3. Seraphina
3
Seraphina
“Mitch, what do you want now?” I sigh, exasperated by the pseudo-stalking that seems to be happening here. Mitch appeared from the same door I exited, seemingly tracing my steps from the library to the back lot. Quite frankly, I’m creeped out and uncomfortable.
“Fin, thank God.” Mitch throws his arms around me, pulling me flush to his body.
I blanch at the contact, pushing against his chest as he squeezes me. “What the hell are you doing, Mitchell? Get off me,” I order, struggling against his hold. I don’t relax when I break free, keeping my guard up in case he tries for any other wayward touches.
“You never used to curse.” There’s a frown in his voice, and I can’t help but roll my eyes at the comment. I don’t dignify it with a response; I wait silently for him to explain why he’s following me.
He must sense that he’s getting nothing else from me because he clears his throat and turns away, almost like he’s afraid to look at me in the eyes. “We need to get back together.”
“No.” My answer is swift and immediate.
“You don’t understand. We need to get back together.” There’s an edge of hysteria in his voice, one I’m not used to hearing. My eyes narrow at his tone, and I take in his appearance. Mitch is always well put-together, like a walking advertisement for Brooks Brothers or Vineyard Vines. His longer hair is always slicked back, and his clothes are typically pressed and well-tailored. But today, he’s disheveled.
His hair lacks gel and sticks out like a fraudulent halo around his head. His clothes are rumpled and worn, giving a “slept-in” effect. Part of me, a small, minuscule, tiny part, wants to ask if he’s okay and verify that he isn’t on drugs or something worse. But a large part of me remembers why we broke up two months ago and has no sympathy for him.
“Again, no.”
“Seraphina. We have to!” he bellows at me, his face turning red from the rage. “You think I want to be tied to you, a whore who wanted me to fuck her before marriage, like all of the other sluts in this school? No, I don’t. But we have to.”
“Sluts? You mean women who want to explore their sexuality with their partner and not feel shamed for it? But yet you trying to have anal sex for the last four months is okay? You’re an asshole, Mitch, and you don’t deserve a minute of my time, let alone me back in your life.”
I turn to leave, clutching my cell phone tightly so that I’m not tempted to throw it at his head. Before I can head back into the comfort of the library, my sanctuary here at school, I’m stopped by Mitch’s perfectly manicured hand. “You don’t understand, Seraphina. We have to get back together. You’ll regret it if we don’t.”
Stiffening at his words, I turn back around slowly. “Are you threatening me?” My voice sounds incredulous, even to my own ears.
“No. I’m promising you. Because if you don’t, you’re fucked, your family’s fucked. And most importantly, I’m fucked.”
My brows furrow at his words, confusion hitting me with all the subtlety of an aluminum baseball bat. “What are you talking about?”
Mitch’s hands go to his head, clutching his hair and pulling on the strands. “My parents found out about the coke at Chris’s party because some asshole sent them pictures to try and blackmail them.”
I barely contain my snort of derision. Chris Kopicki had a party last month, meaning we were already broken up before his experimentation started. Or maybe it started while we were together, but I was too blind to see it. “How is that my problem?”
“It’s your fucking problem because I wouldn’t have gotten high if you hadn’t broken up with me. And my parents know that too. Dad’s running for fucking state senate this year, and the last thing he needs is for pictures of me sniffing coke off someone’s tits to circulate.”
“Wow, Mitch. This story just keeps getting better. But what you’ve failed to tell me is how your problem is mine to adopt. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get back to my study session and pretend that I never met you.”
“It’s your fucking problem because if you don’t do this, don’t smile and look pretty in the family photos while my dad talks about how he raised a stand-up kid with the pretty little high school sweetheart, we’re going after your parents and their prosecution of the Clown Killer.”
I jerk my head back as if slapped. “What the hell are you talking about?” My parents, well-known criminal prosecutors, own a law firm that caters to high-profile cases. Their most well-publicized case, the Clown Killer, a man who killed women and carved demonic clown smiles into their faces post-mortem, spawned books, true crime documentaries, and notoriety. But the case was over fifteen years ago.
