Seeing Red Page 6

  Harper shoots Belle a look.

  “Thanks, Lara. You can go. Feel better. Go home and get some rest.”

  Harper takes it all in, perplexed. This case defies Locard’s Principle, a theory by Edmond Locard, also known as the Sherlock Holmes of France. He came up with the principle that every contact by a criminal leaves a trace. These traces can come in any form: a glass that shatters, fingerprints, or fibers from the clothes the killer was wearing. All of these things will serve as silent witness to the crime. In this case, so few fragments of evidence were left behind, aside from the body of the girl.

  Harper hated failure of any kind. A failure to find physical evidence would weigh on him. He had always been driven by his belief in a moral and ethical universe. Yet lately, he was questioning everything.

  A perfect killer is an animal at best, nothing proud or noble; all hubris and blind narcissistic rage. No added value to the human experience.

  In the case of Brooke, the killer is cold and calculating. Most likely smart and psychopathic, well blended into society. Everyman. The hardest type to identify and capture. They are usually highly intelligent, methodical, and organized to the point of being meticulous.

  Every detail of the crime is planned out in advance, and the killer takes precaution to make sure they leave no incriminating evidence.

  They have elaborate schemes to draw the victims in and gain sympathy, taking great pride in what they consider to be their “work,” paying close attention to news stories about their deeds.

  Given the lack of evidence, it had to be someone who knows how to navigate the system. It could even be a detective, one who didn’t put much faith in religion. Someone who had been repeatedly abused by the ones he loved most. Until one day, the only way he can find freedom is through hate, intolerance, and violence.

  To the organized killer, it’s all part of the game, a game that thrives on dominance and fear.

  Harper looks up from the photographs at Belle. “Seraphina and I had another fight. I can’t take it anymore, man.”

  “That’s marriage, and that’s why I’m single.”

  “Is this marriage or just my marriage? She’s paranoid, Belle. She thinks someone is stalking her. The nightmares are getting worse. She won’t talk to me. She won’t see a doctor. She says she saw a boat off our dock and someone is stalking her. She needs help or medication, something. It’s getting to the point where I’m afraid to leave her alone with the baby.”

  “Harp, you love Seraphina. You have a good marriage. You’re still fighting to change each other. It’s when you stop that you’ve got a real problem. She’s strong-willed and passionate, maybe a little crazy. You just need to spend more time with her. You look like hell. You need to take a vacation. You can’t keep burning the candle.”

  Harper says, “I was up all night reading the threads on those Internet detective websites. You were right. All of our personal information about the night Seraphina was attacked is out there. They’re picking through clues, examining every piece of data, like vultures. Why can’t they leave the past alone?”

  Harper didn’t plan on going off. He planned on keeping his mouth shut and doing his job like every other day. He says, “I’ve dedicated my life to fighting crime from the front lines. I’m in the trenches, day after day.

  “Truthfully, I wish I was there and that I killed him. Nobody has the right to do that to a woman. Seraphina can’t remember anything from that night. It is hard to imagine that she could defend herself and have killed the man that attacked her. We need to look into the Renaissance Killer and pull up anything that might give us a clue about Brooke Beck’s murder. Seraphina thinks it’s all connected, and the picture hanging above Brooke’s bed is one of the few clues we have to go on.”

  Other than Seraphina, Belle is the only one who truly knows him, the depth of his pain and anger.

  Harper wrestles with the demons from his past. He never had much of a childhood. Harper’s father had no compass for his soul. He was an abusive alcoholic, the memories an albatross Harper carries with him in the recesses of his mind.

  Harper took care of his mother, financially and even physically, until she passed away when he was in high school. She was always sick and depressed. He couldn’t save her from the damage his father had inflicted. The pain of Seraphina and her illness brings him back to that time with his mother, and he can’t face it again. He feels like he’s going off the rails and Belle is the only one who can bring him back.

  Belle says, “Each man acts on his own perception, not universal truth, so to put punishment into the hands of the people can easily lead to an abuse of power.”

  Harper nods. “Yes.” He carries with him a deep hatred of vigilantism.

  “Remember John Locke, who believed that human nature is characterized by reason and tolerance? The social contract Locke created, stating that if a government upholds the laws and protects its people, the citizens will obey the law.”

  Harper finishes his thought. “But when a government fails to protect, it’s no longer recognized, and punishment can fall into the wrong hands, the hands of the people.”

  Harper is still feeling the anger coursing through him, the darkness of his secrets threatening to take him under.

  “If left unchecked, we become a dangerous group of vigilantes and a society that can’t remain free,” Belle says. “That’s why we wake up every day. That’s why we get out of bed in the morning and come to work. And I’m always here to remind you.”

  Belle’s words numb Harper’s expectations like a drug. The light streams in through the skylight. Harper breathes and makes the choice to let the light in.

  Six

  SERAPHINA AND HARPER

  Under pressure, things can break. Show me all of the scars you hide. My mirrored heart is made of glass. Once shattered, it’s gone forever. I will always be the fool who rushes in, but for Harper, love is only his reflection.

