Stories We Never Told

by Sonja Yoerg

  She pours herself a glass of water and drains it. She stares at her laptop as if it is rigged to explode.

  It’s not just about Miles, she tells herself. It’s about Jeff.

  It’s about Harlan.

  Jackie takes several deep breaths and opens the laptop. The screen lights up, and she follows the timeline past the period during which Miles and Harlan were presumably having sex. The red line drops down to eighty, seventy, sixty-five beats per minute. The blue activity line falls to zero.

  At 8:00 p.m. Miles was asleep. And he stayed that way until eleven thirty, exactly when he said Antonio called him.

  Everything he told her is corroborated. Because he never left Harlan’s house, he had nothing to do with Jeff’s death.

  Jackie moves to the window overlooking the backyard. Wet clods of leaves cover the central path, huddle under shrubs. Bare tree branches twitch in the wind. Above, clouds skitter across the dull sky. Stress has left ragged snippets of thought clogging her reasoning, but as she absorbs this barren scene, her mind clears, a patch of blue, and she remembers saying goodbye to Jeff, getting in her car. She remembers the figure.

  Was it Harlan? He would’ve seen Jeff hold her. Kiss her.

  Leave.

  He could have followed Jeff, killed him, tossed him in the river. Returned home.

  Slipped into bed.

  A chill starts on the back of her neck and spreads down her spine. Jackie turns from the window and goes to the back door to check the dead bolt, then to the front to do the same, and checks the door cam.

  What is she doing? This is madness, the idea that Harlan could have murdered Jeff. Harlan might be more controlling and vindictive than Jackie could have imagined, but murder is an order of magnitude more serious than inciting her jealousy, tampering with her data, or even seducing her husband. She was right to warn Nasira and Miles, but the idea that Harlan, a man she dated for five years, would attack and kill Jeff because of a kiss strains the bounds of credulity.

  Stick with the facts, Jackie.

  She retrieves her phone from the kitchen counter, scrolls to find Detective Cash’s number. She’ll let him know about the MedFit data, but there’s no point in telling him about a shadow.

  CHAPTER 28

  Four o’clock and still Christmas Eve. Detective Cash didn’t pick up when Jackie called, so she left a message about the MedFit data and texted him a screenshot of the graph.

  Jackie opens a bottle of red—a very good rioja she and Miles had been saving for the holidays. It is the holidays, so why the hell not? She swirls her glass, a concession to lacking the energy to decant it, and breathes it in. Earth and berries—blackberries, maybe. And alcohol, that’s the main thing. She takes a sip. It’s so damn good.

  Too anxious to sit, she goes to the window. The light is draining from the sky, and indigo shadows pool in the corners, under trees. A flash of red in the shrub below the window snags her attention. A cardinal. It’s only three feet from her, and she can discern each overlapping feather, the perfectly drawn black mask encircling a shining black eye. Tears flood her eyes.

  Jackie raises her glass to her lips, and the cardinal flies off.

  Her phone vibrates on the counter. Jackie thinks it might be her sister. Grace called yesterday and left a message about plans for Christmas day, but Jackie couldn’t imagine relating the news about Miles and Harlan, about Jeff, over the phone. Not to Grace.

  Jackie crosses the room, reads the notification on her phone screen. Nasira. Apprehension coils inside her; if it’s bad news, she can’t cope with it.

  “Hi, Nasira.”

  “Hi, Jackie. Am I disturbing you?”

  “Not at all. Is everything all right?”

  A pause. “Yeah. No.” Another pause. “I was just thinking about you.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “Thought I’d check in. You probably have plans—friends or whatever.”

  Jackie regards the wine bottle on the counter. “Only if you count my good buddy rioja.” Nasira laughs. “Christmas is always at my sister’s in Staunton, but Christmas Eve, Miles and I, we, I mean, I—” She swallows around the lump in her throat. “Definitely no plans. None whatsoever.”

  “In that case, do you want to come over? Because it’s a party over here.” Her voice is strained with manufactured cheer.

