Chapter Seventeen Harriet
Chapter Seventeen
Harriet
When I get back from Mrs. Carter’s, I shut myself in my room and spend an hour staring at a Word doc. What I need to do is write this article instead of just talking about it, but my brain is as blank as the page on my screen.
Eventually, a stream of texts from Steven rescues me from my misery. They inform Maggie and me that he is in love, and we are officially required to be bridesmaids in his spring wedding to Martin.
I really hope Martin is as good a guy as I remember. Steven comes across as cavalier, but his heart’s as fragile as they come.
I turn back to my computer and get a few more words down before I’m interrupted again. This time, it’s Nic, updating me on his conversation with Matthew. He asks if George was a member of the Yacht Club (of course he was) and whether Gogo could have been mistaken about Matthew’s behavior.
I’m hesitant to say yes—it feels like a betrayal—but I have to admit it’s possible. As much as it breaks my heart, there is something going on with Gogo. Something bad.
Nic and I go back and forth, discussing whether Matthew’s a real suspect or just a really private introvert. Then he has the nerve to ask if I’ve talked to Kozel.
I drop the phone onto my bedspread.
Even though I know it’s ridiculous, there’s this tiny voice in my head asking if Nic keeps insisting I talk to Kozel because he’s hoping we’ll get back together. (I know I sound insane. To be fair, Kozel’s mere existence is incredibly triggering to me.)
When I pick the phone back up, there’s yet another text:
Sara’s arraignment is in THREE DAYS, Harriet.
Right. Good reminder that Nic does not in fact want me to run back into the arms of my awful ex. He simply wants to save his sister from going to prison for the rest of her life.
Dammit.
I swipe out of his text, into a new one, and type a number I—unfortunately—still have memorized from way back when.
Then I write:
Hello. This is Harriet. Harriet Baker. I’m writing against my will to see if you’re free for dinner soon you JERK?
No, probably not.
I hit Delete and try again.
Hello, Adam. This is Harriet. It was nice to run into you earlier. Are you free for dinner soon? I would love to catch up.
Better, even though my eye is twitching and I’m vaguely nauseous.
I press Send and wait, but no blue bubbles appear. My anxiety grows as the seconds tick by; I can’t just sit here staring at the screen, waiting for his reply. It’s giving me major flashbacks to high school.
Tucking my phone into the pocket of my jeans, I shove off the bed and head into the hallway.
The room George and my mom stuck me in is just down the hall from George’s home office.
I’ve tried its doorknob a couple times since the cops went through it—if George had anything to hide, that’s where it would be in the house—but it’s been locked up tight.
My mom’s got the only key, and I can’t exactly ask her to let me in without getting into a conversation I don’t want to have, so I’ve been checking it every time I walk by.
I twist it, and it turns in my hand.
I’m two steps away before my brain catches up.
It turned! Holy shit!
I backpedal and stop, staring at the round silver handle, suddenly gun-shy.
If I go in there, could it be considered breaking and entering? I’m technically a resident of this house, and it’s unlocked, but…still. What if I find important information? Could I use it in my article?
Maggie should be able to answer that.
Do you have a second?
sure. what’s up?
How can I ask this without arousing her suspicions?
is it illegal to go into an unlocked room in your house and look around?
Huh? no of course not
Okay, that phrasing was a little too mild. I try again.
Well what if it’s like…an office that’s not yours? And it’s normally locked? And you go through someone else’s private stuff?
There’s a pause.
Harriet.
What?
what are you up to?
Nothing!!!
??
Seriously. It’s for—
I scramble. Maggie is always on my back about doing more creative writing.
A short story I’m writing
Riiight. A story. I’m sure.
MAGGIE!
Fine. The answer is—it depends. It’s probably not outright illegal but whoever you’re “writing” about should probably consider that they might be toeing some ethical lines
Hmm. Ethical lines.
Frankie’s never cared about a little thing like ethics, but what if my article gets picked up by the wires? What if some Hollywood producer comes a-knocking, asking to buy film rights—
Don’t do anything dumb. Can’t afford to bail you out of jail rn
Sorry, Maggie. Before I can make millions from selling the rights to my article, I actually need to write the damn thing. And in order to do that, I need information.
I twist the knob again, but before I can push it open, my phone buzzes.
Hello, Harriet. I’m surprised to hear from you, but yes, I’m around tomorrow. Dinner sounds good. Piccolo–7pm?
Ugh. I guess it’s really happening. Dinner with my asshole ex. Just what I’ve always dreamed of. He better have something useful to tell me about Sara’s case.
I shove the phone back into my pocket to deal with later. Like when I’m not in the middle of breaking into—ahem, I mean exploring—my dead stepfather’s office.
One more glance around to make sure my mother hasn’t suddenly appeared, and I step inside.
The falling evening sun filters through the blinds behind his desk, casting shadows across its surface, against the coffee mug perched on its edge.
The musky scent of George’s cologne winds into my nose, sending a shiver up my spine.
Being in here is spookier than I expected.
Like he just stepped out and will be back at any moment.
Best to get this over with as fast as possible.
My mother could be lurking out in the living room, and I don’t want to deal with the consequences if she catches me in here.
I slip over to the desk and start my search.
First, the desk drawers. The first is filled with manila folders—property tax bills, insurance EOBs, checks with scrawled deposit dates. None of it seems helpful, but I take a few pictures and shove them back inside.
The next drawer is locked tight. Now we’re talking. Why lock something unless you have something to hide? Except, of course, I need a key.
I rifle through the other drawers, searching, but find nothing.
There has to be another way.