  I watch Sky play in her crib quietly when the text comes in. I can feel the phone vibrate, and I know it’s bad news even before I look. I know I will be angry. I promise myself I will not, but even before I look, a part of me knows I have lost.

  *DON’T WAIT UP. LOVE, HARP*

  I think he has this text on auto-send. He’s been home late every night this week.

  I send a simple smiley-face emoji because my phone does not have two smiley face emojis, one with hands wrapped around the other and beating its tiny, happy head against a brick wall.

  I can feel the heat of my anger and frustration rise into my cheeks. Sky starts to cry, as if she can feel my pain.

  “It’s not your fault, sweet baby.”

  Our love, a love that cuts like a diamond. Stone against stone. Unbreakable. A love that fills you up and takes your breath away.

  I check my voicemail. It’s the guy from the security company. I picked it for the name, B-Protected. I didn’t check the reviews on Yelp. I just picked up the phone and dialed.

  “We’re not going to make it today. This job is going to take another day or so; we’ll have to reschedule.”

  My impulsivity is another thing that drives Harper crazy. He used to love it, but that was when it involved sex in his office after hours. Apparently not so much when you’re impulse buying off Net-a-Porter at five in the morning, trolling for deals. After all, a girl can’t be too hard driving when it comes to having a virtual edge in fashion.

  I triple lock the doors and go through my ritual, closing the shades, locking out the monsters that live mostly in my mind. The rest of my world has gone black and white, but with Harper, it’s frozen in shades of gray.

  I go to Sky. She is standing, smiling, wide-eyed, as I take her from Birdie.

  “You can go now, Birdie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Ms. Sera, they installed the cameras today. They said they’d be back in the morning to show you t
he new alarm.”

  “I thought they canceled. Harp must have set it up.” I think to myself, At least he’s good for something.

  I sit down on the rocker and open my shirt, and Sky drinks the last bit of milk from my breast without taking her eyes off of me.

  “Hi, sweet baby,” I whisper softly. She puts her tiny hand in mine.

  We rock, and I soothe, holding on like it’s the end of the world. There’s no peace like the one that comes from holding this child close, giving her my full love and attention.

  “Such small hands, Sky, but they are gonna do big things,” I say, kissing her delicate fingers.

  For a minute, it’s us against the world. Not just me, lost, banging my head against a steel drum.

  Sky tucks herself into me and falls asleep. So happy, so content.

  I put her back down to sleep. She will be up for her last feed around midnight. I pump the rest of the milk and put it in the refrigerator. The next batch will be toxic, riddled with alcohol.

  I’ll have to pump and dump as I’ve done every night this week.

  I think about Harper’s words when we first moved to the suburbs. “We made this choice together,” he would say. “So your unhappiness, Seraphina, is on you. Don’t blame me.”

  He’s not wrong. I reluctantly agreed to leave New York City when the baby was born. Harper wanted more space and a house on the water.

  It’s hard to be modest in a city like New York that’s home to eight million people. You have to be willing to share not just your space but your life experiences.

  That’s what I miss most, the feeling of being connected to other people. It made me feel safe when most nights I felt as if there was nothing keeping my thoughts from spinning me right off the planet.

  Now I spend most nights alone and searching for peace at the bottom of a bottle.

  Harper could count on me to always draw blood and scratch at the surface of things until I exposed the brutal, raw truth.

  That’s what Harper was like in the courtroom. That’s what we have in common.

  I take another pill, and against my better judgment, I search his gym bag. He’s out late every night and doesn’t answer my texts. Harper is lying. I can feel it. I need proof. Otherwise, he will only accuse me of being paranoid and anxious. With all of my drinking and the pills, he isn’t far from the truth. I wanted justice. I needed to know the truth. I’m alone every night, and he has his freedom.

  At the bottom of his gym bag, all balled up, I find a hotel receipt for the Greenwich Hotel. I check the date on my calendar. I was home with Sky. I hate him now; and then, I love him so completely, it’s like whiplash.

  I take another pill to get me through another long night alone. The memory of our passion, the life we’ve built together, keeps me here like glue, so fragile now, held together with sticks and string.

  The doorbell rings, jolting me from my thoughts. My anxiety is on the rise. It rings again, waking up Sky. I take her downstairs and look out the glass pane to see a stranger.

  Sky is crying, sensing my fear, and I realize I forgot to button my shirt from breastfeeding. I scramble to cover myself.

  “Ms. Swift?”

  “Yes. And it’s Mrs. Swift. My husband is just upstairs.”

  Something about him is strange and awkward. I feel threatened. The estate is too quiet, making me feel very alone.

  My eyes dart around outside.

  I can hear a dog barking in the distance. Aside from that, nothing.

  The quiet of the suburbs brings me no peace.

  “I installed your digital security system.”

  Sky looks up at me for reassurance. I didn’t hear his name or any words that came after.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the boat slowly cutting through the water.

  It is a dark, starless night. I can see the boat stop just a few miles off our dock. The trees sway in the yard, but there is no breeze. I can feel his eyes on me.

