Seeing Red Read online

  “Are you going to show me how to get to heaven? Because with all of this anger inside, I feel like I’m trapped in hell, and it feels like I’m going insane. Lately, I’m afraid of Harper. And sometimes, I’m so angry at him that I feel like I could kill him. I feel like I’m frozen in this moment, not living in the past or the future, just stuck in this moment. What the hell is wrong with me?”

  His voice is soothing. It’s as if his hand is reaching inside my body and pulling me out of the wreckage, a disconnected mess of tissue and bones that has come undone. Down and out, I need to be mended.

  He explains to me that the voice I hear is the voice of trauma. Dr. Ellis says it’s a language he can speak. He can help me translate it, find a way out of it, a way to move forward.

  “I don’t remember anything from that night. What if I murdered him, slashed him with a broken bottle until he was battered and bloody? Could I possess that kind of anger?”

  At that point, I fade in and out of our conversation. My mind moves between flashbacks and feelings of sadness and grief. Dr. Ellis compares my mind to a soldier just home from battle, the chemicals still raging even after the war has ended. That’s the voice that has me down, feeling like I’m descending into madness. The official diagnosis is Posttraumatic Stress Disorder. Some people develop it after experiencing a life-threatening event.

  I feel naked, stripped down to the side effects of surviving.

  “All of those fancy schools, they don’t teach a girl how to survive an attack. Or how to live with the memories or about the violence of some men,” I say.

  “It’s over. You have to believe me,” he says.

  And now I’m sobbing. He makes me believe it’s possible to be held together by more than just a needle and thread. I can’t imagine who I will be without my armor and chemical reactivity that can light a fire. Finally sewn up, this aching hole in my heart, my sanity hanging by a thread.

  My actions are like a pistol, and words cut like a knife. Next time, he wants to talk about my insomnia, the pills and the drinking.

  I don’t want any more secrets. I don’t want any more lies. Stripped down, sewn up, and free.

  He tells me to focus on things that make me happy.

  So far I have a list of one.

  “That’s a start,” he says, laughing. I should try to fill my mind, occupy it, and let in the light and chemicals that come along with happiness.

  He hands me a card with a name on it: Jacob Akani, and his phone number.

  “He’s expecting your call now.”

  “Like, right now?”

  “You have other plans?”

  I frown.

  “Seraphina, you need to get stronger, mind and body. I can help with your mind.”

  I laugh nervously. “So what, Jacob works on my body?”

  “See you next week, Seraphina. Remember, think happy thoughts.”

  Happy feels like an overreach, but I know I can manage hopeful. My life has taken a new direction. I can see a bridge to a different place, just off in the distance.

  I walk through the wrong door into another office. He has so many doors in this office, I can’t find my way out. Dr. Ellis leads me to the right one.

  In return, I thank him for picking me up and peeling me off his floor.

  I’m going to see Jacob Akani. Because I can’t think of a million other things I would rather do. Actually, I can’t even think of one.

  I’m exhausted. My head is laced with cobwebs from another sleepless night. I enter the subway at Columbus Circle.

  It doesn’t take long for me to figure out I’m being followed.

  I hear Dr. Ellis. “It’s the language of trauma. It’s all in your mind. Be aware of warning signs. Every flashback starts with a warning.”

  He said, “Changes in mood, that feeling of pressure in your chest, recognize them early and you can stop the panic and anxiety that follows.”

  I tell myself to breathe. This isn’t real.

  But each time I move, he moves with me, and I don’t think it’s in my head.

  I walk quickly, my eyes searching for a diversion. The cover of the Post catches my eye. Brooke Beck, the student Harper spoke about who was murdered, smiles at me seductively. I scan the cover story; there’s still no suspect.

  “Hey! Are you going to buy that?” the beady-eyed vendor asks me.

  The man who is stalking me has vanished into thin air. I can’t see him anymore. I scan the crowd. My mind is playing tricks on me, making me wonder if he was ever really there at all. The adrenaline is pumping, and I still haven’t heard from Harper.