“They withheld evidence and neglected a key witness, one who didn’t come forward until the end of the trial. The defense knows that poor witness couldn’t keep the secret after all this time. And who do you think they went to with this information? Just the best judge in the state. A favor for a favor, that’s how the world works, isn’t it?”
I shake my head, disbelief and rage and anger—so much anger—coursing through my veins. “You’re lying. There’s no way you’re telling the truth.”
“You want to make that bet, Seraphina? I tried to do this the easy way so that you didn’t find out your precious parents are just like the rest of us, willing to hide and cheat to get their win. But you had to be difficult, didn’t you? Always so stubborn.” He chuckles as if his words are funny and not bombs going nuclear on my carefully constructed world.
He steps back, keeping his eyes on me as he retreats. “You have two days to decide, Seraphina. You make the right decision, and this will stay quiet. If you don’t?” He pauses, shrugging like it’s a minor inconvenience when I know he needs my consent as much as he does. “Then I’ll enjoy watching your life implode. Who do you think will use that sham of a law firm once people find out about this? Your parents’ careers will be over, and I’ll enjoy every damn minute of it for the pain you’ve caused my family.”
“Let’s get one thing clear.” I walk up to him, pointing my finger into his chest. “You made that decision to do cocaine, not me. So whatever accusations you want to hurl, remember that you’re in this situation because of you . Not me.” He grips my finger, squeezing it hard before flinging it off him.
“Two days, Seraphina.” Mitch turns on his heel, walking toward the parking lot and weaving through the cars parked neatly amongst the rows. I watch him leave, his demeanor calm, almost as though I’ve siphoned the internal chaos from him.
Blinking slowly, I shake my head, knowing that whatever he said couldn’t be true. The sound of an engine revving breaks me from the catatonic state I’m in following Mitch’s accusations, and I run back to the library, uncaring that I’m probably causing a scene by literally running through the books stacked high on the shelves.
The only thought in my brain is to get my things and get out, to speak to my parents and verify that all of Mitch’s accusations are baseless and blatant lies.
—
The drive home is short, and I’m not surprised that there are no cars in the driveway when I pull up to my family’s house. Looking at the dashboard, I curse, knowing instantly that I should have gone to my parents’ office building downtown.
“Dammit,” I mutter, driving right past my house and continuing down the street. With my hands set at ten and two, I have to actively talk myself out of speeding the fifteen miles that separate the firm from my house. Only when I pull into the parking lot do I take a deep breath.
It’s reckless and impulsive to drive here first thing in the morning when I know my parents have meetings and debriefs for active and prospective cases, but I can’t find it in me to feel anything other than anxiety. Throwing my car in park, I turn off the ignition and exit, hurrying across the lot and inside the building, where the receptionist greets me by name.
“Seraphina, shouldn’t you be in school?” Claire, the receptionist and office manager, asks, her face set in a worried frown. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, Donna, it’s fine,” I supply, referring to her by the nickname my siblings and I gave her after we first started watching Suits and realized she was my parents’ very own Donna Paulsen.
“Are my parents in their offices? I have to speak with them.”
“That’s not going to be possible, Seraphina. They were called into the district attorney’s office.”
My stomach plummets at the news. “Do you know why?”
She shrugs. “I’m sure it was something with an upcoming trial, though I did hear Jacobi is advocating for a retrial through his attorney.” The mention of Jean Paul Jacobi, the infamous Clown Killer and the person whom I want to discuss with my parents, sends my plummeting stomach to my feet. I struggle to breathe at her omission.
“Oh?”
She waves off my evident distress. “This happens once a year. I’m sure it’s nothing. Though, they’ve never been called to the DA before about it, so, who knows? Anyway, do you want me to tell them you stopped by? Did something happen at school?”
I shake my head, backing away as I respond, “No, it’s fine. I’ll speak to them at home. I’ll see you later, Donna. Give your kids a hug for me.”