  “Let’s get you set up,” he says with a strange smile. My shirt now buttoned, the feeling of his gaze still burns into me. I bring Sky up closer to my chest for comfort.

  “Just punch a four-digit code in for me, please.”

  “Okay.” I put in the digits of Sky’s date of birth.

  “You’re all set. Just don’t forget it,” he says, laughing as if I’m a moron.

  “Just in time,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t hear about the break-in up on Navesink Road, further down the river? Some sort of home invasion. They got beat up pretty badly.”

  A break-in? My mind twists. I have to call Harper. He’s getting closer. We have to do something.

  “Just kidding, shit like that doesn’t happen in fancy neighborhoods like this,” he says in a patronizing tone.

  “Thanks. I’ve got the code, and I’m pretty sure I can take it from here.”

  I start to shut the door. He stops me.

  “I just need your e-mail, so I can send you the link to access the video on your phone.”

  “Sure.”

  He hands me a pen, and I write it down for him. He leans in closer. He has jet-black hair and smells like a mix of hair dye and cigarettes. “Now you be careful,” he says with a sneer, as if I am protecting my home from him. His hand goes to his forehead in a mocking salute.

  I close my eyes, concentrate, and focus on staying calm.

  My phone buzzes with a text.

  *You can’t hit a target with your eyes closed.*

  My heart beats faster. Someone is playing games with me. Harper is keeping me at arm’s length; he isn’t protecting us.

  My head is spinning, and when I look down, the text vanishes before I can get a screen shot of it as proof. I’m questioning whether any of this is real. It’s my marriage, this house in the suburbs, Harper’s lies that make me question my own sanity. He’s making me crazy; the anxiety rises and fills me up like a balloon, carrying me away from my life. If I’m not careful, I will end up insane. He’ll have me medicated and locked up. He will throw away the key, taking me further from Sky. Harper can never give her the love and affection she needs.

  These thoughts are quickly replaced with my own needs. Tonight it’s a perfectly chilled, spicy Bloody Mary.

  I push closed all of the windows. I glance back out, and I can see the security van is gone from the driveway.

  The storm clouds have moved in over the dock, swallowing up the stars in the sky.

  I can feel someone watching me. I can see his shadowy form standing on the deck of the boat. A heavy rain is starting to fall. The boat is old, with dull white paint. The drops of rain bounce off the water. I can’t take my eyes off of him.

  He must be soaked. The rain beats down on him, but he doesn’t move. I can feel the hair on my arms prickle and the anger race through me.

  Who stands outside in weather like this?

  Is anyone out there, or is it just my imagination?

  A few seconds later, my phone buzzes from the pocket of my jeans. The screen reads Blocked Number.

  “Hello?” I say, with a voice faint as a whisper. But I get no response.

  “Hello? Is someone there?”

  I can hear someone breathing on the other end of the line, but I still get no response.

  “Leave us alone!” I scream and throw the phone to the ground.

  I pry myself from the window. I tell myself it’s just my imagination and that someone isn’t getting off on making me uncomfortable.

  My teeth are chattering, and my whole body is shaking.

  I remind myself I have an alarm now. We are safe. This is just my imagination playing tricks. Sky has drifted off peacefully to sleep.

  Always treat the side effects until you get to the root of the illness. That’s how I justify my drinking. I’m
still digging, just kicking at the roots.

  I’m horrible. I know. Harper is right. I’m drinking too much. I just can’t face another night alone, rattling around in the shadows of my memories. I can’t seem to stop piling rocks on my marriage, one by one. Pretty soon we will all be buried under the weight of my insanity.

  I’ve watched Harper drift farther and farther away from me, and now we are lost in a sea of my delusion and irrationality.

  Since the birth of our child, everything has become about everyone else; my happiness and pain, an afterthought. Now Harper sparkles and glows while I suffer. I can picture him out tonight with a beautiful new girl by his side.

  My marriage is falling apart, and when night falls, we always manage to crawl back behind the lines. During the day it’s an all-out war, a barrage of texting and e-mails fired like bullets from a gun.

  I have no one to call for advice.

  I was born and raised in Miami, a backdrop of broken beauty somehow stifled by the stunted seasons. I was beyond privileged, with a car and driver at my disposal and every freedom that came with wealth and power.

  My father liked his women diagnosed and medicated, and that was the case with my mother most of the time. She wanted no part of being a mother.

  For her, a child was for show, one more notch toward having it all, but secretly a threat, each year chipping away at her fragile illusion of youth and beauty.

  My father, famed plastic surgeon Dr. Michael Whitlock, was the author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning My Pretty Mommy, a novel that explains the need for plastics at every phase of motherhood. They are a match made in heaven. Neither can be bothered to fix anything under the hood; nothing matters more than the superficial quest for perfection, beauty, money, power, and eternal youth.

  Sadly, after I was attacked, “ugly, bloody, and broken” were all words I would use to describe the new me.

  Although they tried, it was just too painful for my parents to process. They asked me to put my secrets in a little box, forget they ever happened, and move forward with a smile.

  Even with my father’s magic with a needle and thread, I look in the mirror now, and all I see are scars.