Jar of Hearts

by Jennifer Hillier

  “Less than fifty,” Kaiser says. “Which, I’m told, is unspectacular, and goes to show how hard it is to launch a new lipstick when there are already so many to choose from.”

  “It’s competitive, yes. But Shipp knows that.”

  “Almost all of those new Shipp lipsticks were sold to women—”

  “Makes sense.”

  “—except for one,” Kaiser says. “The day before the woman and child were murdered, a guy bought one of them, a few minutes before the store closed. We requested their security footage.”

  He takes out his phone again, finds a picture, and slides it to Geo.

  For the second time that night, she freezes. The photo is black and white and bit grainy, taken from an odd angle at a distance, but Geo is looking at a close-up. The man standing at the Shipp lipstick kiosk is undeniably tall, dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and boots. He’s wearing a ball cap pulled low, and while the camera can’t see the top of his head, the curve of his jaw is instantly familiar. He’s even wearing an oversized watch on the right wrist, something he always did, even though he was right-handed.

  “Calvin,” she says, her voice choked.

  “Are you sure?” Kaiser asks.

  “It looks exactly like him.” She stares at the photo, trying to make sense of it. “I … I don’t understand. I saw a snippet on the news while I was in prison. They said he was spotted somewhere in Europe—Poland, or Czech Republic.…” Her voice dies.

  Kaiser swipes the phone, returning it to the picture of the little boy with the heart on his chest. Then he reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a sheet of torn yellow notepad paper. She’s seen it before. It’s the same paper he showed her the first and only time he visited her in prison. It’s the paper Calvin was doodling on during the trial, the one with the heart on it, the one with her name inside it.

  He places the photo and the piece of paper side by side. The hearts and handwriting look almost identical.

  One says GS. The other says SEE ME.

  “What does he want you to see?” Kaiser asks. His face is neutral, but his neck is flushed.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What does he want you to see?” It’s practically a roar, and she jumps in her chair.

  “I don’t know,” she says. Her voice is loud, too, but it’s not filled with anger and frustration like his is. It’s filled with confusion, desperation … and fear. “Kai, I swear, I don’t know.”

  “He’s sending you a message.”

  “I don’t—”

  “He’s going to come for you,” Kaiser says flatly. The chair scrapes the kitchen tile as he pushes it away from the table and stands up. She sees then that his coffee mug is empty—she doesn’t remember him drinking it. Hers is half-full. And cold. “This is all about you, I feel it. If that concerns you at all.”

  “Of course it does,” Geo says, looking up at him. “But I can’t run anymore, Kai. I did that already, remember? I’m tired. This is where I am. If he’s going to come for me, then let him come. If you’re so concerned, you’ll catch him this time and put him in prison, like you did me.”

  “I did catch him—”

  “Yeah, and he got away,” she says bitterly. “I’m terrified, okay? Is that what you want to hear? Maybe this is about me, and maybe it isn’t, but he had fourteen years to come back and kill me after Angela. He didn’t. He killed other women instead, and who knows how many more, because you guys didn’t do your fucking job and keep him in prison with the rest of the criminals. I was sixteen when I did the worst, most terrible thing I have ever done, or will do. You were thirty when he escaped from that prison, and now it’s five years later and more victims are turning up and you still haven’t caught him. We can sit here and discuss who’s the bigger failure, but I’ll save you the trouble: We both are.”

  Kaiser’s jaw works. He doesn’t respond.

  Geo pushes her chair back and stands up. “I can see you’re ready to leave. Let me walk you to the door so you can leave faster.”

  Geo escorts him down the hallway, resisting the urge to place her hands on his back so she can get him out of her sight quicker. He unlocks the front door, then stops. He looks down at her, his face etched in weariness, mirroring hers.

  “One last thing,” he says, reaching into his pants pocket. He hands her a slender plastic tube, black matte finish, gold lettering. It’s the new Shipp lipstick. “The name of the shade of lipstick used on the boy? It’s called Cinnamon Heart. If that means anything to you.”

