Chapter Thirteen Harriet
Chapter Thirteen
Harriet
“You okay?”
A familiar voice startles me out of my trance.
I’m sitting at the same table where Nic and I talked yesterday, nursing my second lukewarm cup of coffee. I haven’t seen him since our little run-in, and he hasn’t responded to the text I sent him earlier this morning. So here I am—again.
I’d been hoping he would be too, but he’s nowhere to be found.
Instead, this.
I turn and there he is. Adam Kozel, a small grin playing on his lips. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his shorts.
“You look a million miles away.”
“I’m fine.” I’m about to blow him off when I realize this is the perfect opportunity to fulfill my promise. I can talk to him right here on this sidewalk and then never have to deal with him again. I plaster on a smile. “It’s good to see you, Adam.”
He tilts his head. “Are you sure, Harriet? Because when I saw you the other day, things were a little awkward.”
God, he’s annoying. “No, they weren’t,” I lie.
“I do admit,” he continues like he didn’t even hear me. Typical. “I was caught off guard when you opened the door.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, digging my fingernails into the back of my thumb. Be nice, Harriet.
He gestures to the empty paper cups in my hands. “Do you need help with those?”
“No, thank you.” Being polite to him is giving me an ulcer. It better be worth it.
I walk to the trash can and toss the cups at it. One bounces off the rim and hits the sidewalk below.
Heat flushes my face.
I bend to pick it up and stuff it into the can, hoping maybe Kozel didn’t notice.
“Are you sure you don’t need help?” He smirks, and my pledge to behave evaporates.
“I’m a perfectly capable adult, Adam,” I snap, the scowl I’ve been holding in crawling onto my face. “I managed to get through all four years of college without you. I lived in the big, scary city of New York without you. Imagine! How ever did I survive?”
His smile flattens. “I was trying to be nice.”
“Aren’t you always?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m fine!”
“Is this about high school?” he says, and my spine stiffens. How dare he bring that up?
An older woman exits the coffee shop, and we both fall silent. Kozel tips his head in greeting as she walks by.
As soon as she’s gone, I turn on him. “Is what about high school?”
“How you’re acting. Is it because of—you know. How we left things?”
Oh, that’s rich. “How we left things? That implies we had a conversation. Not that you straight-up ghosted me and the next time I heard from you was when you knocked on my mother’s door the morning after my stepfather was murdered!”
He winces. “Like I said, I didn’t know you’d be there.”
He’s got to be kidding. “Are you—That’s your response? You didn’t know I would be there? Right. Cool. I gotta go.”
I whirl around on my heel and start down the sidewalk toward my car. Kozel hurries to keep pace with me. “You’re misunderstanding,” he says. “I was glad when you opened the door, Harriet. I’ve thought a lot about you over the years. I would love to explain if you—”
“Goodbye,” I say.
“Harriet—”
“Goodbye, Adam.” I pick up my speed.
A text from Gogo arrives as I’m climbing into the car.
Hello, Harriet. Your aunt Vicky and I are on our way to your dad’s house and would love it if you would join us. We should be there in twelve minutes. We can chat over tea. Love. Your grandmother (Gogo)
I consider ignoring it and heading home. The morning hasn’t exactly gone well thus far, and a part of me wants to go into hiding for the rest of the day.
Except I have an article to write, an investigation to pursue, and I just blew what might have been my best chance to talk to Kozel.
I can’t go home and watch Netflix. If I can’t make this article happen…
I shake my head. I don’t even want to consider what that would mean.
For my life. My future. I can’t help but feel like this is my last shot to prove to the world that I’m not a total failure.
Gogo and Vicky—and even my dad—were there the night of the party. They could have some insights to share about everything.
I drive southwest across the island with my window down, the warm late-summer breeze in my hair. I haven’t been to my dad’s since I got back from the city. Back in high school, we were tight—in fact, I lived with him my senior year because I couldn’t stand to be in the same room as my mother.
But then George came back into the picture, and it all went downhill.
I got the feeling my dad was…maybe jealous isn’t quite the right word—more like irritated that George and my mom had reconnected.
There’s a lot of history between the three of them, most of it not very good.
Either way, my dad began dying his hair an unnatural shade of brown, bought a Corvette, began to date people half his age, and forgot all about me. Our relationship never recovered.
I steer my car onto his street. Either side is lined with two-story bungalows and the occasional transplanted palm tree.
