Fragmented (28 page)

“I didn’t know if it was real or not, I told you that!” I huffed.

“But this is a good thing, right?” she said with a hopeful lilt. “Sure, some creep has been following you around, but at least now you know your brain wasn’t making it up.”

“Making it up? You make it sound like this is all a game.”

Despite the bite in my tone, Raleigh didn’t back down. “I’m sorry I don’t have the right vocabulary. But it’s not like I’ve ever had to deal with something like this before.”

“I’m so sorry my mental illness is inconveniencing you,” I barked.

“That’s not what I mean at all, and you know it. Why are you trying to pick a fight?”

“Why do I have to tell you everything that’s going on in my life?”

“Because I thought you cared about me!” she said, her voice finally rising to meet my own volume. “Because you shouldn’t want there to be any secrets between us.”

“I didn’t want you to worry about me,” I reasoned. “You have to deal with enough challenges on a daily basis without me piling on top of that.”

“You shouldn’t keep things from me because you think I can’t handle it, Harper. I don’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else.”

“This was a bad idea.” I tugged at my hair.

“What is? Us?” she challenged.

I didn’t directly answer her question. “Maybe it’s a good thing Thanksgiving’s coming up. Maybe we need some time apart.”

Her bottom lip quivered, then stiffened with resolve. “If that’s what you really think.”

I shrugged helplessly. I had no idea what I thought. I was blindsided by the trajectory of our argument.

“I should probably be going,” she announced, making a move for her wheelchair. I went to help her, but she denied my assistance. “I’ve got this,” she said coolly.

The chill in her tone made reality set in. I’d screwed up.

She remained stubbornly self-sufficient for the remainder of the evening. She wouldn’t let me help her get back into her chair, she wouldn’t let me help her pack up her backpack, and she wouldn’t let me help her open the door and leave my apartment.

I stared at the backside of my apartment door for a long time, frozen with indecision. I should have gone after her to apologize. Instead, I called back Mr. Henderson.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Mr. Henderson, it’s Harper. Raleigh said you called?” Her name got caught in my throat, but I managed to finish the sentence.

“Does the name August Moreland sound familiar?”

“No. I don’t think I know anyone named August.”

“I didn’t think so. He seems to be a career criminal—in and out of jail every few years.”

“And you think he’s the one calling me and harassing me?” I guessed.

“All signs seem to point to yes. We just have to bring him in for questioning.”

“How confident are you that he’s the one? Give me a percentage.”

“It’s in the upper nineties.”

That seemed pretty sure to me.

“Do you want to be there when we bring him in?” Mr. Henderson asked. “I could have you on the other side of the interrogation window. He’d never have to see you.”

I didn’t want Mr. Henderson going to all of this trouble for me. It all felt like too much.

“He committed a crime, Harper,” he said as if reading my thoughts or interpreting my silence. “Don’t feel sorry for him.”

“Okay,” I finally whispered out. “When should I come down there?”

+ + +

Early the next morning, I arrived at the Chicago police district where Mr. Henderson was a desk sergeant. He’d been a regular beat cop until Sasha’s birth. After that, Mrs. Henderson had demanded he take himself out of the direct line of fire. Being in the presence of uniformed police officers had always unsettled me. Maybe it was because Memphis city police had been the ones who’d shown up at my house and had taken my mother away when I was barely nine. Or maybe it wasn’t just me—maybe everyone felt this way. Regardless, it had taken me months to stabilize my blood pressure around Mr. Henderson, and even now he still made me nervous.

Mr. Henderson met me at the front entrance and led me directly back to an observation room where I would have the opportunity to see the man who’d allegedly been harassing me. August Moreland was a short man, nearly as wide as he was tall. His face was frozen in a permanent leer, and even with a thick slab of one-way mirrored glass separating us, I still felt uneasy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growled. “I don’t know anyone by the name of Harper Dawkins.”

“He knows my name?” I hissed to Mr. Henderson.

My employer frowned. “I’m sorry, Harper. It’s a little give-and-take in order to get these guys to spill their guts.”

I chewed on my bottom lip and continued to stare into the interrogation room.

The detective on the other side of the glass wall slid a stack of paper in front of the suspect. “So you never sent this text message on October 10th?”

August Moreland tilted his head towards the page. “I can’t see what this says; I need my reading glasses.”

The detective pulled the paper back and audibly sighed. “So you never sent Ms. Dawkins a text that read, ‘stop clowning around,’ followed by an e-mail to her university account with pictures of a pumpkin?

The man’s features squished even tighter together like a shar pei puppy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is crazy.”

“Your cell phone records, which we’ve obtained with a warrant, would suggest otherwise.”

“That’s not possible.”

“And why not?”

“Because I never sent that text,” he continued to deny.

“Not from your personal cell phone at least,” the detective noted. “I’m guessing you bought a pre-paid phone and dumped it afterwards. But you
did
send her an e-mail from a terminal at the Chicago Public Library just moments later.”

The man’s hands began to visibly shake. “It was just a joke. Someone hired me to follow this girl around and scare her a little. That’s all.”

“Who hired you?”

“I don’t know. I never met them. It was always over the phone or e-mail.”

“How did they find you?”

“I found their ad on Craigslist. I’d been out of work for a while, and I was just looking for odd jobs to make ends meet.”

“Get someone online right away,” the detective barked out. “See if the advertisement is still active. And I want a warrant to obtain all of Mr. Moreland’s computer and phone records.”