  He turns and leaves, slamming the door shut behind him. He doesn’t get to see the look on Geo’s face, the blood fading from her cheeks as she pales, the new wave of nausea that hits her so fast she might have thrown up again had her stomach not already been emptied. She leans against the wall for support, looking down at the lipstick he’d given her.

  Cinnamon Heart. If that means anything to you.

  Yes. It does.

  18

  Toothpicks in her eyes. That’s what it feels like to Geo after a short, terrible sleep. Her internal clock woke her at 5:45 A.M., which is when the bell always goes off at Hazelwood, signaling the start of another bleak day. She’s still on prison time. Her dad, surprised to see her in the kitchen so early that morning as he was leaving for work, reminded her that it would take a while to readjust to “normal” life.

  Whatever the fuck that is now.

  Geo’s on her second Starbucks Grande of the morning as she meets the gaze of one of the mortgage specialists at her local bank, a rude woman who seemed to dislike Geo the minute her name popped up on the screen. Geo had asked to see someone else, but as she didn’t have an appointment, this was who she got.

  “I can’t approve you for a mortgage,” the woman says, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry. You could try another bank, but they’ll likely tell you the same thing.”

  There’s no desk plaque, but the woman has her diploma from Puget Sound State University framed behind her on the wall. Mona Sharp. Undergraduate degree in finance with a minor in communications, graduated three years after Geo did. Well, Mona Sharp, your communications skills suck.

  “I don’t need a lot,” Geo says. “As you can see, I have enough to put sixty-five percent down on a house price of—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve maintained excellent credit,” Geo says, keeping her breathing regular and even. “I’ve owned two properties before. And I’ve had a checking account at this bank since I was twelve. If that means anything to you.”

  “We certainly appreciate your loyalty—”

  “I really want to speak to your manager.”

  The woman sighs, then leaves the office. She returns a few minutes later with the middle-aged man Geo had hoped to see when she first walked in. Harry Rudnick has been the bank manager at this branch for over twenty years. He’s also a friend of her father’s.

  “Georgina, come on into my office,” Harry says. “We’ll talk there.”

  She follows him, giving Mona Sharp an unfiltered stare as she passes. The woman steps back a foot, clearly uncertain as to whether Geo has a prison shank stuffed inside her bra. Geo rolls her eyes.

  Harry Rudnick’s office is a bit larger, with a view of the parking lot beneath. He shuts the door. “Have a seat,” he says, tapping the chair in front of his desk before sitting down on the other side. “How’s Walt? Happy to have you home, I bet.”

  “He’s good,” Geo says. “And I’m sure he is, but I need a place of my own, Harry.”

  “I wish you’d brought him with you,” the manager says, drumming his fingers on the table. “We can’t give you a mortgage, Georgina.”

  Her back stiffens. “And why not?”

  “You don’t have a job, for one.”

  “I’ll get one,” Geo says. “And I don’t see why that’s the deal breaker if I’m putting down two-thirds of the money. If I don’t pay every month, you take the house. Pretty simple. I know you’ve approved mortgages before bas
ed on assets over income. As you can see, I have assets.”

  “Yes, I see that.” Harry taps on his keyboard, his eyes fixed on the computer screen for a few seconds. “But we can’t verify where this money came from.”

  “Investments.”

  “Legitimate investments?” Harry asks, then sighs. “Sorry. Look, ask Walt to come in with you. His house is paid. He makes great money at the hospital. He can cosign.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s done enough,” Geo says, frustrated that she has to explain it. This is a far cry from the conversation she had with Harry ten years ago, when he approved her to buy her first condo. And three years after that, when she sold the condo and upgraded to a house. “And I don’t need him. I can handle this on my own.”

  “You do need him. In this instance, you do. Perhaps you could rent for a while.”

  Harry speaks gently, but all she can hear is his condescension. Like the guy at Verizon earlier that morning, when she went to get a cell phone. She was approved, but once he looked up her old account, he clearly recognized her name, because he smirked. It was all Geo could do not to reach across the counter and claw the look off his face. The fancy rose-gold iPhone now sitting in the pocket of her jacket was a small consolation prize, at least.

