by Sonja Yoerg
Jackie makes coffee, spilling the grounds as she measures. She paces between the kitchen and living room, her mind scrolling through the conversation with Harlan and the indelible images of the last two weeks: Jeff walking away, Miles’s texts, the police at her door, the boarding pass, the caution tape, Miles and Harlan. If only she could erase them all, delete the images permanently. But it doesn’t work like that. She has to live with it, with her culpability. Harlan might be a sociopath, but she played her role, played into his hands. And not just in the last few months but from the moment she met him. What that says about her is something she cannot yet face, much less comprehend.
Cash arrives. They sit at the dining table, and he takes her statement. After, they listen to the recording and review the door-cam footage. Jackie’s pulse beats in her throat as she watches Harlan’s body language in the video; somehow, without the sound, he appears more threatening, as if his smooth voice were a syrup that rendered his behavior more palatable. She is more afraid for the woman in the video than she was for herself in the moment.
Jackie turns to Cash. “Is this enough to arrest him?”
He rubs his chin. “Probably not all by itself, but it’s something. We’ll definitely take a closer look at the security footage on campus, but either way, I think we’ve got enough to bring him in for a chat.” He takes a sip of coffee. “When we interviewed him, he told us he was at home that night. On the recording he admits to stalking you, and he used the victim’s name before you did, which he wouldn’t have known unless he’d seen some ID or the victim introduced himself.”
“I hadn’t picked up that he said Jeff’s name first.”
“It’s the sort of thing you get used to looking for. Even careful people, smart people, make mistakes.”
“No kidding.” Jackie shakes her head.
Cash studies her for a long moment. “You’re not blaming yourself for any of this, are you?”
She studies her coffee mug. “I did a lot of foolish things, so yes. I was blind.”
“Guys like this, they count on it.” His voice drops a notch. “They count on you being human.”
“In this instance,” Jackie says, “I wish I’d been a little less human.”
“Don’t beat yourself up.” Cash slips his notebook into his jacket pocket, pushes back his chair, stands. “It was a smart move to record him. Not many people could’ve pulled that off. And lucky for us it’s admissible in DC.”
Jackie’s relief that she’s helped implicate Harlan is mitigated by the knowledge that if she hadn’t been with Jeff—hadn’t been seen kissing him—he’d still be alive. Harlan might’ve been satisfied with the trail of destruction he’d already run through her life and left for Madison quietly.
At the door, the detective promises to keep her informed. “Lie low in the meantime. We’ll ask him not to leave DC pending the investigation, which maybe isn’t great news for you, but I’ll keep the squad car prowling.”
“Thanks.”
It isn’t quite three o’clock, but that doesn’t stop Jackie from pouring herself a glass of red wine. Outside, the snow continues to fall, the flakes smaller now that the temperature is dropping. She is grateful for the storm; it insulates her. She moves to the living room, unsteady on her feet, and sits on the couch, placing the glass to the side. Pulling her knees to her chest, she hugs herself. A wave of nausea rolls through her. She closes her eyes, but all she sees in the darkness is Harlan, a smirk on his face, the photo of Jeff and her pinched in his fingers, as if snuffing them out.
She hugs her knees tighter as her chest constricts and a sob escapes her. Hearing the shape and size of her own pain opens a gate inside her, and she sobs, again and again, shoulders heaving, tears flowing. The full realization of Harlan’s monstrous actions, his absolute ruthlessness, hits her. As soon as her crying eases and she catches her breath, the horrifying truth crashes into her again. Jackie buries her face between her arms and rocks. If only Miles were here to comfort her. His absence, the finality of it, ushers in a different pain, born not of fear but of heartbreak.
She loses track of time. Finally she lifts her head. Outside the windows, dusk is settling in. Snow falls thick and slow through the beam of a streetlight. She makes her way to the kitchen, washes her face, drinks two glasses of water, and retrieves her phone—out of habit. There is no one she wants to speak with, no news she wants to hear.