  Tears clog Jackie’s throat. One kind gesture and she’s unglued. “I’d love to. I’ll bring rioja and another friend of his.”

  “Perfect. I’m at 645 Randall, first floor.”

  Jackie cringes as she recalls the countless times she drove by the place. “See you soon.”

  “Great.” Nasira’s voice drops. “You’ll get through this, Jackie.”

  What choice do I have? “Thanks, Nasira.”

  Jackie pockets her phone, corks the wine, puts it in a wine carrier with another bottle, then fills a tote bag with an assortment of finger food: cheese, olives, artichoke hearts, chocolate. She contemplates changing into something more festive than the pilled navy sweater she has on, but worries her burst of energy might not last. The thunderhead of grief looming overhead will follow her to Nasira’s house, she is certain, but if she pauses here, where Miles’s presence is palpable, the cloud will envelop and suffocate her.

  As she zips up her jacket, her phone trembles in her pocket. She pulls it out, figuring it’s Nasira or her sister, and is surprised to see it’s Detective Cash. “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, Dr. Strelitz.”

  “It’s okay. You got my message?”

  “Yes, and it’s useful information for us.”

  “I thought it might be.”

  “And I appreciate you sharing it.”

  “Sure.” The tenor of the conversation feels surreal. They are talking about exonerating evidence in a murder case involving her husband and her ex-boyfriend, but judging by the tone, they could be swapping turkey roasting tips.

  A rustling sound, like he’s moving papers. “I also wanted to tell you that unless something changes, we no longer consider you a suspect. And before you ask, I can’t say why just yet.”

  “Oh, that’s good news.” The knowledge of her own innocence had partially shielded her from anxiety over being a suspect. Now she’s relieved. After all, people go down for crimes they don’t commit. “Thanks for telling me.” She catches her reflection in the mirror over the entry table and tucks her hair inside her coat collar. “Well, merry Christmas, Detective Cash. If you’re celebrating.”

  “Aaron.”

  “Aaron. But then it’s Jackie.”

  He laughs softly, an easy, rolling laugh. “Okay, Jackie, merry Christmas.” She’s about to end the call when he speaks again. “One last thing. I could be wrong, but I get the feeling you’re holding back on telling me something.”

  Given how little they’ve spoken, this intuition surprises her. She’s tempted to deny it, but the truth will, at worst, embarrass her. At this point, that doesn’t even rate. “Nothing factual, nothing you’d consider evidence, or that would make sense to anyone else. It barely makes sense to me.”

  “Well, I’d like to hear about it. You never know. Call me next week and we’ll set a time.”

  “Sure. I’m around.”

  “Great. Try to have a nice Christmas, Jackie.”

  “I will. You too.”

  Nasira lets Jackie in, and they share an embrace limited by the bags Jackie is carrying. Her postdoc is wearing sweatpants and a plaid flannel shirt, and Jackie is glad she didn’t change.

  Nasira relieves Jackie of the tote bag. “I’m glad you’re here. I was worried you wouldn’t come.” The vulnerability in her expression makes her seem younger than she is, almost childlike. Although what Jackie herself is going through is momentous, Nasira is suffering under the weight of her own troubles. It’s a mistake, Jackie thinks, to compare your interior world with someone else’s exterior.

  “I need a friend, too.”

  Nasira smiles, her eyes sh
ining. “Well, welcome to my very humble home.”

  She leads the way through the living room to the galley kitchen, which opens onto it. The place is a perfect reflection of its tenant: elegant and enigmatic. It isn’t clear whether the minimalistic styling is due to lack of time to decorate or a preferred look. Either way, Nasira seems to have few belongings, but what she has is carefully chosen. The living room is furnished with only a long saddle-brown leather ottoman, two red sling-back chairs, and a deep-pile oatmeal rug begging for bare feet. The walls are bare except for a large hanging, a mosaic of richly colored fabrics, mostly in blue, green, and teal, embellished with beads and sequins.

  Nasira follows Jackie’s gaze. “It’s made of wedding saris.”

  “Stunning.” Jackie unpacks the wine carrier. “But saris are not your culture, right?”