  “Come back tomorrow with Walt,” Harry says. “He’s your dad. Let him help you.”

  There’s no point in arguing, and there’s no point in checking with another bank. Geo shakes his outstretched hand and leaves, heading back to the parking lot where her white Range Rover is parked. Her dad stored it for her in his garage the entire time Geo was incarcerated. She presses the fob and the doors unlock with a soft beep. The luxury SUV feels ridiculous now. It’s a vehicle meant for a young, flashy executive, and Geo feels neither young nor flashy. And she sure as shit isn’t an executive anymore.

  Before she can get in, a shriek comes from her left, and she freezes. She exhales when she sees it’s just a child and her mother, a few parking spots away. The toddler is crying, protesting having to get inside the car, a large Mercedes-Benz SUV. Another child is already inside the car, strapped securely, but crying because her sister is crying. The father is about to climb into the driver’s side, not making any attempt to assist with either kid, when he looks over at Geo. Their eyes lock.

  Andrew.

  The shock that registers on his face is almost comical—his mouth forms an O, his eyes bulge—but he’s forced to snap out of it a few seconds later when his wife screeches at him to help her. Geo gets inside her car, continuing to observe the family through her dark tinted windows.

  Andrew looks … different. Geo’s former fiancé had just turned forty-two when she was arrested, and now he’s firmly rooted in middle age. There’s a defined bald spot at the top of his pate, and he’s heavier than when she last saw him. Softer. His wife is at least fifteen years younger, dressed in yoga attire. When they finally succeed in getting the squirming toddler into the car, the wife straps on her seatbelt and yells at him. Geo can’t hear what she’s saying, but there’s no mistaking the fury on her face, and the look of resignation on his.

  Geo starts her car and heads for home. She was only months away from marrying Andrew Shipp five years ago—the venue was booked, the dress on special order, the wedding invitations set to go out. If she hadn’t gone to prison, she would have been his wife. She shudders.

  Living a life that isn’t meant for you is its own version of hell.

  A new message on the garage door greets her when she gets home, as red and angry as the one her father washed off the day before. She parks at the curb and gets out, once again feeling like everybody in the neighborhood is watching her. The graffiti wasn’t there when she left this morning; it’s clear that whoever’s doing it knows when the house is unoccupied. It’s also clear that the vandal gives no fucks whatsoever about desecrating the house during daylight hours.

  Today’s lovely sentiment? BURN IN HELL.

  Geo enters a four-digit code to open the garage door—her mother’s birthday—and is relieved when the door rolls up into the ceiling, taking the words with it. She needs to figure out how to use the pressure washer. She can’t let her father see this. Not again. Goddammit, she needs to get out of this neighborhood.

  “They hate you, huh?”

  She turns, surprised, and finds a boy just shy of being a teenager sitting on his bike at the end of the driveway.

  “Who’s ‘they’?” she asks, walking back toward him.

  He shrugs. He’s wearing a thin T-shirt, no jacket or hoodie, and jeans. His hair is too long and his sneakers are dirty. But his face is open, nonjudgmental, and observant.

  “Whoever did it,” he says.

  “Do you know who ‘they’ are?” Geo asks. “Because this is my dad’s house, and this kind of thing is upsetting to him.”

  The boy shrugs again and rolls a bit closer to her. “Probably some kids at St. Martin’s. I dunno. You’re famous, though.”

  “You mean infamous.”

  A third shrug. It seems to be the kid’s primary form of communication. “Whatever. Did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Kill your friend, way back when.”

  He seems to genuinely want to know. He’s pedaling in circles now, but not going too far. Geo watches him, not answering. Finally, she says, “What do you think?”

  Before he can respond, the front door of the house across the street opens, and a woman marches out. She makes a beeline for them. The boy sees her.

  “Shit,” he says. “That’s Mrs. Heller. She’s gonna rat me out for cutting class. I gotta go.” He stands up on his bike, pumps the pedals, and is almost out of sight before the neighbor steps off the sidewalk and onto the street.