Claire tilts her head, watching my retreat with equal parts interest and confusion. “Seraphina—” I wave, cutting her off with the movement and slipping out the door and back to the lot, where I waste no time diving into my car and driving home.
I take the same path home; the same stop signs force me to stand still while the traffic signals dictate my speed. When I finally pull to a stop in front of my house twenty minutes later, I’m surprised to see both my parents’ cars in the driveway. I don’t believe in coincidences, not when I was raised in a household where red ribbons were tied around every coat hanger and holy water was splashed in every doorway.
Mitch’s words, his threat, and my parents’ absence from the office, followed by their appearance home at one of the busiest times of their workday, are unnerving and too telling to be a coincidence. Swallowing down my questions, I pull into the driveway behind my parents’ cars and cut the engine. In minutes, I’m across the lawn and slipping inside. I’m greeted with three things all at once.
First, my mother’s voice is raised to a volume and tone she reserves for the courtroom.
The second is there’s a voice I don’t recognize; it’s deep and gruff and goes back at my mom sternly. For every word she yells, the unidentified male responds with equal passion.
And the third thing I realize is that my father’s silence is the loudest of them all. I know he’s here because both of their cars are parked feet from the garage. But he’s not speaking, not defending my mother or telling the other voice to stop their censure. I’m not sure which aspect is most concerning.
Keeping my footsteps light, I tiptoe to the dining room, where I press against the wall and can have a visual of the conversation unfolding. From years spent hiding from my siblings, I know the wall I’m pressed against hides me from their view.
“After fifteen years, why would she come forward now? What’s in it for her?”
“The truth, Deborah. The goddamn truth. One you two should have told fifteen fucking years ago,” the unnamed voice yells. I can’t see his face, but based on the well-tailored suit, gleaming gold cufflinks with bold G.A. initials, and slicked-back, salt-and-pepper hair, it’s fairly easy to guess the district attorney, George Anderson, followed my parents home.
“George, you were part of the review committee; you know that her testimony could jeopardize his sentence. We had him for the murders, and we couldn’t risk him getting back out on the streets.”
“And now he’s going to be released on prosecutorial misconduct, and your licenses will be put into question. Was that better? For fuck’s sake, Deborah. What about your kids? All your cases are going to be reviewed with a fine-tooth comb if this gets out, and every inch of credibility you have will be demolished. Is that what you wanted?”
“What I wanted was for a killer to be taken off the goddamn street, George. That’s more important than any bullshit ethics counsel hearing. How can they even entertain this? He killed six women. We had his prints,” my mom sneers. “This will never go anywhere, not after all these years. She was an unreliable witness with questionable testimony. Her story changed six times, and the only consistency was the car Jacobi used.”
“She said there was a second person with Jacobi that night, Deborah. You didn’t use her claim in the trial. You didn’t submit it to the defense. You. Were. Wrong,” he bellows, silencing my mother’s argument.
A sigh breaks through the silence. “Deborah,” my dad says softly. “There are documentaries, books, and sleuths dedicated to uncovering idiosyncrasies and inconsistencies with cases. You remember when Jacobi was first arrested, the fan base he had. It’s going to start all over again. And if there was an accomplice, we’ve let a killer get away with murder.” My dad’s voice is resigned, almost dejected.
“The only hope you have is Judge Abernathy keeping this woman quiet. Otherwise, your careers are over.”
“That man won’t help us. There’s no incentive for him. You know it, and I know it.” My mom adopts my dad’s tone, the severity of withholding a witness and testimony finally hitting her.
“Then may the law be on our side. I’ll contact you if I hear anything.” With that parting comment, the DA strides out the back door, walking across the expansive backyard and out the back fence. It hits me that his car must be parked elsewhere to avoid any questions as to why he’s at the Gregori household at ten in the morning on a Thursday.
“I’m sorry,” my mom whispers, all the indignation and bravado gone from her voice. “She was unreliable, and I thought she would jeopardize our prosecution.”