It hits me.
I pick up my phone and google how to pick a lock. Page after page of search results appear on the screen. I love the internet. All the information I’ll ever need in the palm of my hand.
A minute later, the drawer pops open.
I’m greeted by a small stack of miscellaneous items: a few newspaper clippings about George’s old company acquiring a large piece of land in Manhattan back in 2001.
Several engraved invitations to charity galas (lol at the thought of George being charitable).
An obituary for a handsome guy named Adrian Pruner who gives strong JFK Jr. vibes—square jawed, thick brown hair swept neatly to the side.
According to the dates under his picture, he died at twenty-four.
Damn. What a waste. I wonder how George knew him. I wonder if his death is what turned George into such a prick. It’s possible: Grief does weird things to people. Like my mom after her third husband died. I swear a piece of her soul burned out there on that boat with him.
I snap photos and keep digging.
Nothing…nothing…I’m hungry… Maybe I should just put everything back and go make myself some frozen pizza—
Then I reach the bottom of the drawer and forget all about food. A single sheet of notebook paper with handwriting scrawled across it.
Dear George,
You are a selfish monster with no respect for other people, no regard for history, and a blatant indifference to the damage you’ve inflicted on our fragile environment.
If you were to disappear from this earth, we’d be all the better for it.
But you already know that, I’m sure. What I’m writing to tell you is something else.
Something I hope will keep you up at night and haunt your dreams.
I know what you did.
And I’m going to prove it, if it’s the last thing I do.
Barbara Patterson
I read it again, then again, forgetting how to breathe. A piece of evidence—real fucking evidence—where one of our suspects is threatening George.
And it was just sitting in George’s desk. Did the cops see the letter when they searched the room? Sure, it was in a locked drawer, but wouldn’t they have asked my mom to open it?
Just as I’m about to snap a photo of the letter, my mother appears in the doorway. Her eyes narrow as she spots me. “Harriet! What the hell are you doing in here?”
Crap.
I shove the letter into my pocket and slam the drawer shut—directly onto my fingertips.
“Fuck!” I yank my hand free and flap it in the air.
“Language!” my mother snaps.
“Shit!” I say, mostly just to annoy her.
She purses her lips. “Might I ask what you think you’re doing? Are you going through George’s desk?”
“Um. No?”
Her eyes narrow. “You just shut that drawer on your fingers. That wouldn’t have happened had it been closed.”
A fair point.
“Yeah, fine. I was looking for…a pen? I couldn’t find one in the kitchen, so I came in here and thought maybe he would have one and…um.” Jesus Christ; what am I even saying? I force a laugh, trying to play it off.
“I want you out of this office, Harriet. Now.”
I come out from behind the desk with my hands up. “I wasn’t in his office.”
She’s not amused. “You are still in his office.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. If you want me out so badly, can you please move so I can leave?”
She steps aside, and I scurry past her into the hallway. She joins me, pulling a key out of her pocket.
“What’s that?” I ask, even though I know exactly what it is.
The key to George’s office. Which she’s locking behind us.
Fuck.
She stalks off without another word.
I linger behind, slipping Patterson’s note out of my pocket and reading it again. She didn’t directly threaten him, but the tone of the note is still ominous. I picture George receiving it, fury boiling up inside him. Confronting Patterson outside the library late one night…
And then he wound up dead.
Nic and I are set to meet in the morning to question his friend Mindy about Patterson, but this new evidence has lit a fire under my ass.
I click a quick picture of the letter, text it to Nic, then call him as I walk back to my room.
“Hey,” Nic says, sounding breathless. “I can’t really talk—”
“Did you see what I texted you?” I ask as I settle back on the bed.
“Let me look.” A pause, then, “Damn! Where’d you find this?”
“I finally got into George’s office. Found it one of his desk drawers, but my mom caught me a second later and kicked me out before I could do much else.”
“Well, this is great,” he breathes. “Seems like our plan to talk to Mindy tomorrow was a good one.”
Pride bubbles up in my chest. “Thanks. But I was thinking—with this new evidence, why wait?”
He clears his throat. “Yeah, okay. I’m at my parents’ house. Barry’s here updating us on the case, but I think he’s wrapping up. Let me text her and see if she’s around.”
I hear clicking as Nic types. Voices rise in the background of the call, arguing in Italian.
Guilt nips at me; I should let him be. I’m not used to being around people so close with their families.
Ever since Maggie’s mom died back in high school, she and her dad have been like two ships passing in the night, and Steven’s parents are great, just independent.
His dad once had hip surgery without even telling him it was happening.
“No dice.” Nic’s back. “She just sat down to see a movie over in Pleasantville. That said, she’ll be at the library tomorrow morning.”
Not ideal, but there’s not much I can do about it. “Okay. We’ll meet there like we planned. Nine a.m.?”
“Sounds good.” He goes quiet. For a moment, the only sound is his breathing, soft and steady in my ear. Goose bumps prick along my arms. “We have two decent suspects now, don’t we, Baker? And it’s only been a few days. This is good. We make a good team.”
A grin spreads across my face. Is he warming up to me? Maybe even on his way to forgiving me?
“It is. It’s very good.” I pause, not ready for the conversation to end. “Oh! I almost forgot to tell you—I’m having dinner with Kozel tomorrow night.”
He pauses. “Oh. Great.”
He doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s great. In fact, he sounds like he’s mad.
Finally, I break the silence. “So that’s good, right?”
“Right. That’s…great. Hey—sorry, Harriet, but Barry’s at it again. I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
The line goes dead, and I’m left staring at the dark screen, wondering what just happened.