  “You’re going to get a new message every day until you move out, you know,” Mrs. Heller says when she reaches Geo. A retired elementary school secretary, Mrs. Heller has been living across the street with her husband for as long as Geo can remember. Her face, devoid of makeup, is more wrinkled, but the eyes are no less sharp than when Geo was a kid. “Nobody wants you here, Georgina.”

  The Hellers are courteous neighbors. Cliff Heller has a leaf blower and is happy to tidy Walt’s yard without asking. They pick up the mail when Walt’s out of town, and whenever Geo got sick as a kid, Mrs. Heller would bring over a pot of homemade chicken soup. Were they nice people, though? Cliff, yes. Roberta, not so much.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Heller.” Geo doesn’t smile, but she keeps her tone pleasant. With the pressure washer out, she presses the button to close the garage door so she can clean it. “I don’t suppose you saw who did it. It happened in the last couple of hours.”

  Every neighborhood has that one busybody who knows everybody’s business and seems more invested than everyone else in keeping the “riffraff” out. Roberta Heller is that neighbor, on steroids. Blessed—or cursed?—with an overdeveloped sense of justice, Mrs. Heller is the first to condemn you for anything you’ve done wrong. Geo used to fear her bad side.

  It doesn’t scare her anymore.

  “I obviously don’t approve of this,” Mrs. Heller said, jerking her coffee mug in the direction of the garage and almost spilling its contents. “But people are upset with you, Georgina. Surely you understand that. I can’t imagine why Walt would have you come back here. All your presence does is remind people of something they don’t want to remember.”

  “I won’t be here long,” Geo says.

  “Glad to hear it. I’ve always liked your father, you know,” Mrs. Heller says. “Cliff, too. Walt is a good man, and he did his best trying to raise you, but in my opinion, he wasn’t home enough. Damn shame you lost your mother as young as you did. You might have made some different choices.”

  “Don’t talk about my mother.” The words are out before Geo can stop herself. “How dare you.”

  If it were anyone else, they might have backed off. But not Roberta Heller. The old woman’s
eyes gleam, and she steps forward, getting right in Geo’s face.

  “I used to think you were a good kid.” The woman is so close Geo can smell the stale coffee on her breath. “But you surprised us all, didn’t you? Turned out you were a wild one, and nobody knew. You had everybody fooled.”

  Her neighbor is wrong. Geo had been a good kid. She never did drugs, not even pot. She only tried smoking cigarettes once, taking exactly one puff of a Marlboro Light after school in seventh grade, and only because Angela insisted. She felt so sick afterward that she never tried it again. She was drunk twice in high school—the first time was at Angela’s house, just the two of them, when her parents were away for the weekend. The second time was the night her best friend died.

  No, she wasn’t a “wild one.” The only wild thing Geo ever did was … Calvin.

  In fairness to Mrs. Heller, though, that was probably more than enough. She shakes her head at Geo, her face an expression of dramatic disappointment. “Your mother would be so dismayed to see you now.”

  Geo’s fists clench, and she forces herself to take a deep breath, counting to five. It feels like eternity. She relaxes her hands. “You’ve been good to my dad, Mrs. Heller,” she says quietly. “So I’ll let that slide. Now please get out of our driveway.”

  “Your old boyfriend went on to rape and murder how many more women?” The woman isn’t done yet. If anything, she’s getting herself worked up even more. Her mug is shaking, but not from old-age palsy. She’s angry. “Three, wasn’t it? Which wouldn’t have happened if you’d told the truth all those years ago. And now another woman and little boy—a baby—are dead, because he escaped from prison. How do you sleep at night?”

  “Mrs. Heller—”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself. We don’t want you here. Nobody in the neighborhood wants you here. So move out, as quick as you can. Your father doesn’t deserve to go through any more than he already has. He loves you, Georgina, which blinds him to who you really are.”

  “And who am I?”

  “The devil. With a pretty face and a showy car.”