  “Sorry. I’ll take one, thanks,” I say, digging for change.

  My mind is active and on overdrive. The train pulls up, and I move forward with the crush of commuters. One-track mind, I sit and try to distract myself from the panic attack, my unwanted companion on this ride.

  Harper hasn’t found Brooke Beck’s killer and I know that will gnaw at him. It will chip away at his fragile ego until it becomes his obsession.

  The funeral for Brooke Beck wasn’t well attended. Most of the pews were empty. She was only nineteen years old. It is impossible to know if she traveled or had seen any more of the world than what was put in front of her.

  In my mind, death is a lot like dreaming or the setting of the sun, with a natural beauty and rhythm to it. I guess that’s the truth about trauma, and maybe even a silver lining, if only a thin and fragile one, at best. Surviving makes you better, more sensitive to the pain of others, but not happier because some scars stay etched in your soul.

  Trauma reminds you of every platitude—that life is precious, that money and power are overrated, and that all we really have together is this moment, the blink of an eye, amid the vastness of time and space.

  I can’t take my eyes off a close-up picture of a young girl, lingering near the closed casket.

  Her rich, dark hair tumbles over her shoulders, the curve of her heart-shaped lips and voluptuous lines of her body, like a vintage Hollywood pinup girl.

  She has eyes like sunlight and sapphires, their depth reflecting a melancholy mood.

  These aren’t the types of girls who play it safe. They take risks. They own every moment. I’m shocked to read the article, excerpts from Brooke’s diary about her life as a highly paid escort, and how she used it to pay for grad school. Brooke had put up a profile even before her plane touched down in New York City, lured into a world where sex and money mingle.

  My intuition is picking up on something else, a presence beyond the whore who was murdered and the cops trying to put the pieces together.

  Harper is lying. Did he have an affair with Brooke Beck? She wasn’t just a student in need of help. My intuition is picking up on something beyond the cracks in the road and the lies that Brooke Beck told to pay her way through Yale. I can feel something disturbing. I can’t back it up with any logic or reason.

  It’s just a feeling.

  Eight

  SERAPHINA AND JACOB

  I knock on the door. It swings open, and the receptionist invites me into the studio. Out the window is a view of the sweeping New York skyline. On the wall is a sign that reads, “You’ve Got Three Choices in Life. Give up, give in, or give it all you’ve got.”

  My gaze slides past her to the silver punching bags hanging from the wall, the black padded gloves, and the free weights that line the floor of the padded walls.

  “Seraphina? I thought I recognized your voice. We met at the gun shop.”

  “How did you know I would be coming?”

  “I didn’t know it was you. Gordon just said he was sending someone over for training.”

  “So you work at the gun shop?”

  “No, I was just helping out my cousin. They just had a baby, and he’s not sleeping much. I haven’t been back since that day. It’s good to
see you. You probably have no idea why you’re here, right?”

  “No. None.”

  “I know. Gordon likes to do that. He thinks he’s Yoda, the Jedi master.”

  Even in workout gear, I can see the outline of Jacob’s chiseled abs and biceps, the kind of fitness that takes dedication and hard work to perfect. His salt-and-pepper hair is cut military style. Jacob is strong and gallant, with an irresistible laugh.

  “Seraphina, some types of trauma change the brain chemistry.” He gives me a Richard Gere-style wink, smoky and confident; it’s as if the endorphins flow through him into me. I’m feeling energized and in good spirits.

  “So you’ll help me change the chemistry in my brain back to normal?”

  “No, I can’t do that, but I can teach you how to use it, to feel safer, and I can teach you how to fight to win. Go put these on,” he says, throwing me a black T-shirt and shorts.

  “I’m good. I can just wear this.” After several weeks of self-induced semi-isolation, I find this experience more than a little daunting. It reminds me uncomfortably of the way I felt on the first day of high school.

