Authors: Merry Jones
‘My little sister was a rebel.’ He shook his head. ‘Even more than me. I – well, as you can see – I take a drink. My family doesn’t approve.’
Harper said nothing.
‘But Zina defied our parents. Always, from the time she was a little child. She had to do things her way. So stubborn.’ He chuckled. ‘There are seven of us – oops. Were seven of us. Now we are six.’
Harper nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’ Salih couldn’t have participated in Zina’s murder. Her loss clearly pained him.
‘We grew up in Britain. Our parents and three brothers are still there. But our business expanded to the United States, so some of us moved here. Zina was the youngest. She came over for school, and, right away, she was American. Watching
Friends
. Or
90210
. Or whatever. Getting ideas about men, about dating. Dressing in tight jeans, showing her body. She became a different person.’
He lifted the bottle, offered it to Harper. She accepted, took a polite sip. Passed it back.
‘Zina came to my house the night before she was killed.’ Harper thought he might want to know. ‘She was frightened.’
Salih’s eyebrows lifted. Interested.
‘She was working here, at the house. And she thought she was being followed.’
‘So she knew she was in danger?’
‘Well . . .’ How was she to explain that Zina thought she was being followed by a mythological creature? ‘I think working here stimulated her imagination. She thought she was being followed by a shape-shifter.’
‘A shape-shifter.’
‘Yes. A Nahual.’ Harper explained the Pre-Columbian belief in men who could change forms to guard their land and people.
When she finished, Salih blinked at her. ‘My sister believed such a thing was real? A – what did you call it? A Nahual? That this Nahual was chasing her?’
‘Zina was shaken. She thought something was chasing her. I don’t know why.’
‘A premonition.’
Harper didn’t comment.
‘Do you think that’s what it was? A premonition of her death?’
Harper hadn’t considered that possibility. Didn’t know how to answer. ‘I don’t know.’
‘They say these things happen. That people sometimes have a sign that the end is coming.’
Harper doubted it. ‘All I know is that she was frightened. Not herself. Up until then, Zina had seemed very . . . calm and realistic.’ She’d wanted to say very competitive and aloof. ‘Your sister was very strong willed. Very ambitious.’
‘Too strong willed. Too ambitious. Forget the Nahual or whatever you call it. Her stubbornness and ambitions are what got her killed.’
Her stubbornness and ambitions? Why would he say that? Was Salih acknowledging that there had been an honor killing? Admitting that Zina had been killed because she was too Westernized? ‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘If she hadn’t been here –’ Salih gazed into the trees – ‘if she hadn’t been working on that research position and insisting on that doctorate degree, if she’d just gone along as part of the family, helped with the business and gotten married like our parents wanted, she’d still be alive.’ His voice broke; he looked away.
‘You were close?’ Stupid question. Obviously, they’d been close. The man was here, where Zina’s body had been found, getting drunk and fighting tears.
His shoulders sagged. ‘She was my little sister.’
But Harper was confused. ‘There was a memorial for her at the university. You weren’t there – nobody from the family came.’
‘We have our own ways of mourning.’
Harper pictured family members laundering blood from their clothes after the honor killing. ‘Still. It might have helped to see how many people cared about her. You said you were close.’
‘I said
I
was close with Zina. I didn’t say my family was. My family is . . . We come from a different culture. I don’t expect you to understand. But my sister parted ways with it. It’s a long and bitter story. She defied our parents constantly. Whatever the line was, she crossed it. Many times. She embarrassed them publicly. She refused to participate in the family’s business enterprises. She even refused to marry the man to whom our father promised her.’
‘Well, of course she did, Salih. Nobody’s parents arrange marriages for them in America—’
‘My family is not American.’ Salih cut her off. ‘We were raised here and in Britain, but we are Syrian. Traditional and proud. Zina was part of our family. She knew our ways, but she resisted. When she turned her back on the family interests, my parents declared her dead. So there it is: why would they come to a memorial service for her when, to them, she’d already been dead for some time?’
Harper sat straight. ‘What do you mean they declared her “dead”?’ Had they issued her death sentence?
‘I mean “dead”. They cut off all ties. Including funds, even for education. I’m the only one who even talked to her. I kept urging her to make amends. To perform symbolic acts of humility and penance. I did it secretly, but I suspect my mother knows – knew.’
