Hold My Heart (3 page)

I huff in frustration. “What bothers me is the randomness of it all.” I look over at him. “Don't you sometimes wonder,
why
?”

He stares down at his coffee as he answers. “I used to wonder, but not anymore.” He pauses. “I now see it as part of some master plan. It's like we are all pieces of this giant puzzle.”

“What do you mean?” He definitely has my attention. This isn’t like Tommy. So, this, I have to hear.

He stares straight ahead, pensive. “Think about it. What are the odds you and I picked the same specialty in the Army, ended up in the same company, and in the same platoon?” He glances my way, and all I can do is shrug. “Otherwise we would never have met...I mean, think about it. How many jobs did you qualify for in the Army? Yet, we chose the same MOS. And we
both
picked the Army. Why not another branch, like the Air Force or Navy?”

Wow. I realize my mouth is hanging open. “Damn, Agent Colton, that's deep.” I try to suppress a slow chuckle. “You’re mellowing with age.”

“Oh, this morning you called me Speedy, and now I'm old? Jesus, Harper, thanks.”

I smile as I snap pictures of yet another average looking, forty-something, white male coming out of the building.

I think about what he said for a moment. “I have to ask,” I look straight at him, “you're saying...what exactly?”

He shrugs, contemplating his coffee cup. I get the feeling he's trying to say something that even he can’t explain.

“So, let me get this straight.” I turn to face him, wanting to understand. “Following your theory, it would mean every single decision we've made so far has led to this moment, right here.” I motion around to the inside of our government issued sedan. “
Us.
Sitting inside this car. Right now?”

He sighs. “
Us,
yes, Lily.” He’s deadpan serious, his gaze focused straight ahead, as he sips his coffee.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around the implication, when he puts his cup down and reaches over, grabbing the camera from my hands.

Honestly, I don't know how to respond. I can always count on Tommy to keep things light when it comes to our personal lives. However, ever since his father passed away, I’ve noticed some changes in him. The old Tommy wouldn’t entertain this kind of conversation. I don't know what to do with this new Tommy Colton. He just sits there, examining the camera then looking through the lens. Is he saying we were meant to...
what
? He’s not making sense. I decide to challenge his theory.

“What about those things beyond our control, like what other people do to us? Is that all part of the plan? Because I have to say, I need to meet this puzzle maker and kick his or her ass,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

Tommy chuckles, a hint of sadness in his demeanor as he shakes his head. He doesn't say anything else, and we sit in silence, both staring at the building. I don't know what to make of this. It's not like there's a plan. There are opportunities, choices, circumstances, but to say all of it is leading to a specific purpose? Wow. That's too much for me to tackle sober.

Then the victims’ faces flash through my mind. Eight women. Eight very real women.

“They're not pieces, Tommy, they're people,” I whisper, cradling my cup with both hands. The cup warms my cold fingers, and the aroma of fresh coffee fills up the car interior though it gives me little solace.

He frowns my way, but I go on.

“Eight young women, with their lives ahead of them.” All of a sudden, exhaustion and helplessness overwhelm me. “Casey. She was the last victim, the one on our watch. She was just twenty-three, had just landed an internship right here in Chicago. She had a mom and dad who loved her.” I raise my eyes from my coffee, my sight fixating on the post office’s front door. “I can’t notify another set of parents, Tommy, I just can’t. We have to catch him, okay?” My voice cracks on the last word at the memory of her parents. Their grief was tangible, a palpable entity penetrating my skin the second we were in their presence. I don’t know if I can do it again.

Suddenly my chest hurts, my breathing shallows and a sense of dread trickles up my spine. Their grief is seared into my soul permanently. I carry it with me, along with my own and all the others. I'm overwhelmed by their loss and my inability to stop it. Such potential that will never be realized. It all seems so pointless. The burning in my throat chokes me.

“What are we supposed to tell the parents of the next victim? Sorry, it was out of our control?” My chest feels so heavy, as if this invisible weight is crushing it.

My eyes burn as I turn to Tommy. The sunset is diminishing, and darkness engulfs the city streets. I rub my chest absently, trying to alleviate the pain.

“Hey.” Tommy gives me a poignant look. “Come on, Lil. You can't take this on. This isn't on you. We’re not responsible for—”

“But that's just it, Tommy. This is about the others, the future victims. It's up to us to stop him.” My voice breaks. I’m humming with despair and can’t shake the awful feeling that time is running out.

“We will, Harper, come on.” Tommy turns to his side, facing me, his left hand on my shoulder. He squeezes gently. His gaze is full of compassion as his eyes scan my face, his jaw clenched in frustration.

This isn't fair to him. I need to keep it together. I try to brush it off. I shake my head and force a smile.

“Sorry, maybe the Rick thing is bugging me more than I thought.”

