Chapter Eight Harriet
Chapter Eight
Harriet
I grab a bag of dark roast with shaking hands and busy myself making coffee. My mom’s asleep still, knocked out by the pills I gave her late last night, and the house is quiet. Too quiet. My imagination’s playing tricks on me, every creak and groan making me jump.
The beach greets me through the window over the kitchen sink. The waves, lapping up against the shore, George, brutally stabbed to death—
No.
I rip my eyes away.
Once I get the coffee brewing, I pick up my phone, open TikTok, and am immediately greeted by yet another video of Sara flying across the beach. There are thousands of comments, hundreds of reposts. It’s gone very, very viral. Whoever posted the original is such a dick.
I saw it for the first time late last night on the Humans landing page, which I was masochistically scrolling after consuming an entire bottle of champagne.
And then I…
A memory hits. Oh shit.
I fling TikTok closed and open my email. Please, please, please tell me I didn’t do what I think I—Oh. Oh no.
There it is, sitting in my sent folder.
An email to Frankie. My old boss at Humans. The person who fired me in cold blood after I outed a celebrity’s secret pregnancy. Which was a god’s honest mistake.
The last time I spoke to her was six months ago, when she was screaming at me for getting the magazine into a shit ton of trouble and telling me that I was under no uncertain terms fired as fuck.
After that, I spiraled for a while. Sank into a deep depression for about a month or so, spent another three months desperately applying to other jobs while living off my grandmother’s generous donation of rent money.
Month five, I finally conceded defeat and slunk back here with my tail between my legs.
What the hell was I thinking, emailing that witch?
I wasn’t is the obvious answer.
The coffee machine lets out a loud beep to tell me it’s finished brewing, but I ignore it. Suddenly, caffeine is the last thing on my mind.
I remember it clearly now: sitting on the living room couch, chugging straight from the bottle.
Hunting down Martin’s Instagram since I couldn’t find Nic’s and zooming in on every photo with him in it.
The memory of our two weeks together wriggling into the back of my mind as I scrolled until it got too sharp, too painful, and I had to stop.
I opened , and my worlds collided—not in a good way.
They’d posted the viral video of Sara along with an article riddled with errors.
I didn’t recognize the byline—probably the person they hired to replace me.
I saw red.
And then I emailed Frankie.
Two paragraphs, half the words misspelled, the general gist of it being you guys don’t know what you’re talking about, you should never have hired me (a lovely typo—I meant fired me), the local police are corrupt, maybe someone should investigate THEM instead of the other way around.
Right. If she didn’t already have my email blocked, she will now.
Which sucks, because buried beneath my drunken spewing is an actual, important truth: I overheard a very shady conversation out on that beach, and I’m pretty sure Sara is in serious trouble.
The sound of the doorbell cuts into my thoughts. I send a longing look at the untouched coffee carafe and rush into the front hall before they can ring again and wake my mother.
Through the front windows of the house, I catch sight of an unmarked black Crown Vic parked in the driveway.
The cops.
“Dammit,” I mutter. A quick glance down confirms I’m still wearing my pajamas. Just the outfit I would have chosen for a chat with the authorities.
I swing open the front door. “Can I—”
My eyes land on the male detective, and my brain goes blank.
No.
This cannot be happening.
I’m going to throw up. Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get more fucked up.
Standing on the porch is my ex-boyfriend, Adam Kozel, staring at me like he’s seen a ghost.
I almost slam the door in his face but manage to stop myself just in time. He is, after all, an authority figure, even though I once saw him do a sixty-second keg stand.
“Everything okay?” Kozel’s partner, an older Black woman, looks between the two of us with a curious expression. “Adam?”
He looks almost exactly the same. White, almost translucent skin, short brown hair, a sharp jawline, lashes annoyingly long and thick. I was always jealous of those lashes.
I note with pleasure the two deep lines etched into his forehead. Although as a man, people probably think they give him character.
Steven mentioned he’d heard Kozel was a detective, but I thought he worked at the county sheriff’s office over on the mainland, which is a solid forty-minute drive away. He should not be here, on my doorstep.
“Adam?” his partner asks more sharply.
Kozel slaps on a smile like the sociopath he is. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s working with the LIPD; he’s probably just as corrupt as they are.
“Yup. All is well. Thanks, Sandy. This is, um, Harriet Baker.” He clears his throat. “We… Well, we know each other from high school. I hadn’t realized—I didn’t know she was back in town.”
