Chapter Twenty-One Harriet
Chapter Twenty-One
Harriet
Kozel is stumbling as we leave the restaurant, so I steer him away from his car and into an Uber.
“I really am sorry, Har,” he says. He stops by the open door of the car and turns back with his lips puckered.
Is he trying to kiss me? Jesus. “Time to get to bed.”
“But Harriet—”
I push him away. “I’ll see you later, Adam.”
He blinks blearily, then climbs into the waiting car. As the Uber pulls away from the curb, his window lowers. “I’ll call you,” he shouts.
I give him a thumbs-up, thankful that he probably won’t remember saying that in the morning. In fact, my hope is that he won’t remember most of what he said once we paid our bill and moved to a quiet corner at the bar.
For someone so desperate to explain himself, his reason for ghosting me was extremely mediocre: all if I’d told you I was leaving, it would have made it impossible to actually go. Blah blah fucking blah. Basically, he was too big of a wimp to tell me he didn’t think we had a future together.
But once that was finally over, I got some good stuff. Some very good stuff. Unfortunately, Kozel was still sober enough to say it was all off the record, but even so, it confirmed what Nic and I suspected: There are other people who might have killed George, and the cops ignored it.
Apparently, he and his partner wanted to keep digging rather than press charges against Sara, but they were overruled by Sharkey and some other higher-up. The next thing he and his partner knew, the case was pushed through to the prosecutor, and Sara was formally charged.
Kozel told me their decision was political, that they wanted the case shut as quickly as possible, but he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—tell me why. Which begs the question: What the hell is the LIPD trying to hide?
I asked who he and Jones had on their list of suspects, but he wouldn’t give me any names, even after I plied him with yet another glass of wine. Said he’d get fired. Which I suppose is true.
Once I’m in an Uber, I text Nic to fill him in, but he still hasn’t replied by the time I get home. The house is dark, my mother either out (unlikely) or drugged up in her bedroom (far more likely).
I make my way to my room, drop my bag onto the bed, and head into the bathroom. I’m halfway through my skincare routine when the sound of glass shattering breaks the silence of the night.
I freeze, cotton pad halfway to my face.
What the hell was that? I grab my phone off the counter and shoot off a text to my mom.
Was that you?
I wait and wait, but she doesn’t respond. I call her, but it rings out to voicemail.
My face is white in the mirror: a bunny caught in the headlights of a car. I should call 911. But what if it’s nothing? Or should I text Maggie? She always knows what to do. But what if she insists on coming over and there’s someone out there? She could end up hurt. Or dead.
I’m staring at the phone, weighing my options, when a text from Nic appears.
How was dinner?
I hit the Call button.
“For someone who claims to hate talking on the phone,” he says by way of greeting, “you sure love calling people.”
“I think there’s someone in the house,” I say in one breath.
“You know—wait. What?” he says, voice shifting from teasing to concerned.
“I’m in the bathroom, and I just heard a big crash down the hall—” I choke on the word.
“What kind of crash? Did you call the cops?”
“No. What if it’s nothing? It could just be my mother, stumbling around. Or, I don’t know. Something that fell off a wall. I could be overreacting.”
“I’m coming over.”
“No, no. It’s fine!” I say, even though I’d give anything for him to be here right now. But—again—what if I’m wrong?
Or worse. What if I’m right?
“I’m already out the door. I’ll be there in seven minutes. Stay on the phone.”
I hurry into my bedroom and press my ear against the door.
It’s quiet. I put my hand on the knob. If I go out there, there’s probably less chance of something happening to me than to someone coming in cold, right?
I can be quiet, whereas Nic’s going to drive up in a car, headlights and all. Which means I should go out there.
“Don’t leave your room,” he barks, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
His tone irks me. “Stop being so bossy.”
“You need to call the police, Harriet.”
“Fine. But first I’m going to take a quick look. Just check out the situation.”
“Harriet! Stay in your room!”
I’ve never been good at following orders. I drop the phone by my side and crack the door, edging my way into the dark hall.
“Mom?” I hiss.