Again, he took a drink, passed the bottle to Harper.
‘Who do you think killed her?’ Harper took a sip, watching his eyes.
‘That’s a question, isn’t it?’ Salih shifted positions. ‘Trust me, I think about it every minute. About who killed her . . .’ He lifted the bottle, gulped booze. ‘I know several who might have done it. Including close members of my family.’
Oh God. He suspected an honor killing, too? ‘Are you talking about an honor killing?’ Had she just said that out loud?
Salih didn’t answer, didn’t seem surprised or offended by the question. He took another long drink, looked at Harper with a resigned smile. ‘Honestly, you want to hear the truth? Whoever did it, my sister understood why. And whoever did it, no one else will ever know.’
By the time Harper returned to her Ninja, Salih had put away much of what was left in the Cutty Sark bottle. And among other things, he had confided that he believed his family was behind Zina’s murder, that despite living in the West, they still held to the old ways of their heritage. His aunt had wanted a divorce and had been stabbed to death years before – no doubt at his uncle’s hand. Before Harper had thought about the time, the sun had dipped to the horizon.
Salih promised he was perfectly fine and able to drive, but Harper insisted that he leave his car parked on the main road where it was. She was sober, having swallowed only a few sips of liquor, but Salih was slurring his words and teetering, in no shape to get behind the wheel. Harper insisted on taking him to his hotel. She dropped him at the Embassy Inn on Dryden Road, and, as darkness fell, watched him wobble inside. Then, she headed home.
Oh dear. Hank. What was she supposed to say to him? Maybe she should call and let him know she was all right. Then again, if he was ready to break up their marriage, he ought to get used to not knowing how she was. A hot pang ripped through her belly, into her chest. Was Hank really doing this? Why? ‘Why’ didn’t matter, she scolded herself. It wasn’t about reasons or arguments; it was about feelings. Needs. And she couldn’t make Hank need her or feel for her. Maybe Leslie was right that his healing required him to rediscover himself. Maybe his fall had damaged not just his bones and brain, but his ego. Before she’d met him, Hank had been quite a player. Maybe he needed to prove that he could still be one. That he was still hot, could still score with the ladies – well, if so, if that was what he needed, they were over for sure. Done. No way she’d stick around for that.
Cut it out, she told herself. She had no reason to think that Hank wanted other women. She was imagining things, needed to stop.
Harper revved the engine, sped down Dryden to Hoy, along Hoy to Campus Road, Campus to East. East to Thurston. Along the way, she passed Homecoming events, parties in transition from happy hour to Halloween Eve bashes. Something was going on at the Alumni House. Music pounded out of fraternities, sororities. Dorms. Harper kept moving, zipping past. Going home.
Finally, she pulled into the driveway. Saw the house dark. The Jeep gone.
Damn.
Harper got off her bike and stood, arms folded, feeling the chill of the night, dreading going into the empty house.
‘Hey, Mrs Jennings!’
She turned, saw a kid from the frat next door. Dressed as a chicken. ‘We still got some beer – come on over!’
Harper waved. Thanked him and backed off. Turned away and headed toward the house. The last thing she wanted was to hang out with drunk college kids in Halloween costumes.
Or no. Maybe not the last thing.
Inside, she turned on the hall light, took out her phone and checked her messages. Nothing more from Burke, thank God. But Hank had called. Once. An hour ago.
Harper hesitated, afraid to hear the message. What was wrong with her? Why was she scared of a damned telephone message? Squaring her shoulders, she braced herself and played it back.
‘Damn. Hoppa. Answer.’ That was all. Not, ‘Come home. I’m worried.’ Not, ‘I’m sorry. I love you.’ Just a curse word and a command.
She played it again. His voice sounded strained. Hank was upset.
She pushed the ‘send’ button, returning his call. Waited, breathing unevenly for him to pick up. Heard his phone ringing in the kitchen.
Lord. Hank hadn’t taken his phone? Where had he gone without it? And when was he coming back?
Or more to the point:
was
he coming back?
Harper closed her eyes, imagining their bedroom. His half of the closet empty. His razor missing from the bathroom sink. No. He wouldn’t have moved out. Not so suddenly. It hadn’t – couldn’t have – come to that yet.