Her head is light, and she returns to the couch. Her mind spins, repeatedly turning over the same questions. How did she allow her life to unravel to this degree? Why didn’t she see Harlan for who he is? And why, after having the sense to end their relationship, did she become enmeshed with him again? He preyed on her; she doesn’t discount that, but neither does she excuse herself. Even after she glimpsed his dark side, she buried the experiences, and a man—a good man—is dead because of it. The path to forgiving herself, if there is one, will be long.
In her hand her phone vibrates. She reads the screen: a text from her mother.
Happy New Year, Jackie. You’ve had a tough time recently, so I hope you’re starting 2019 taking care of yourself. I am! , xo Mom
Jackie types: Not really, Mom. I’m blaming myself for a murder. Happy New Year!
She deletes it before she accidentally hits send and starts again: Happy New Year and good for you. Cheers! J. After she sends the text, Jackie takes a drink from her untouched wineglass and considers her portion of the blame for Harlan’s actions. Highly intelligent sociopaths like him are expert manipulators, skilled at hiding their true nature behind a facade of charm.
But Harlan did more than charm and deceive; he read her perfectly, deliberately placing himself in her blind spot. Everyone has blind spots—literal visual ones and conceptual ones. Jackie teaches about human perception, and the blind spot is one of her favorite examples of how the brain works. Inside each of your eyeballs is a layer of receptors called the retina. It captures light and sends signals to your brain, which creates a visual experience: you see. But there’s a bare spot on each retina where the optic nerve attaches, leaving a hole in your vision, one for each eye. You’re not aware of it because your brain guesses at the missing data and fills it in. A little white lie to keep things seamless.
Blind spots are one example of the guessing and filling in that go on routinely in the brain, all in the name of efficiency. The world is fairly predictable, so it makes sense for the brain to rely on expectations, to see what is usually there, and not bother to build the world from scratch every time you open your eyes. The object on the side of the highway appears to be a truck tire, not a dead body, because that’s more likely. Most of the time, the truth doesn’t matter.
Jackie sips her wine and considers the pitfalls, because shortcuts always have them. The system works well enough—except when it doesn’t. Sometimes what you need to see most is sitting in that blind spot, and your brain guesses wrong. Dead wrong.
Because what you can’t see, or what you refuse to see, can hurt you. Harlan tried to warn her, but she didn’t heed him, and he reeled her in more often than he played her out. She would like to blame him, and she does, but it’s not that simple. People share relationships, and whether they explode or dissolve or endure, the responsibility must be shared. Jackie can blame Miles for his infidelity, but not for the demise of their marriage. It had cracks from the start; he happened to be the one to fall through.
Jackie returns to the kitchen and refills her glass. The alcohol has smoothed out the emotional aftermath of her encounter with Harlan, at least for the moment, but she’s still deeply worried about how the investigation will play out. She has confidence in Detective Cash, but doesn’t underestimate Harlan’s ability to slip out of the authorities’ grasp and get away with murder. In her heart she knows her essential fear won’t dissipate until Harlan is brought to justice, and by that she means punished. Whatever the ultimate burden of her culpability and her regret, it will never outweigh murder.
Harlan’s Story
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Massachusetts, 1984
I went sailing with my father one day off Nantucket, just the two of us on a thirty-eight-foot sloop. My aunt Fossie was supposed to join us, and her preteen son, but he came down with the stomach flu the night before, so she stayed to care for him. My mother was expecting friends and had never been a keen sailor. She preferred lawn games and reading under an umbrella at the beach.
The weather was typical for mid-August: sweltering. My shirt was already sticking to my skin as I carried supplies to the dock. Over early coffee, my father had instructed me to ready the boat so he could simply step aboard and take the helm. I already knew that when we returned, it would be down to me to rinse the decks, stow the sails, do all the necessary chores. I was almost nineteen, soon to begin my sophomore year at Dartmouth, long past the age when I questioned the peccadilloes of my parents. When it suited me, I went along with them; otherwise I ignored them or stayed away.
