2. Jael
Cold Little Heart - Michael Kiwanuka
T he laptop feels forbidden as I prop it open and run my fingers over the faded keys. It takes forever booting up, the out-of-date operating system lurching and the brand logo fuzzy on the screen. Yet, somehow, it still feels like I’ve been given a powerful lifeline.
A direct link between me and my sister.
I imagine all the times she must’ve logged on in her bedroom. All the days we were apart when we should’ve been together.
Did she ever miss me as much as I’ve missed her?
The saved files, the bookmarks and favorites, the forgotten tabs on her browser.
They all remind me of her. They’re like bits and pieces of my sister saved in time.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
But what else do I have to do with my free time?
I’ve successfully found somewhere to hide out from the shadow man, wait for my sister to find me so we could be reunited. As the days have gone by and I’ve been left to my own devices, I’ve grown bored.
I’m desperate to see her. Anything to take my mind off him , lurking in the shadows every moment I’m alone.
If anyone can help me, it’s my sister. She’d know what to do.
She would scold me about the laptop, but she would help me like sisters are supposed to.
When we were kids, she hated when I borrowed her things. She claimed it was wrong if I played with her dolls or even sat at the piano that was designated as hers. Our mother usually took her side, especially where the piano was concerned.
My sister was a music prodigy. I was not.
I was the spare. The unseen daughter. The pest who needed to move out of the way, but really only ever wanted to be like my big sister.
I tell myself it’s not wrong. That I’m just trying to feel close to her. That I’m trying to figure out why she would leave me alone and let everyone believe she’s dead.
Didn’t she know I’d come looking for her?
The screen lights up and her accounts spill out in front of me like a diary cracked open. InstaPix and MyFace notifications. Weeks’ worth of emails. Calendar reminders for things long past.
And then Cyber Fans.
The homepage loads with its crisp white background and glowing camera logo.
I pause.
Internet usage in the hospital was severely limited. Nurse Big Bird and the others monitored every moment of computer time we were given, but I haven’t been living under a rock. I’m well aware of what Cyber Fans is.
Some women make thousands of dollars on the platform. Was my sister one of them?
I’m auto logged into her account, where she has a profile pic saved of her in the same leather cat mask I’d seen on her desk.
It says she hasn’t been logged on in three weeks.
Is this how my sister met the man known as the Cleaver? I’ve been reading the newspaper articles written about him in the Easton Times . There’s been so much speculation about the man named Kaden Raskova, with theories running rampant on how he found his victims. Everything from salacious stories about late-night sex parties to chance encounters around the city.
Nobody’s really sure how he selected his victims or why.
There’s no apparent pattern the police, the media, or anyone else has been able to find.
I click on my sister’s messages. There’re hundreds of them. All sorts of different men. All ages, races, income brackets.
So many compliments. Some flattering. Some less than appropriate. Others downright vulgar.
My stomach twists.
Her responses hardly sound like her. They’re fun and flirtatious. Short and teasing.
Generic.
I open a message from a user named footballfanatic71 who offers five hundred dollars for a private cam session. Another named musclegod87 wants to take her out for drinks. She never had a chance to reply.
Heat rises inside my chest and my skin prickles from an emotion I can’t really place—grief, anger, irritation. Maybe all three.
The messages fill up the screen, taking forever to scroll through.
You’re stunning. Can’t stop staring at your photos.
Let me spoil you, gorgeous.
Lyra, you’re absolutely breathtaking. Dinner?
I slam shut the laptop and the heat intensifies. It spreads, crawling up the back of my neck and then flushing onto my face.
These men never cared about my sister. These men don’t even know what’s happened to her.
The laptop dings from a brand new message in the mailbox. I blow out a deep sigh and my hand shakes reaching to open the laptop again.
The envelope icon jiggles excitedly as if it can’t wait for me to click on it and read the new message.
I take the plunge with a click. It’s from a man named Francesco Gigante, his profile picture a photo of himself in mirrored sunglasses and a popped collar.
Ciao, bella. I can’t wait to be blessed by your stunning presence again.
I shudder at how sleazy he sounds. And what does he mean see me again? Was my sister entertaining this man?