Halfway down the block, I spot Gogo’s bright-blue Lincoln Continental and pull into the space in front of it.
I hope my aunt drove that thing here; Gogo failed her last driver’s test.
“Harriet!” Gogo’s in the foyer, arranging flowers in a vase. She looks at me with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
I’m on my way down to kiss her cheek, but I pull back. “You asked me to come?”
She blinks, then gives her head a little shake. “Oh, right. Of course! My little peanut.”
She takes my hand and kisses the tips of my fingers. Her skin is crepey, wrinkled, pale. I try not to focus on it—or her memory slip.
“I’m glad to see you. Cynthia is here. It’s only been fifteen minutes, and she’s already tried to get me involved in three separate MLM schemes. Here. Come. Sit.”
Gogo leads me into the empty living room and settles on the couch. She has on an oversize wool coat even though it’s seventy degrees outside, and the fabric overwhelms her small frame. She looks like a child playing dress-up.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
“Hmm, well. Vicky’s fixing me a cup of tea, and your father and Cynthia are upstairs. They’re packing.”
“Packing?” I frown. “For what?”
She raises her eyebrows. “They’re going to Europe tomorrow. I assumed you knew.”
“Europe?” I in fact did not know that. An awful thought occurs to me. What if my dad killed George, and that’s why he’s skipping town?
I shake myself. I can’t start accusing every person I find vaguely suspicious of murder. This trip was probably planned months ago. It’s not like he keeps me abreast of his comings and goings. Plus, it’s my dad. We might not be best friends, but he’s not a killer.
“When did they plan this?” I ask Gogo, trying to keep my tone neutral.
“I don’t remember, to be honest,” Gogo says. “You’d have to ask your father. Regardless, off they go! Fingers crossed Cynthia doesn’t come back pregnant!”
I balk. That’s almost as horrifying a thought as him murdering someone. “Oh my god, Gogo. No.”
“I’m just saying,” she says with an impish smile that pulls at my heart. “She’s still young and fertile. Stranger things have happened.”
“Gross, Gogo. I’m gonna to go find Vicky.” I bolt out of the room before she can say anything more.
I find Vicky on the kitchen floor, half buried in a cabinet.
“Hey! What are you doing in there?”
She startles, smacking her head on the frame as she pulls free. “Ow! Shit!”
“Oh crap. Are you okay?” I should have given her some warning before barging in here and basically yelling. “Do you want some ice?”
She rubs at the spot. “No, no. It’s fine.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, extending a hand to help her up.
“Not your fault. Gogo mentioned you were coming. I should have known it was you.”
She smells of jasmine. Her hair is slicked back in one of those severe buns that only people with extremely symmetrical faces can pull off, and she has on a cute black turtleneck and a pair of dark blue jeans.
It’s hard to believe she’s in her mid-fifties; she could pass for my older sister with the right lighting.
“I’m actually on the hunt for a teapot,” she says. “Any idea where it could be?”
“I don’t think my dad owns one, actually.”
Her eyes widen. “He doesn’t? How does he make tea?”
I tap the device next to her head. “In this.”
“Are you—In the microwave? Good Lord. Absolutely not.” She starts rummaging through a different cabinet. “I refuse to make tea in that…that thing. There must be a pot somewhere I can use …”
I try to think of a casual way to steer the conversation away from tea and toward the question of whether my father is a murderous psychopath. “Hey, speaking of my dad. Gogo mentioned he’s going on a trip. Was that planned?”
She looks up at me, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
My stomach drops. Did Gogo imagine an entire trip?
“Gogo said he and Cynthia are going to Europe tomorrow?”
Vicky sits back on her haunches. “Oh, right! Sorry, I thought you knew? Their trip is the whole reason I’m here.
Your father is attending a medical conference in Greece and bringing Cynthia along.
They’re staying for a few weeks, so I agreed to come help Mom.
We’ve been planning this for…gosh. Three months now? ”
“Right. I knew. I’d just…forgotten.” I’m lying of course. I try to brush it off, but it stings.
Vicky rises with a grunt, a small silver pot clutched in her hand. “This should do.” She sets it on the stovetop, then stretches high, groaning as she leans to each side.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just sore. Long-haul flights and jet lag—the older I get, the worse it is.”
“Right, jet lag,” I say, like I have any idea what I’m talking about. I pick up the pot and fill it with water, then set it back on the stove and snap on the burner. “The worst.”