His hand slips away from my shoulder.

“You want to talk about it?”

I face the building again, watching him from the corner of my eye as he handles the camera. “There's nothing to talk about.” I inhale a breath and slowly let it out. Deep down that’s the truth. “There was really nothing between us, hence nothing to tell.”

“So, back to
Dirty
Harry
and romance novels then, huh?”

He’ll never let me live that down.

One frigid winter night, my apartment building lost power and he ventured into my bedroom without permission, searching for a flashlight. I'll never forget his face when he came out with my vibrator in his hand. That night confirmed that no one could die from embarrassment, because if being mortified could kill you, I'd be dead.

I cover my face as I recall him coming up with the nickname, and then proceeding to recite all of Clint Eastwood's famous lines while holding it as a gun. Jesus, he knows way too much about my life.

“You're such an asshole,” I murmur, trying to hide my smile.

He brings the camera up and snaps my picture. He starts laughing, enjoying my torture. Just like that, he's back.

I chuckle. “You're so fucked up Colton, you know that?” He's so smug, clearly loving this. Putting my cup down, I snatch the camera from his hands.

“Good for you, Harper!” He raises his hands, pointing to each finger as he rambles. “He's reliable, available, portable, and still useful when the power goes out—” he huffs as I punch him in the gut.

“Shut up.” I shake my head, but grin and look his way.

He is beaming as he takes me in, a mysterious sparkle in his eyes. He scans my features, as if memorizing every detail from my hair to my eyes, to my lips.

“What is it?” I ask, his scrutiny piquing my curiosity.

“Nothing,” he replies, his voice husky, gaze locked on me.

A wave of self-awareness hits me, and my cheeks flush, heat trickling up my neck, I look away, self-conscious, pushing errant strands of hair behind my ear. Bringing the camera up to my eye, the gravity of our conversation fades, and I go back to snapping pictures of the post office. Even if just to keep my mind on the case.

قلب

After hours of sitting in the car freezing our butts off while watching the post office, we decide to call it a night.

I grab our files after dropping off the sedan. We are officially on this case twenty-four seven, as if we weren’t already working around the clock. We opt to work from my place, so I head home while Tommy goes to pick up some Chinese food for a late dinner. Our frustration grows each day we don’t get any closer to solving this case. This guy is fucking Houdini. We are out of options. We have no choice but to go back to the beginning, and retrace our steps again.

I walk into my place, take my gear off, and before I forget, stop in the kitchen to take Christina’s number out of my pocket and stick it on the fridge. I am just finished changing into some yoga pants and my old Northwestern alumni sweatshirt when I hear a rattling of keys at the door.

“Honey, I’m home!” Tommy calls from the entryway of my apartment.

We meet halfway in the kitchen. Tommy sets the takeout on the counter and begins to open the food containers while I search for some plates and silverware.

“Wine or beer?” I ask, holding up the two bottles.

“Beer, please. It’s going to be a long night.”

Chapter 3

Tommy is sitting on the floor, the Chinese food and beer gone. I’m on the couch, nursing a glass of what is left of my last bottle of Shiraz. Crime scene photographs of all eight victims are spread around us on the floor. We’ve been moving the photos around, changing their order while discussing different scenarios. We’ve gone through the interview transcripts over and over.

“What are we missing, Tommy?” I ask, dropping the last folder to the floor. I hate feeling so helpless and out of control. The women’s faces are beginning to blend together. Details of the crimes are becoming repetitive, blurry, as if stirring the water is only making things murkier instead of clear.

“I don’t know, Lil, this is driving me fucking nuts. Tonight was a waste.” Tommy scrubs his hand over his face, as I lean back on the couch and sigh in frustration.

“I know what you mean. Lucky for me it’s not April. Otherwise I’d think my curse is spilling into the job,” I mutter to myself and Tommy slowly glances my way, an incredulous expression on his face.

“What? Are you serious right now?”

“As a heart attack.” Frustration and wine are never a good mix.

Tommy rises from the floor and sits next to me on the couch. “Not this again, Lily. You. Are. Not. Cursed.” He enunciates each word as he watches me intently.

I slump forward, my head down in defeat, leaning my elbows against my knees. Tommy grabs both my hands in his, making me turn until I’m facing him on the couch.

“Did you hear me? That’s just the wine talking. That shit back in the sandbox was just bad timing and had nothing to do with your birthday.” I keep looking down, avoiding eye contact. “Lily, look at me,” Tommy orders, calmly.

My head feels heavy. I’m so tired. So tired of examining the same pictures. So tired of being unable to protect the next victim from this psycho running around. So tired of letting Tommy down. I finally look up to see his intense green eyes boring into mine, full of determination.