Sandy’s eyebrows lift. “Another one from high school, huh? Guess I should stop being surprised by that.”
“Anyway,” Kozel continues smoothly. He’s always been smooth, even in the most awkward situations (see: sociopath). “Hello, Harriet. It’s so nice to see you—”
He’s lying, obviously. There’s no way he’s happy to see me, not after how he ghosted me back in high school.
“I just wasn’t…” He clears his throat. “Well. I was expecting your mother to answer the door. We’re very sorry about—your stepfather, was it?”
I nod.
“Your stepfather’s, his, um, his passing…”
Again, Sandy’s eyebrows jump as Kozel stumbles over his words.
She cuts in. “Ms. Baker, hello. Detective Sandy Jones, Atlantic County Sheriff’s Office.
We were brought onto the case late last night to assist the local PD.
They’re less experienced with this sort of matter.
May we come in? We’d like to speak with you and your mother about what happened. ”
I glance behind me, trying to think of a legitimate reason to send them away. “My mom’s still asleep—”
“You could wake her?” Detective Jones says. She frames it as a question, but I can tell it’s really not.
“Yeah. I guess. She’s sort of a monster when she gets woken up. But…” I trail off, hoping she’ll get the hint, but she just stares at me. My shoulders slump. “Fine. All right. Come in.”
I lead them into the living room, and they settle on the couch.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. My top priority is to get Adam Kozel the hell out of here as fast as possible. If that means rousing my mother and dealing with her wrath, fine.
I head up the stairs and take a sharp right toward her room.
The door is cracked, and I peek inside. It’s dark, the curtains pulled tight against the morning sun.
“Mom?”
No answer.
I try again, louder this time. “Mother!”
Still nothing.
I flick on the overhead lights. Admittedly rude, but desperate times.
The comforter emits a loud groan.
“Mom?” I say more gently. “The cops are here.”
Another groan.
“They want to talk to you! About…you know. George. And—”
“Harriet?” My mother’s head emerges. She blinks at me, black mascara ringing both eyes like a sad raccoon. “Why are you in here? What did you say? Who’s here?”
I swallow, loath to remind her of everything. She’s still half asleep.
“The cops.”
“The—” Her eyes widen. “The police? Are here?” She takes in the empty space next to her in the bed and lets out a choked sob. “To talk about my George?”
I nod.
“Have they arrested that horrible woman yet?”
“I don’t know.”
Her mouth sets in a determined line, and she sits up, fluffing her blond bob.
“Tell them I’ll be down in five.”
I back out of the room slowly, reluctant to face Kozel again.
Five minutes later, my mom appears wearing a full face of makeup and a floral housedress. She’s smiling, but her eyes are red-rimmed, the buttons on her dress crooked.
A twinge of pity hits me. A very small twinge, which disappears as soon as she walks into the room, sees Kozel, and exclaims, “Adam Kozel? Oh my goodness. It is so lovely to see you!” She flutters a hand over her heart.
“I heard you’re a detective now. I always knew you’d do big things with your life. ”
She shoots me a look that clearly says Harriet, how could you let this A+ specimen of a man get away?
This is my own personal version of hell.
My mother always adored Kozel. When we broke up, she was convinced it was my fault, and nothing would change her mind. It was so typical of her, I wasn’t even surprised.
I wish I was back in New York.
She settles into the armchair next to me, then leans forward and grasps Kozel’s hand between her own. “How are you, Adam? I’m sorry. Detective Kozel.” She bats her lashes, and Detective Jones frowns. “Are you married?”
Kozel gently extracts his hand while I take deep, slow breaths to keep from screaming.
The woman just lost her husband. She is devastated.
“Because Harriet isn’t,” she continues. “She moved in with me recently because she lost her job and—”
I’m going to kill her.
“Ms. George,” Jones interrupts.
“Mrs. George,” my feminist mother says.
Jones’s frown deepens. “Right. Mrs. George. I’m Detective Jones. We’re here to—”
My mother interrupts her now. “I assume you’re here to tell me that you’ve arrested the woman who murdered my George. That cook.”
“Ma’am, we’re still in the process of gathering evidence—”
My mother gasps. “Excuse me? Gathering evidence? You already know who did it! You have her in custody! Her knife was found in the sand next to George, for god’s sake! What more do you need?”
Before Jones can respond, Kozel jumps in. “Now…Mrs. George—”
“Please, Adam. Call me Lisa. We were practically family at one point.”