fixing. I believed kindness would be enough. I didn’t yet understand what it meant to sit with someone whose life had taught them not to trust anything that came easily. One day, after an especially biting comment about “rookies who think they’re saviors,” something in me shifted. I didn’t snap back. I didn’t defend myself. I didn’t walk away. I stayed. Quietly. Steadily. She looked at me — real eye contact, for the first time — and said, “Huh. Interesting.” It wasn’t praise. But it wasn’t dismissal either. From that day on, small pieces of Jane began to surface through the cracks of her sarcasm. A story here. A memory there. A fear she didn’t name outright. Moments of clarity tangled with confusion. Honesty about the voices that sometimes lied to her. Jane lived with a level of awareness that made her suffering sharper. She knew when her thoughts weren’t trustworthy. She knew when reality slipped. That awareness didn’t empower her — it haunted her. And she noticed everything. One day, she said something that changed the way I understood this work. “You’re not listening like the others,” she told me. “You’re actually here. You might be good at this … if you don’t quit.” It wasn’t a compliment. It was a warning. People had stayed before — briefly. Then they left. Jane didn’t need promises. She needed consistency. She taught me that helping people isn’t about being liked. It’s about being present. About returning the next day after being pushed away the day before. About letting someone challenge your patience without taking it personally. Jane didn’t soften for me. She didn’t become easier. She didn’t change because of me. I changed because of her. She forced me to slow down. To listen differently. To understand that the people who push the hardest are often protecting the deepest wounds. Jane didn’t guide me with gentleness or gratitude. She shaped me through resistance — through honesty, through refusal to be managed or minimized. She didn’t just influence my path. She rerouted it. And in doing so, she taught me something I would carry into every space that followed: Before you can help, you have to be willing to stay. Author’s Note: This essay reflects on a past professional relationship. The individual described is deceased, and identifying details have been altered to protect privacy and dignity. MARCH 6, 2026 Truth or Lies Mystery Lane: Time Travellers, LLC (part one) The children’s names were John Jr., Tom Jr., Stella, and Cindy Hitchens. There was an old property deed, Freedom papers for Tom and John, a letter of Will and Testament. It also had two hundred dollars in old money. "I heard a rumor about the family FELICIA WILBERT Groundcover vendor No. 234 How do I start? Running from the past to the future is often a daunting task. Finding out who committed the crime is even harder. Especially when you have people who think the color of their skin will always protect them. Some don’t realize the only way to have peace is to correct your wrongs. Let's get to it — my name is Armond Councilor, Licensed Private Investigator. I am 28, one of the youngest PI’s in the field. I invented a handheld time travel machine that changes into any and everything I need. Enough about me. On a hot summer day in September, 2034, I was washing my Thunderbird in my driveway. A senior lady approached me and asked, "Aren’t you the one who travels? You know, solving unsolved murders and mysteries?" I thought carefully before answering, "Yes." "My name is Mrs. AnnaBella Carwell and I need you to straighten out my inheritance," she replied. I was thinking she was to old to inherit anything. "I was willed an estate in Alabama 60 years ago. The property was passed down three generations, I was the third owner. During my stay at the property there were several unexplained incidents. I kept hearing crying and voices; the voices would say return our property to our children. I would search the property seeking answers, I only found these items." Anna handed him an old box with two old faded pictures of twin girls. On the back it read "Lila and Delia;" they were about twenty or younger. The next picture had two Black men and four children posed with the twins. On the back of that picture it read "John, Lila, Delia and Tom." being hung for their property. That must mean my family had something to do with their demise. Please help me make things right," she said. Anna handed him the old money saying, "I don’t know how much it is worth, but keep it. You may need it." Armond thought and accepted the assignment. He took the letters and made copies, kept the pictures and placed everything in his briefcase. The next morning he started on his journey by placing his hat on backwards. It landed him in 1872 at the train station in Birmingham. He walked over to the town. He immediately went to the office of deeds and handed them his Pinkerton Badge. Armond showed the man behind the desk the deed and asked him who owned the land and estate. He then asked if he could be taken out to the property. "By the way your name would be Randel McDowel, right?" said Armond. Randel was nervous, conceding he knew the story behind the change of hands of the property. It was no secret that the Falconer family hung the twins who owned the property. "They say that he went crazy and hung himself, just last week. The property is deemed to be inherited by his children. The will shall be read in two days," said Randel. "Get us horses now, let's ride out there!" Upon their arrival, the house was quiet and only the staff was still there. Armond walked up and introduced himself to everyone. He immediately asked questions — who, what, when and where. The butler showed him the spot where they found Mr. Falconer. It was one tree over from the hanging tree of the ladies. During the questioning of everyone, they all reported Mr. Falconer used to holler out loud “This is my property, I won’t leave !” They never saw anyone with him or knew who he was talking with. To be contuined … Thank you Groundcover News readers and Truth Or Lies Fans. "The Box," published January 9, 2026, was based on a TRUE story.
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