The sound of my feet on the wooden deck, the weight of the warm air, the taste of salt on my lips: I remember all of it. The circumstances that led to this atypical father-son outing must have pinned my attention to these details before the day achieved its significance. As I removed the hatch cover and stowed the boards, I felt a sense of inevitability, the way legendary battles are foretold long before they occur. I didn’t put stock in crystal ball nonsense then any more than I do today, but I won’t deny the clarity and strength at my core that morning.
My father arrived around eight thirty, wearing a blue button-down rolled to the elbows, khaki shorts, and Top-Siders—the Cape summer uniform. The only item lacking was the sweater draped over his shoulders, but it was too hot for that. He added a Harvard baseball cap, which no self-respecting Boston Brahmin would ever do, but he couldn’t stop himself from worshipping the symbols.
He stood holding his travel mug and made a cursory inspection from the dock. A true seaman. “Got everything organized?”
I nodded. We switched places—dealing with the lines was my job—and in a few moments we pulled away from the dock and motored out of Hither Creek. There wasn’t much activity yet, just a couple of fishing boats and some kids running along a dock as we passed. My father waved at them, friendly, magnanimous person that he was, and pointed the boat out to sea, toward the bright line of the horizon.
I tossed him a life jacket and put on mine. Safety first.
He slipped his arms through but left it open. “Where should we head today, son?”
I hated being called that, being claimed and belittled at the same time. I added it to the thousands of casual insults my father had tossed at me over my lifetime, raising himself up by taking me down. The list of things my father resented about me was long. I was large, implying I was coarse; I was quiet, implying I was thoughtless or dull; and, worst, I had a detached poise, which my father wanted most and never possessed. It pissed him off that his son inherited the offhand elegance and ease of his wife and her family, something he got close enough to touch but never owned. He hated himself for wanting it so much, enough to tear off his humble Kansas skin that stank of cow shit. Being small-minded, he could not bear to see his son succeed—without trying!—where he failed so mightily. I had no sympathy. Why should I? My Nobel Prize–clutching father was pathetic.
I took a seat at the stern. “The weather’s good, so no reason to stay in the sound.”
“South, then?”
“South.”
We tacked a few times, not paying much attention to exactly where we were going. It was just a sail. The summer had been unusually warm, and a haze had set up over the last couple of days. We could see maybe a half mile, which was plenty of notice for other boats and the occasional ship.
My father stood at the wheel, looking out to sea. There was just enough breeze to fill the sails, make a little chop. I had my feet on the rail, wondering if I ought to trim the jib.
“When do you need to declare your major, son?”
Here we go, I thought.
“Sometime this coming year.” He knew the answer. He worked at a fucking university.
“We should talk about it some more. It’s a big decision.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. I had sunglasses on, so he wasn’t getting much of read on me, not that it would’ve helped.
“It’s not a big decision at all. For med school, pretty much any major works as long as you take the classes. Which I will.”
My father gripped the wheel tighter and made a point of twisting most of the way around. It looked uncomfortable, but it’s hard to assert your will on someone without facing them.
“Medical school. You know what I think about that.”
“Yup.” But one more time. Please.
“Doctors are mechanics.” He threw a hand into the air. “Mechanics!”
“When your body needs repairs, a mechanic is handy.”
He scowled. “Always with the smart-ass remark. There are plenty of doctors.”
“Actually—”
“You have a real brain. A scientist’s brain. Don’t waste it applying what other people discover. Discover things yourself!”
I dropped my feet from the rail and sat up. “Want me to steer for a while?”
He wasn’t expecting that. “This conversation isn’t over. Remember who pays your tuition.”
Mom.
I took the helm. My father sat where I’d been and stared at the water. I ignored him. Ten minutes or so later we tacked, after which he announced he was getting a beer. It wasn’t quite eleven. He wasn’t a big drinker, but he liked beer in the summer.