  “No, they aren’t. I got it on eBay.”

  Jackie shows Nasira the opened bottle. “Okay to start with this? I can vouch for it.”

  “Looks delicious.” She transfers wineglasses from the other counter, and Jackie fills them. The women raise their glasses.

  Jackie says, “What do we toast? Do you celebrate Christmas?”

  “My family is Muslim, not extremely devout, but certainly more than I am—hence the wine.” Nasira pauses. “Let’s forget all that for now, anyway.”

  Jackie nods and touches her glass to Nasira’s. “Cheers, then.”

  Nasira smiles. “Cheers.” They sip the wine. “Wow, this is tasty.”

  While Nasira retrieves food from the refrigerator, Jackie wanders through an arched opening into the dining area, which has windows on two sides and a set of French doors. The roller shades are drawn on the windows, and a white linen curtain covers the doors. Jackie notices the double dead bolts and remembers this is where the burglar entered—Harlan, if her hunch is correct. She’ll mention it to Detective Cash when she sees him, along with all her other suspicions.

  Nasira says, “Mind if I put out your food with what I’ve got?”

  “Go ahead. Let me help you.” She crosses the room and stops to inspect a photo on a small side table. A younger Nasira, perhaps sixteen, standing beside a handsome man a head taller and several years older. The man has his arm across Nasira’s shoulders, and they are tipping their heads together. The family resemblance is strong.

  Nasira enters the dining room. “I’ve got a platter in here somewhere—” She spots Jackie viewing the photo.

  “I didn’t mean to snoop,” Jackie says.

  Nasira is still. “It’s okay. That’s Ramal, my brother. He died eight years ago, in Syria.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  She stares at the far window, at the blank shade. “The war had only just started. There was no way to know the danger. He was on his way to class at the university when the artillery fire started.”

  Nasira stands in profile, utterly fragile in that moment, an exquisite, crazed piece of glass. One misplaced touch and she will shatter.

  The pain we carry, Jackie thinks. Everything we do not say, everything we bury deep, shapes and controls us, in the best and the worst ways.

  She reaches out, places her fingertips on Nasira’s arm. “That’s so terrible, Nasira. You must miss him.”

  “I do. For my family, the loss is so large, sometimes it seems like all we have.” Nasira meets Jackie’s gaze, and Jackie sees how hollowed out her cheeks are, how thin she’s become. “I don’t mean to be morose.”

  “You’re not. Don’t worry.” Jackie tips her head toward the food on the counter. “We both should eat. I can’t remember my last decent meal.”

  In the kitchen, Nasira hands Jackie a plate. “I made the hummus, but everything else is from Whole Foods.”

  “I forgive you.”

  They fill their plates, carry them to the living room, and chat about food—favorite appetizers, Trader Joe’s finds, and their most impressive ten-minute meals. Jackie laughs, and the sound surprises her. They finish the wine, and Jackie makes a trip to the kitchen to open another. With the shades drawn against the world, she feels safer and more whole than she has in too long. Maybe she should ask Nasira if she can sleep on the fuzzy rug tonight—or forever.

  Jackie refills their glasses, noting that color has returned to Nasira’s cheeks.

  Nasira leans back in the sling chair and crosses her legs. “Can I ask what’s going with the investigation into your friend’s death? Or don’t you want to talk about it?”

  Jackie notes this is a back door into a conversation about Miles, and again she appreciates Nasira’s delicacy. “There’s not too much to report. I think I’ve helped exonerate Miles, though I’m not sure why I’m being so generous.”

  “Because you love him.”

  “Yes. Because of that.” Whatever love is, it’s hard to undo. She can’t cleave off the part of herself that feels for Miles, despite her anger and humiliation. She relates the outlines of her conversation with Miles and her discovery of the MedFit data.

  Nasira is rapt. “That’s incredible. I mean, it must’ve been excruciating to review it, but how lucky for Miles.”

  “I’m not sure either of us feels lucky quite yet.” Jackie takes a long sip of her wine, and a thought drops. “I just realized I haven’t told him about it yet. About the MedFit data. I told the detective, but not Miles.”