  He eyeballs my black dress and leggings.

  “You’re a control freak, aren’t you? I’m moving too fast for you? Sit down.” He puts an arm around my shoulder and leads me to a wooden bench.

  Jacob is overwhelmingly charming. Even in my exhausted, emotionally whiplashed state of being, I can feel my cheeks heating up as I begin to blush.

  “I teach Krav Maga, a form of self-defense and physical training developed by the Israeli army. It’s based on the body’s natural instincts. It’s actually about problem solving and a no-nonsense system designed to bring out the fight in you. This is the opposite of what the world teaches you. You need to be fierce and aggressive.”

  “But I’m not that strong, and I’m small.”

  “You will get stronger, and in this case, size doesn’t matter.”

  We both laugh, which cuts the tension.

  “It’s based on instinct and using what you’ve got to win, above all else, to stay safe and win.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I mean, you have to attack vulnerable areas like eyes, jaw, throat, liver—anywhere you can strike for maximum damage with minimal effort and strength. You’re stronger than you know, Seraphina. Think about it. You are a survivor.”

  This brings tears to my eyes. He notices, and in his eyes, I see empathy, not pity. Jacob is a force, and I feel as if I have been brought to him for a reason.

  “Its origins can be traced back to World War II and a young Jewish athlete, Imi Lichtenfeld, who organized a group of young men to patrol his community and defend against attackers. Israeli military leaders quickly noticed his fighting skills and put him in charge of training the military elite’s fighting forces.”

  My mind wanders. I think if I exhaust myself, I will sleep tonight, finally overwhelming my mind’s agitation with my body’s exhaustion. I make myself a promise. Just for one night.

  “It combines the most effective techniques of boxing, aikido, judo, wrestling, and jujitsu into one military discipline that emphasizes fluid motion and simultaneous defense and attacks to an assailant’s soft tissue and pressure points.”

  I vow to stop drinking. I won’t take any more pills. After all, I’ve got nothing to lose.

  “Let’s get started. If you’re not interested, you can take off. I’m here to help you.”

  I know what I want from Jacob. I’m not exactly sure he’s willing to put that on the table.

  “How do you know if you don’t try? Maybe you already have killer instincts,” Jacob says.

  In the bathroom, I slip into the black shorts and shirt. My phone shows that I missed a call from Harper. An emptiness fills up my chest. My head feels like it’s going to explode.

  He must know he is playing with fire, coming home late with the stink of another woman. If Harper is cheating on me, I will find out and show him no mercy.

  I wonder when he started fucking her—that nasty, vampy, desperate, slutty poacher. I bet she likes tequila shots and takes every inch of him. The type with “daddy issues” always do. I bet she lets him do anything: doggy style, hair pulling, ball gags, and all of it. I’m sure she is a freak, because that type always is, and I plan on breaking her. I will stalk my husband in pursuit of the truth. And when I find him, last night’s bite will feel like a warm hug.

  “So you can teach me to be a bad-ass human weapon,” I say.

  “Pretty much.”

  “And you know my history, clearly. But I don’t know yours.”

  “I’m also a firearms enthusiast.”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  “We start with shadowboxing to warm up the core. Left-leg-forward fighting stance. Good. Hands up, chin height. Now, just block me. Always keep moving in fighting stance.”

  I freeze.

  “You have to keep moving forward, Seraphina. I know it’s hard when someone is coming at you. Think about it: what if it was up to you to protect your daughter? You always fight to win. See if you can hit me.”

  Then I think of Harper and his slut. I feel as if I have to fight. Each time my hand strikes out and I make contact, it brings me peace, more than anything I’ve ever found at the bottom of a bottle. I let it flow. My nails digging into my palms, pure hatred flowing, head up and strong, the anger comes in intense flashes.

  Then I get carried away by the emotion, and my hands drop. He moves in and picks me up, fast and furious, and drops me on the mat.