“Lil,” he says, firmly, “you’re not your mom. You’re not your grandmother. Isn’t that what you tell me? That I’m not my father?”

His words pull me back to reality, bringing me into the now, to our common goal: to capture this predator and keep him from hurting others.

I look at Tommy, at the pained expression on his face, his brow furrowed in worry. It’s all because of me. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t make this about me and my freaky antenna of doom. Fuck. I
am
cursed.

“I’m sorry, you’re right, it’s probably the wine talking. Maybe we should call it a night. Are you staying over?”

Realizing he’s still holding my hands, he quickly lets them drop away.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to crash on
my
couch after I take a shower. I still have some clean clothes in there, right?” ‘My couch’ is what he calls
my
guest room futon.

“Yeah, I washed them. They’re on top of my desk,” I answer, a haze rolling over my senses.

“Go to bed, Lil, it’s been a long day. I'll clean up.” Tommy gets up and begins picking up the dishes and boxes laying all over my coffee table, taking them to the kitchen. He’s still wearing his suit from this morning, though his tie and jacket are gone. His dark charcoal trousers are wrinkled, and so is his shirt.

“Good night.” I trudge halfway to my bedroom, before pausing and turning toward the kitchen. “Tommy?”

“Yeap?” Tommy says in a chipper, but tired voice, his brow raised in question.

“Thanks.” And I mean it. I can always count on him to talk me off the ledge, so to speak.

“Get some sleep, all right? We just need to get some rest and we’ll tackle it with fresh eyes tomorrow.”

I nod his way and then walk the rest of the way to my room. The second I close the door behind me, I fall backward onto my bed.

That damn curse. Tommy is the only one I’ve told about my family history, and how I got my name.

Most people don’t know the story behind their names, why their parents chose to name them what they did. Some people are named after a celebrity, or after something hopeful or special. I know whom I was named after. I know because my mother made sure to tell me exactly why.

She named me after her mother, because she hates her mother with a passion. Just like she hates me. Why? Because we both ruined her life.

According to my mother, Sophia, it all started with my great-grandmother. After being a victim of rape, she was left with child. Shortly after giving birth to a daughter, she killed herself, leaving my grandmother an orphan and a ward of the state.

Eventually my grandmother, Ileana, became pregnant with my mother under suspicious circumstances.

My mother says my grandmother came in and out of her life while she was growing up. After a while, she disappeared for good, but not before passing on the ‘Harper curse,’ as my mother coined it: a legacy of abandoned, lonely, rejected, unhappy women. My mother became a ward of the state as well. Once my fucked-up mother became pregnant with me, she made sure to name me after her fucked-up mother. Not wanting to follow her ancestors, she kept me instead of giving me up. I guess I should be thankful she didn’t continue the family tradition, but with the way I grew up, maybe the state would have done a better job.

I don’t know who my father is. I don’t even think my mother knows. If she does, she never let me know. All I know about my family past is what she told me as a kid. I could use my work resources, but at this stage in my life, it is what it is. She never talked about her dad. Never told me about mine. Maybe she figured it was something all the Harper women have in common, which makes me part of the new generation of messed up single women. Suicide, rape, disappearances…then there’s my birthday.

April first. April Fool’s Day.

I can’t remember one that went by without my mother muttering, “Every year, you’re more and more like your grandmother.” Or, how she’d tell me the reason that we didn’t celebrate my birthday. “What's to celebrate? The joke's on me,” she’d say.

Since my twenty-first birthday, it looks like the joke is on
me
now. What the hell do I have to show for a personal life? And professionally? I can’t even solve this case before another body shows up. I guess I should look at the bright side. I didn’t get knocked up and ruin someone else’s life in line with some family tradition. Other than that, I’m right on track: attempted rape, lonely, unhappy, and rejected.

“Come on, Ileana, get out of your head,” I mumble under my breath, running my hands over my face.

Checking my nightstand, I deliberate picking up one of the three books I’ve recently started, but right now, I’m too tired to read. Slowly rising off the bed, I head to the bathroom, wash up, and then get straight back into bed. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. The bed bounces as I plop face-first into the soft sheets. The scent of fresh fabric softener brings me little comfort as I fade away for the night, my brain numb from wine and exhaustion.

قلب

For two years, I've avoided him. Two years of staying over at friends’ houses, at the public library, or at school taking a full course load, along with summer classes so I can graduate early. After school activities like track and field and cross country, where I run to forget. I run with no destination, anywhere that isn't this house. Anywhere his sleazy stare can't reach me.

I'm tucked in bed, almost asleep, when I hear my door creak open, slowly close, and then footsteps. As I lie here, my senses go on full alert, dread consumes me, my body petrified with panic.

He's actually doing it. He's coming into my room.

“Ileana.”