He doesn’t at all seem like her type. Then again, are any of these men my sister’s type? It seems like she was open to chatting with anyone so long as they were nice enough and were willing to pay.
Another new message comes through before I can decide on a response to Francesco. This one is more palatable, coming from a man named Winston Cooper. Where Francesco wore aviator shades, Winston wears a nerdy pair of glasses and a polo. His user title mentions he’s the head editor at the Easton Times . My sister had worked there!
Interest piqued, I click on the new message from Winston.
Lyra???
Where have you been?!
Are you okay? Have you seen the news?
Nibbling on my bottom lip, I hesitate a second and then tap away at the keys to respond.
I have been very busy. Just got back from out of town.
His next message comes almost immediately.
Out of town?! The whole city’s presumed you dead!
Something about his phrasing ignites an irritated heat in me. I bang away some more at the keyboard, letting him know my sister—I’m—perfectly fine.
They’re wrong. I’m alive.
We need to talk.
I can give you a chance to tell your story.
We can run it as a front page piece in the next Times.
That way everyone knows your side once and for all. Velvet Piano good?
My fingers punch at the keyboard at greater speed. Each aggressive stroke of a key feels justified in honor of my sister.
It happens to be my favorite bar in the city.
I’ve barely clicked send when his response pops up.
Tomorrow night at seven. Meet me outside
I smirk to no one but myself, my mind made up before I can even process what’s happening. “I promise I will.”
The air is sticky despite the time of year, clinging to my skin like a second layer. I make my way down the crowded street with my nerves on edge. Vale Street is one of the most popular in the city, known for its nightlife.
People are everywhere, laughing, shouting, spilling out of bars in packs of threes and fours. Neon signs buzz overhead and cast pools of pink and green light onto the cracked pavement. I keep my eyes forward and focus on the Velvet Piano up ahead, ignoring how overstimulated I feel on the inside.
Almost there. Almost there.
But I can’t shake the feeling.
It’s the same one that’s crept over me every time I’ve wandered the city since I left the hospital.
I glance over my shoulder and rake my gaze over the countless strangers surrounding me. A group of college students stumbles toward the next bar. A couple argues on the curb near a fire hydrant and no parking zone.
There’s a street performer strumming his guitar for cash.
All inconspicuous to most people.
And yet it couldn’t feel more threatening to me.
I can feel him, lurking just beyond sight. He always is. It’s been years now, but the unease never fades when I’m out like this. He’s not real—Dr. Wolford and Nurse Big Bird have made sure I understand there’s no such thing as a shadow man—but it does nothing to quell the unease inside me.
It’s my imagination. My mind playing tricks. Wires becoming crossed and tangled in my brain.
But these all feel like lies I tell myself to feel better.
Somewhere out there, in the shadows, he’s watching.
I know he is.
My fingers twitch at my sides, unease curling deep in my stomach. I’m only a few steps away from the purple glow that’s the Velvet Piano…
Winston is already waiting outside.
He checks his phone in between puffs of his cigarette. He’s wearing another polo shirt and some slacks that make him look middle-aged and out of style. His hairline’s receding and his glasses look even thicker in person.
“Lyra?” he says. He puts out his cigarette and scans the length of me almost appraisingly. His brows shift closer as if he’s questioning what’s going on.
“You’re… not her,” he says. “Where is she?”
I force a smile. “I’m her sister. The name’s Jacqueline.”
“Oh.” He sounds disappointed for a second, likely because he hasn’t landed the breaking news one-on-one interview with a woman presumed dead like he thought. But then he seems to figure out another angle he can work, because he asks, “Would you like to tell me what you know about your sister? I can still run it as a feature in the paper.”
“I would love to.”
We head inside at Winston’s behest, his hand skimming my back as if to guide me. The bar’s noisy and crowded, people speaking loudly in competition with the live piano music playing.
He’s reserved us a table near the front where the stage is located. I pause a second to admire the sleek grand pianos facing each other, knowing this is where my sister often played. From what I could find, she worked briefly at this bar, participating in the live duels.
It seems my sister had many jobs over a short period of time.