  “You just lost.”

  “You’re stronger,” I say.

  “That’s an excuse.”

  I laugh.

  “That’s my rule. Change the way you think.”

  “Okay, sorry.”

  “And don’t apologize either. It’s the same thing as an excuse.”

  “I get the idea. I’m tired. I’ve got to get home,” I say, getting up to leave.

  Jacob puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “I’m glad you came, Seraphina.”

  Now, in his words, I think I hear pity.

  “That was good. First lesson and all. I’ve seen worse. And I know it’s a lot to take in. You have to commit to it.”

  I change back into my street clothes.

  “Call me if you want to come back, kid.”

  There is no Zen in Krav Maga. You train to have a mind that is sharp and accurate, a body that is toned and taut because you have pushed it to its physical limits. It’s a skill that takes time, dedication, and practice.

  “Bye, Jacob,” I say, looking into his deep, smiling eyes.

  He puts his arms around me. I take a deep breath in; his musky, spicy scent overtakes me.

  “Bye, kid,” he says, his voice tense and husky, and we both linger just a little too long.

  I feel as if I have been staring down a long, dark tunnel, and finally, I can see a glimmer of light.

  Over time, I will learn how to move and think with precision. I will set these things to muscle memory.

  As I walk out the door, I see a photograph on the wall, a fist covered in blood.

  The sign below reads, “I will walk in peace.”

  Nine

  HARPER AND JESSA

  “Closer. We’re getting closer,” says Belle. Baffled for a moment, Harper orders his usual scrambled eggs and toast.

  The sun is almost up, a blanket of light, the air crisp and chilly.

  “Where did you sleep last night, and what happened to your neck?”

  “The guesthouse, which didn’t suck. And Seraphina happened to my neck.”

  He laughs.

  “What did you get from Jessa? Anything?”

  Too much, his subconscious laughs at him.

  “Nothing more than we already had,” Harper says, lying to Belle f
or the first time ever.

  “Brooke Beck used the ID Aries77. I followed her threads all night, and I’ve got something. She was really going at it with ZodiacNW the night before the murder. Threats and insults. It got pretty heated,” Harper tells Belle.

  Harper had printed everything and saved it on a hard drive.

  “ZodiacNW has a strong following and high engagement with users. He cracked a big case, a disappearance of a seven-year-old girl from Zoar, Ohio, named Maria Oscarn,” says Belle.

  “Go on,” Harper says.

  “They found her body five months later, or what was left of it, in a field. There was no DNA, no confession by the killer. He solved it based on an anonymous tip. Zodiac looked into routes driven by truckers who traveled through Ohio and Pennsylvania. A fifteen-year-old girl, a hitchhiker, came forward online and described how she had been robbed at knifepoint and escaped the man he identified as Ron Reimy. He was facing ten counts of aggravated murder, six of kidnapping, four of rape, and two of aggravated robbery when he was found dead on the side of Route 20 from a gunshot wound to the head.”

  “Did you get a subpoena for the IP addresses?”

  “Of course. We requested the IP address and identification of the computer.”

  “Fine. I’ll drive,” Harper says. “I can drive.”

  Harper gives Belle a death glance. Still fighting, but unlike Seraphina, in the case of Belle, Harper always wins. Harper pays the check, and they get into a black SUV and drive over the Brooklyn Bridge, toward Dead Horse Bay. Back in the 1850s, this was the area of the waterfront that served as the final destination for the city’s carriage horses. Horse carcasses were delivered by barge to gigantic bone-boiling plants and processed into glue and fertilizer. The factories closed down after a series of natural disasters.

  Over the last sixty years, the man-made beach at Dead Horse Bay has slowly eroded. You can still find the shoreline littered with bottles and artifacts.

  “Five more minutes,” Harper says, according to the GPS.

  They turn into Jacob Riis Park, an old abandoned lot, the building aged and rusted, split-level and made of steel.