My dad doesn’t respond right away, leaving a heavy tension hanging between them until his voice rings out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think it was—”
“No. You knew you had an obligation to tell me. What I want to know is why. We could have discussed this. But now, our entire livelihood is in jeopardy because you wanted to end the big case. I remember how you were fifteen years ago, Debbie. You were hooked on Jacobi and wouldn’t entertain anyone’s theories other than your own. You handled the witnesses, the testimonies. I should have been more involved. I—” He stops abruptly, taking a deep breath. “Come here, Deb.”
I hear my mom’s footsteps cross the floor, and I peer around the corner, chancing a glance at my parents. My heart cracks when I see my dad holding onto my mom, holding her to him in an embrace so strong I can see the veins on his forearms. “Deb, I need to know, could there be an accomplice out there? None of this is worth it if we let someone get away with something this heinous.”
Her reply is instant. “No. I’m telling you, she changed her testimony so many times that I couldn’t use a single thing she said. She mentioned a second person in the vehicle once but then retracted her statement. I reviewed the surveillance tapes and traffic footage, and in every frame, there was only one person in the car at all times. I have the interview notes, but nothing substantial could be used, so I didn’t submit them. I don’t know why she’s come forward now after all this time. I don’t know why she went to Abernathy, of all people, and I have no damn clue how he’d be able to keep this from getting out or why. Ethically, rationally, none of this makes sense.”
“One day at a time, Deb. We’ll get through this and figure it out one day at a time. For now, we need to review the case documents and be prepared if anything comes our way.”
“I know.” My mom sighs, squeezing my dad once more before dropping her hands and stepping back. I watch her wipe moisture from beneath her eyes, stray tears that must have fallen during their embrace. “I’m sorry.”
“I know, Deb, I know.” They leave the kitchen, walking toward the front hall on the right side of the kitchen. I keep my place in the dining room, hidden from all other viewpoints on the lower level of the house, and process the information I just heard.
My mind trips over the accusations and reports, racing with the enormity of what I just learned in the last hour. Sinking against the wall, I let my weight fall, sliding down until I sit on the floor with my knees drawn up to my chin. How is it possible that so much has changed in such a short period?
This morning, I was excited about graduating, giddy about the prospects of what could be with Lincoln, and looking toward the future with an optimism I hadn’t had since I was a freshman.
But now, not two hours later, everything I thought I knew was shattered. How do I move forward with my life, doing what I want, when I have the exact thing my parents need: a reason for Judge Abernathy, Mitch’s asshole father, to help them?
Squeezing my eyes shut, I let my tears drag down my face, knowing that helping my parents would end so many things: my autonomy, my happiness, and my friendship with Lincoln Simmons. I allow myself five minutes to wallow, to hurt for the decision I know has to be made to protect my family. I don’t know if it’s ethical, moral, or right, but how do I let my parents and my siblings suffer for a man who confessed and was proven to have killed so many women in such a brutal way? Regardless of what my mom did, I’ve been a spectator to the legal world long enough to know that any potential whisper of misconduct during a trial could cause a bad man—one of the worst criminals in the twenty-first century—to potentially go free.
Despite what I want and how I feel, there’s no world where I’ll allow that to happen.
Opening my eyes, I shift on the floor and reach into my back pocket, pulling out my phone and bringing it to my face to unlock it. I ignore the texts and social media notifications that sprout up, instead going straight for the name of the one person I never wanted to speak to again.
Seraphina : We need to talk.
His reply is instant, as though he was waiting for my message.
Mitch : I knew you’d come to your senses.
Hatred, sharp and painful, hits me in the chest. I resist saying what I want to: telling him to fuck off and fall into a ditch. Instead, I ask him to meet.
Seraphina : Meet me tonight at Arlow’s Diner. Seven.
Mitch : See you there, babe.
Seraphina : Do not call me that.
I seethe at his nonchalant attitude. How can he be so calm when my world feels like it’s falling apart?