  “Do you want to call him?”

  “I really should.” Jackie looks at Nasira, grateful to have her company this evening, to be invited into her home. With everything that’s transpired with Miles, Harlan, Antonio, and Jeff, Nasira’s companionship is a refuge. “Listen, I have an idea. How about you come to my sister’s tomorrow morning? I guarantee it will be a distraction.”

  “That’s so kind, but it’s your family time. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  Jackie waves her hand. “We’re not like that, I promise.” She pushes herself to standing. “I’m going to call Miles before I’m completely trashed, then let Grace know you’re coming. I haven’t told her about Miles—I couldn’t face it—so this gives me the push I need.”

  Nasira smiles and points across the room. “My bedroom’s through that door if you want some privacy.”

  “I’ll just be a minute. I’ve been eyeing that chocolate torte.”

  Her call to Miles goes directly to voice mail. It’s just after seven, so he’s probably in the middle of dinner with Antonio. She leaves him a message, telling him about the MedFit data and suggesting that if he needs to pick up some things, anytime between eight and four tomorrow would work. She ends the call, impressed with how decent and businesslike she sounded, wondering how long it can possibly last.

  She calls Grace.

  “Hey, Jacks! Hold on a sec while I detach this parasite.” Muffled words between Grace and Hector, and a short squawk of protest from, Jackie assumes, Edith. A door closes. “I’m here.” She exhales loudly. “You should call more often so I can skip out like this.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back.”

  “You sound weird.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop saying sorry and tell me what’s up. You’re coming tomorrow, right?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” This simple statement is so deeply true that Jackie’s throat closes. “Listen, Grace. Miles isn’t coming.”

  “Is he sick? Oh, wait. This is why you sound weird?”

  “Yes. I can’t tell you about it, not over the phone. I promise I will tomorrow. But it’s over with Miles.” Jackie hasn’t said it out loud before and winces at the stab of pain just below her sternum. The stab becomes an ache and lodges there.

  “Oh, Jacks . . .”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I call bullshit.”

  Jackie nods. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Is it about kids? Is that it?”

  “I can’t do this now. I really can’t. It’s too raw.”

  “Aw, Jacks. I’m hugging you right now. You know I am.”

  Jackie wipes t
he tears from her cheeks. “I do know.”

  “No Antonio, then? He’s with Miles, I’m guessing.”

  “That’s right.” Jackie assumes they’ll be together, but in truth, she doesn’t know. Miles and Antonio were supposed to go skiing in Vermont for a few days before New Year’s, so maybe they’ll head up there early. As accustomed as she is to being privy to their plans, she can’t spare the energy to consider anything other than simply getting to Staunton tomorrow.

  Grace’s voice is soft. “You still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too.” Jackie pulls the phone from her ear, wipes the screen dry with her sleeve. “Is it okay if I bring a friend?”

  “A guy?”

  Jackie laughs, then hiccups. “No. My postdoc, Nasira.”

  “You talked to her!”

  “I did. Is it okay if she comes?”

  “Bring the whole damn lab. You know we don’t care.”

  “We’ll be there by ten. With pie.” Only because she’d ordered them two weeks ago. Sweet Somethings might be the only thing standing between her and a complete breakdown.

  “Promise to call me if you get more weird.”

  “Promise.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Jackie is up before the sun. Her sleep was punctuated by disturbing dreams of being chased by Harlan, who, as he gained ground on her, turned out to be Miles. She never puts much stock in dreams, but the emotions revealed in them are undeniable, and long before the sky brightens, she relinquishes the bed and puts her faith in coffee. She makes it strong.

  The house is quiet, and because it is Christmas and she will spend the day with family, she chooses to feel peace in this morning rather than loneliness or despair. She cannot guarantee she can sustain this cognitive bootstrapping—it might not last the hour—but here it is.

  An hour and a half remain before she is due to pick up Nasira. She drinks her coffee, checks her phone. No messages from Miles. The weather app is confident the day will break dry and bright. That’s all she needs to know.