“Want one?”
“No thanks.”
He emerged from below and set up on the bow, unbuttoning his shirt to get some sun. The hair on his chest was graying, and he had a gut, although it was smaller than two years ago when he had been diagnosed with a heart condition. I scanned around for boats and saw only one fishing boat. The haze usually lifted by that time of day, but if anything, the visibility was getting worse. I wondered if it might storm later.
I let him finish his beer.
“Dad. I have to go to the head. I’ll just put it on autopilot for a sec.”
He’d been lying down and lifted his head. “I can do it.”
“Nah. I’ll just be a sec.”
Since the last tack, I’d decided on the fire extinguisher rather than a board from the hatch. Wood can be messy, and a fire extinguisher is easy to replace should that prove necessary. I went below and ducked to retrieve it from the side of the sink cabinet. I tried out different holds, but only for a few seconds. My hands were shaking a little, and it would only get worse.
I climbed up and surveyed the sea once more. No one. I didn’t try to hide the extinguisher as I stepped onto the deck. I was counting on his astonishment and my size, and I had a little luck: his feet were pointing at the bow, so his head was right there. I tightened my grip on the rigging with my left hand and held the extinguisher by my side.
“Brought you another beer.”
“Wh—” His eyes opened, and he registered that something was off. Perhaps he saw a red form, or that I was too close.
I swung the extinguisher into his skull.
“Oof.” A cartoon sound. His skull had a dent in it. He rolled away from me, onto his side.
I swung it again, into the back of his head. The occipital lobe, seat of visual processing.
My father moaned a little.
I must’ve swung harder the second time, because blood started to spread across the deck. I didn’t want a mess. I stood over him for a long minute, ready to hit him again. One leg bent a few degrees, but that was it.
“Who needs a mechanic now?” I shouted. That made me laugh.
The hard part was over. I crouched and leaned over the side to rinse the bottom of the extinguisher. I’d decide later whether to chuck it. Now I needed something to make him sink. I scanned around me. My eyes fell on the locker near the bow housing the sand anchor. I opened the hatch and hoisted the length of
chain connected to the anchor on one end and a length of rope on the other. I judged the chain heavy enough, detached it, and returned to my father. His life jacket was mostly off, so I yanked it free and wound the chain around him as best I could, securing it with the clasps, then used the life jacket like an oven mitt to push him under the lower cable and over the side. He made a satisfying splash. I tossed the life jacket in.
No time for goodbyes.
I assessed the sails and trimmed the jib. The fire extinguisher looked clean to me, so I put it back, rinsed off the deck, and went below and made a sandwich. I wasn’t hungry—I’m not without feeling—but I needed to have been doing something when my father fell overboard. Back at the helm, I switched off the autopilot and put some distance between me and dear old Dad.
The rest you can imagine. I circled back a ways, as if looking for him, and radioed the distress call. The Coast Guard showed up and pulled alongside. The officer at the wheel asked me what happened.
I acted tense and worried, but didn’t overdo it. I kept my story simple. The biggest mistake liars make is showing off. Of course I didn’t know that then, but my instincts were right.
“I don’t know what happened to him. I went below to use the head and make a sandwich, and when I came back up, he was gone.”
“Was he wearing a life vest?”
“He had it on, I think, but he never liked to zip it up.”
They called in another boat and searched for a lot longer than made sense. They put a guy on the sailboat with me, and we sailed back to Madaket. I stayed quiet. People can read whatever they want into quiet.
My mother and her family were shocked, but they didn’t let it get the best of them. The kind of institutionalized wealth they had gave them inherent fortitude. No crisis would overwhelm them. By sundown, everyone had given up hope my father had survived. If the Coast Guard and the police searched the boat, I didn’t know about it. There was nothing to find, so I didn’t give it much thought. I was simply glad I wouldn’t have to put up with him anymore. That thought occurred to me repeatedly in the hours after my return, and I had to fight not to smile when it did.