“Look, let’s get the awkward things out of the way first,” Winston says once we’re seated. “It’s true that I fired your sister, but that’s because nobody was reading the obituaries section anymore. It was nothing personal to her, but it’s not like she was easy to work with. Sometimes she had a real stick up her ass.”
“I see…” I trail off, curling my fingers around the tiny straw in the complimentary water we’ve been served.
“At the last work Christmas party, I got drunk and made a pass. But it wasn’t a big deal. I just had a little too much to drink.”
“And you follow her on Cyber Fans?”
“She’s a former employee. Is that against the law?”
No.
But it says more about you than you realize.
I shake my head and add another fake smile. “Of course not. I just want to get the truth out there about my sister.”
“Fair, fair. And who knows? If this interview goes well… I can find something for you at the paper. A steady job if you need one.”
He gives me a wink that sends a sharp shiver down my spine—and not in a good way.
“So, you said she’s alive,” he goes on. “Where is she? Is she in hiding?”
“I’m not comfortable answering that just yet.”
“Oh… kay. Why is she not coming forward at least to put an end to what police believe? She could put a stop to the speculation.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to,” I snap. I snatch the drinks menu off the table and pretend to study it.
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and gives off a laugh. “I see Lyra’s little feistiness runs in the family. That’s okay, I can handle a little spice. If anything, I prefer it.”
He leans closer despite my silence and the fact that I’ve busied myself staring down at the menu.
“Maybe let’s turn the temperature down on this topic,” he says. “So tell me about yourself, Jacqueline. Age? School? Job? A boyfriend? Or maybe too many boyfriends?”
He releases a howl of laughter, pleased with his own humor.
I set down the laminated menu and remind myself why I’ve come out tonight. I hadn’t planned on meeting up with any of the men from my sister’s Cyber Fans account, but I’d agreed to Winston’s invitation to get answers.
I’d decided to show up for my sister.
“Jacqueline?”
Winston’s voice pulls me back. He’s leaning forward, a sly grin spread across his face. “I think it’s time we order some real drinks. Something with some alcohol. You need to relax a little.”
I roll back my shoulders and give a nod. “Sure, drinks might help.”
“You know, the real reason I followed Lyra on Cyber Fans was because I heard she was affordable. The prices she would charge for meet ups and other extras with her subscribers. We could talk about a price for this,” he says, gesturing between us. He pulls out a sleek black key card with the logo of the Winchester Hotel. “Call it wishful thinking, but I had already made arrangements when she agreed to meet tonight. I’m willing to pay for the entire night.”
“The entire… what?”
It’s happening again.
Another freeze up. I find myself stuck, incapable of saying anything else. My body’s gone still while my heart pounds inside my chest and there’s a twinge deep inside me. Something unknown but familiar at the same time is clawing away, fighting to be set free.
“Drinks first,” Winston says as if it’ll make me relax. He motions for the waitress nearby to come our way. “Tonight’ll be good. We’ll talk and who knows? Maybe more can come of it.”
I wake to a fist pounding on the front door of my apartment. I’m twisted up in the sheets, hiding from the sunlight that seeps into the room.
The person at the door refuses to leave. They knock so many times it sounds like a drumbeat.
Loud noises I don’t need immediately after waking up.
I rub my eyes and groan at how achy and sore I feel. Last night ran longer than I expected. It’s what I get for not listening to Dr. Wolford and Nurse Big Bird.
They said staying out after dark could only lead to trouble. I had a plan outlined for me. The blue folder’s my guide. The calendar with my appointments.
I drag myself out of bed realizing I don’t have anything on. I must’ve collapsed in bed after my shower.
Last night’s sparkly dress is on the floor by the bed. I step over it and open the closet to tug on some sweatpants and a t-shirt.
The person’s still pounding their fist seconds later when I finally go to answer.
Who could it be? Is it my sister coming to see me? Is she not gone after all?
I reach for the doorknob and tug, finding myself face to face with a tall Black woman with knotless braids and a fancy-looking blazer. She’s sporting a bandage on the side of her neck that’s distracting and large.
“Jael Hendrix?”
“Why are you asking?”
She flashes a gold badge. “Detective Sloan Laurent. I was wondering if we could have a word about your sister, Lyra.”