The sound of the ocean is my only reply.
The sound of the ocean… Why can I hear the ocean so clearly from here?
It takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from the direction of George’s office. My throat goes dry. What if the sound I heard was his window breaking?
Nic’s voice screams from the phone. “Harriet? What the hell are you doing?”
I put it up to my ear. “I’m in the hall.”
“Christ, Harriet. Go back to your bedroom! I’ll be there in four—”
I drop the phone again. Take a step forward. Another. Then I hear it: papers rustling, a cough through the door.
My heart stops. There’s someone inside George’s office.
What if they find me out here? I should go back to my room. But what if they’re in there, stealing valuable evidence?
I bring my phone back up. “Someone’s in George’s office.”
“Go back to your room!” Nic shouts in my ear. “I’m calling 911.”
“Absolutely not! What if they’re stealing something that would clear Sara?”
“Harriet. Do not—I repeat—do not do whatever you’re thinking about doing. I’ll be there in two minutes. Could you please—Jesus! I just blew through a red light. You’re being an idiot!”
“I gotta go.” I hang up and take a step toward the office. “Hello?” I call.
The shuffling inside stops, and silence hangs in the air, thick, suffocating, winding down my throat. Then a loud scrape, the roar of the ocean, a thud, a grunt of pain.
And footsteps. Coming straight toward me.
All the fear I’ve been pushing down rises, and I take off back to my room, slamming the door. I lock it behind me and lean against it, the pounding of my heart in my ears all I can hear.
Nic’s right. I’m an idiot.
Once my breathing slows, I press myself back against the door.
Silence.
Then my phone buzzes, and I jump about twelve feet into the air.
I’m here. Front door locked—how do I get inside??
I direct him to the spare key, typing fast, misspelling words.
Found it. I’m in. Where are you?
My bedroom. Back hallway, last door on the right. Be careful
I brought a weapon
I’m typing a response when there’s a soft knock against the door.
“It’s me.”
I twist the lock, crack the door, and there he is. Nic, his green eyes tight with worry. He came all this way to help me. No one’s ever done something like that for me before.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a low voice.
“Yeah. Did you hear anything?”
He raises a judgmental eyebrow. “No. Your little hallway stunt must have scared them off.”
“I didn’t want them stealing evidence!”
“You could have gotten yourself killed, Harriet.” He sounds decidedly unhappy at that prospect.
“You’d miss me, huh?” I say as I join him out in the hallway.
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.” A silver metal object resembling a hammer dangles from his hand.
I point to it. “Is that a cooking mallet?”
“Yeah. I told you I brought a weapon.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Harriet?” My mother stands a dozen feet away wearing a long nightgown, ghostly in the shadowy hall. Of course. Now she wakes up. Classic. She rubs her eyes. “What’s going on? Who is that?”
She’s going to flip if she realizes it’s Nic Allbright.
As if reading my mind, he ducks behind me.
“My friend…Sam. From high school. You remember him.” I’m banking on the fact that she barely noticed my friends back then.
“Of course,” she says, brushing a hand through her hair. “Hello, Sam.”
Nic raises a hand in greeting. “Uh, yeah. Hey.”
She flicks the hall lights on, the sudden brightness blinding.
“I thought I heard shouting,” she says. “Was that you?”
“There were noises. From George’s office.”
“Noises? But it’s locked.”
“There was this big crash… I tried to call you, but you didn’t pick up, so Ni—I mean, Sam came over. We think someone broke in.”
“What?”
“I called the cops,” Nic offers.
“Where’s the key?” I ask her. “We need to get in there.”
“Absolutely not!” she cries. “I’m not letting you get yourself killed!”
“Mom—” I’m interrupted by the wail of a siren out on the driveway.
She twists. “That must be the police!” She disappears around the bend of the hallway.
“Are you okay?” Nic asks softly. His eyes are worried. Soft.
All of a sudden, I feel like crying.
I run my tongue along my teeth a few times before I respond. “All good. Let’s go make sure that woman doesn’t scare off the cops.”