I pretend I don't hear him and lie still. I plead silently in my mind. To God, to my mother, to anyone my thoughts can reach. My mouth is not moving. My throat is clogged with terror, unable to make a sound. He reaches my bed, and his presence makes me ill.

“Ileana, don't be scared.”

I can smell him—a mixture of beer, cigarettes, and sweat, turning my stomach.

He slowly peels the covers off my body, and I lie there frozen, wishing I could disappear. He caresses my forehead, moving my hair away from my face as he leans over me. His callused, dry hands scratch my face, my neck, and my arms. I can’t move, paralyzed with terror. Screams are stuck in my throat. He begins to climb up on me, when realization hits.

No one can read my mind. No one is coming for me. It's just me.

I cannot let this happen. I've had enough. Something inside me snaps, and before I realize it, I'm fighting back. I'm pulling, scratching. He's twice as big as I am, and his touch and foul breath in my face are just too much.

“Shhh, it's okay,” he whispers in my ear as he lies atop me, crushing me into the bed. One hand grabs my wrists over my head and his other meaty claw pushes between my legs. Total horror overwhelms me. I cannot let this happen. I’d rather die than let this happen to me.

I try to scream, and he covers my mouth with his. The bile works its way up my throat and into my mouth. I fight with everything I have. I try bucking him off me, but he quietly chuckles.

“Ah, you're feisty. I like that.” His breathing is not even agitated; he's like a lion toying with a mouse.

In that very moment, I make a decision.

I decide to stop letting things happen to me, and start making things happen for me.

The second time he brings his disgusting mouth to mine, I bite down on his lower lip as hard as I can. Blood—his blood—fills my mouth, the mixture of vomit and copper hitting my tongue. As he screams in pain, I seize the opportunity and wrench my arms away from his grip, simultaneously hitting him on the side of his head as hard as I can. Using my entire body, I push up with every ounce of energy I have in me, managing to knock him off me. He falls off the bed with a loud thump.

“Get out!” I'm kicking him with all I have. How dare he? I’m punching, scratching, pouring out all my energy, letting my wrath overtake me.

He covers his face with his arms, curling up to try to protect himself. I'm crazed. I want to finish him, punish him, and destroy him for daring to lay his disgusting hands and lips on me.

My bedroom door opens with a crash, and Sophia's silhouette appears. The light behind her masks her expression but her voice does not waver.

“Stop it right now!” The room floods with light and her unforgiving scowl lands on me, not him.

I stop my assault on him, and he sways as he gets up from the floor, trying to gain balance. His hair is disheveled, his nose bleeding. Sophia moves to him and cradles his face, but he pushes her away.

“She's crazy, beat me for no reason—”

“You tried to rape me!” The words sound desperate and pleading to my own ears. My mother doesn’t acknowledge me. Her loving gaze is fixed on him, full of worry.

“Shut your lying mouth!” he screams, his leer morphing into a caress as his gaze switches from me to my mother. “I heard a noise and came to check, thinking she was having a nightmare, next thing I know she jumps up and starts kicking the shit out of me!”

I'm stunned. My throat constricted in shock. She can't buy this! She just can't believe him over me…can she?

Horrified, I turn to my mother, silently pleading with her to do the right thing, knowing full well this has gone too far. She hasn't been the perfect mother, but she's all I have.

“Sophia please—”

“Get out.” Her voice, laced with disdain, is directed at me.

This can't be happening. I'll be seventeen in a few weeks. I'll be graduating in two months.

He's standing behind my mother, a slow smirk escaping his lips.

“Go on to the bathroom, I'll be there in a minute.” She glares at him over her shoulder. He lowers his gaze down and leaves my bedroom.

She knows what
he
did, and she's kicking
me
out. My hands tremble, dread flooding me as the gravity of my situation sinks in.

I'll plead with her; I'll do whatever it takes—

“You little tease. You couldn't stand it, could you?” Her words are packed with fury, each aimed at me like stones hitting my body. They’re blunt and painful, scarring me, tearing me apart and forcing me to cower. “First your grandmother stole my childhood. Then you had to steal my youth, my happiness. You couldn't just stay out of my life? You couldn’t stand seeing me happy, could you?”

I hug myself tightly, trying to keep from falling apart. “I didn't do anything. He—”

“Shut up and get out of my life!” The words scrape against her throat in anger.

“Please Mom—”

“Stop calling me that!” She races to my closet, yanking clothes off the hangers and throwing them on the floor.

I'm rooted in place, tears running down my cheeks unchecked. I swallow my sobs because it's futile. There's nothing left for me. All I have are the clothes on my back and whatever my mother throws on the pile.

Turning on her heel, she leaves the room and I'm alone, in the middle of my bedroom, my sanctuary. The only place in my life I could call my own.

It was the only place I could retreat in peace. Now it's gone.