Even so, she didn’t want to go upstairs. Damn Where had he gone? She thought of calling Vicki and Trent to see if Hank was there. But if he weren’t, she’d have to explain why she didn’t know where he was. And she wasn’t ready to do that.
Cursing, Harper flung her phone into her bag, stomped into the kitchen. Her stomach felt hollow; she’d been drinking but not eating. She opened the refrigerator, took out an apple, bit into it. Gagged. Her stomach was empty and rumbling but her body rejected food, refused to eat. Fine. She opened a cabinet, found the Halloween candy. Ripped open a mini-bag of M&Ms, poured them into her mouth. No gagging. Her body didn’t object, accepted chocolate. Grabbing a second bagful, she didn’t know what to do with herself, where to be. She couldn’t stay in the kitchen. Couldn’t stay anywhere. Walked in circles until she finally went back outside, on to the front porch.
She watched the street for a while, saw cars drive by, none of them Hank’s.
The music from next store had quieted; it was dark now, and their post-game party was over. Alumni and their wives had gone; pledges were filling trash bags and folding tables, cleaning up. A few couples in Halloween costumes lingered in the yard, drinking and smoking dope among the plastic tombstones and hanging skeletons. A guy in a hoodie darted across the lawn, activating a mechanical witch who cackled and danced.
Harper wandered off the porch, down to the sidewalk, not ready to go back into her empty house. The night air was brisk. Harper shivered as a gust of wind picked up leaves, swirling them around. Maybe she should reconsider calling Vicki and Trent. She could call just to say ‘hi’, not even mention Hank. If he were there, they’d tell her, wouldn’t they?
Harper stopped mid-thought. Something was out there in the trees – running. An animal? No – a man. He wore a blazer and khakis, and, though he didn’t seem to notice her, he was running right towards her.
Harper froze, gaping as he sped past. It had to be the darkness. She had to be mistaken. She turned, walking after him, staring into the night long after he was out of sight.
He’d been moving fast, she reminded herself. And it was dark; she hadn’t gotten a good look. Even so, she could almost swear she’d recognized him. She was almost positive it was the guy Burke had said was following him: Rick Owens, from their detail in Iraq.
But that made no sense. Obviously, it hadn’t been Rick. Why would Rick Owens be hightailing it out of the woods behind her house in the middle of the night? In Ithaca? Burke had colored her thinking; she was taking on his paranoia.
The wind was picking up. Harper went back to the house, hearing sirens nearby, wondered what college pranks had gone too far this time. Inside, she changed into flannel PJs and listened for Hank’s car. She went downstairs to make a sandwich. Found a can of tuna, a half-empty jar of mayo. A lone bagel, not too stale to toast. Mindlessly, she went through the motions of preparing food, on alert for the sounds of tires on the driveway.
Waiting, she chewed tuna. Swallowed beer. Thought of Salih and Zina. Her family alienated enough to declare her dead. Even to kill her. Thought of the relics to get her mind off of that.
Finally, headlights flared through the windows. Harper heard a car in the driveway and couldn’t help it. She ran to the door, expecting to see Hank climbing out of his Jeep.
But the car wasn’t Hank’s. It had red and blue lights on top, and letters on the side, spelling POLICE.
And the person walking along the path to the house wasn’t her husband. It was the homicide detective, Charlene Rivers.
Hank? Oh God. Something had happened to Hank – Rivers was in homicide. Had Hank been – oh God . . .
Harper couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She watched Rivers’ approach in slow motion, through a haze. This wasn’t real. The detective wasn’t actually there. Neither was Harper. Her mind was tricking her. Snipers fired; she felt the whizz of bullets flying past her cheek. Heard men scream. Smelled smoke as Rivers took a step, then another, wading through thickened air. And then, ever so slowly, Rivers smiled.
Wait. She smiled? How could Rivers smile at a woman whose husband had just been killed?
‘Good evening, Mrs Jennings.’ The words were dim, distant. The smile disappeared. Rivers kept coming. Spoke again, asking a question.
Harper’s heart raged against her ribs, threatened to burst through.
Rivers stood facing her, watching her. Making words.
Harper strained to hear her over the roaring sounds of her blood.
‘Mrs Jennings? You all right?’
She moved her head up and down, yes. Hugged herself, shaking.