August Moreland looked spooked. “I sent a couple of texts from a burner phone, and I e-mailed her a picture of a pumpkin. I swear that’s all I did.”

“What did the advertisement specifically say?” the detective asked.

“I can’t remember the specifics—only that they were willing to pay good cash for what seemed like hardly any work. It’s a bitch trying to find steady work. A man’s gotta eat,” he defended himself.

I touched my hand to Mr. Henderson’s wrist. “Ask him about Ruby. How does he know Ruby?”

Mr. Henderson looked curious, but he picked up a phone in our observation room and directed my question to the detective in the interrogation room.

“What can you tell me about Ruby?” the detective asked.

“Who?”

“Ruby,” the detective repeated.

August Moreland shook his head. “I don’t know what or who that is.”

Mr. Henderson turned to me. “Any more questions?”

I continued to stare at the man with sweat beaded at his brow. “No,” I decided. “I’ve seen all I care to.”

Mr. Henderson led me outside of the observation room and down a long corridor to the heart of the police station. He ushered me into a chair on the opposite side of his desk.

“He’s lying, you know.”

“About what?”

“He said all he did was text and e-mail me. But unless he’s got someone else working with him, someone broke into the trunk of my car and took that pumpkin. And someone must have been following me to know that there was a pumpkin in the trunk.” I bit my tongue. There was so much more wrong than a simple text and e-mailed attachment. 

“I’m sorry if seeing him upset you, but I’ve always thought it best to confront your fears.”

I let out a long breath to regain control over my emotions. “What happens next?”

“We’ve got enough on him to charge him and keep him in jail. He’ll have a preliminary trial to set bail. If he makes bail, he’s free to go. If that happens, I’ll get the paperwork started on a restraining order to make sure he doesn’t come after you between now and the trial.”

“Can we do that paperwork right now, even before we find out if he gets to walk or not?”

“Of course.”

Mr. Henderson retrieved a file on his computer and printed out a few sheets of paper from his desk printer. He grabbed a pen from a coffee mug with Sasha’s picture on it and began to fill out the blanks on the forms.

“Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?” he asked. “Pam and I would love to have you over for dinner. She makes a mean pecan pie.”

“I really don’t want to impose anymore than I already have.”

Mr. Henderson stopped writing to address me. “Harper, it’s not an imposition. You’ve been a joy to have around the house. Sasha adores you.”

“Sasha makes it easy, and you and Mrs. Henderson have been really great, even before all of this stuff started happening.”

“What about family?” he pressed. “I know you at least have a mom.”

I hesitated on my response. “I have … an abbreviated family. They’re all back in Memphis though.”

“Maybe getting away for a little while would be a good thing.”

“You might be right.” I stood up, ready to leave the police station. “Do you need anything else from me?”

Mr. Henderson shook his head. “Not right now. But I’ll be in contact soon.” He stood from his desk to see me out. “If it doesn’t work out with Memphis, remember that you always have a place with us.”

I gave him a rare hug. “Thank you, Mr. H. For everything.”

I left the police station that afternoon feeling more unsettled than ever. August Moreland had admitted to sending the texts and e-mailed photo, and despite his insistence that he’d only contacted me once, he was probably responsible for what had happened at my apartment and for the feeling that I was being watched—but that still didn’t explain Ruby.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next morning, I left Chicago. With Raleigh and me fighting, more than ever I didn’t want to be by myself. The Henderson’s had invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner, and I probably could have crashed Kelley’s family get-together in the suburbs, but I’d still have to return to my apartment afterwards where I’d be left alone with my thoughts.

Olive and Jerret were more than ecstatic about me coming to visit for the short holiday, so I had booked the train ticket nearly the moment after I’d left the Chicago police station. My welcome back to Memphis the second time around was far more festive of a homecoming. I spotted Olive and Jerret even before I got off the train. Jerret struggled to handle a bunch of helium-filled balloons tied to a fistful of multi-colored ribbons. It was a windy day, and the balloons pressed together as if trying to use their combined strength to break free. Olive raised a poster board sign above her head. The wind caught it as I hopped off the train and the sign bent backwards, but not before I could read the message: Welcome Home, Harpoon.

Olive crushed me in one of her patented hugs that threatened to crack a few of my ribs. I lost my grip on my wheeled luggage and it toppled over on its side. My uncle, far less demonstrative, stood back a few feet, looking unsure of himself.

“Jerret,” Olive barked. “Get in here and hug your niece.”

Not soon after her command, two more arms—large and strong—encircled me, joining in on the group hug. I closed my eyes and tucked my head into someone’s shoulder and allowed myself this moment to enjoy the familial affection I’d been missing for so many years.

Jerret was my mother’s younger brother by a few years. I hadn’t seen him since my high school graduation, but time had treated him well. In his late forties, he could have passed as a decade younger. He’d dyed his hair pitch black and wore it heavily palm-oiled, shaved at the sides and longer at the top, swept back in a rockabilly ducktail. His Buddy Holly black frames were prescription, and his face was free of facial hair. He wore his printed short-sleeved shirts buttoned to the top with the cuffs rolled up high on his beefy but muscled arms. He had a single tattoo in the center of his right arm—an old Sailor Jerry-inspired anchor with a bluebird wrapped around it. He used to flex his arm to make the bluebird sing. I’d been too old to appreciate the trick and had always found it embarrassing in my youth rather than endearing.