Somewhere in the Dark

by R. J. Jacobs

  We look at each other for a few seconds.

  “What I’m saying is it won’t happen,” he says.

  “I’m saying … you haven’t asked.”

  “Are you looking to make a confession? Because, if so, we should start talking about what you’re about to admit. There are ways to go about …”

  “I’m not admitting anything. I did nothing wrong that night.”

  “You don’t have the right to ask for that sort of meeting.”

  “I have more right to it than you understand,” I tell him.

  We go back and forth for a while, him talking past me, trying to explain why what I’m asking for isn’t appropriate. He leaves, eventually, shaking his head, but not before agreeing to submit a request. I know he’s trying to help, and I appreciate that. What he doesn’t understand is that I don’t care if what I’m asking for is appropriate or not.

  * * *

  I pace from one side of the cell to the other, thinking, thinking.

  No one would understand if I told them the cell feels big. So big and open and bright. I know it wouldn’t seem that way to other people, but the size feels like a … the word for something God gives you: blessing. The length of the cell is a blessing.

  Shadows shift across the floor, time stretching forward. A tray appears. My insides feel empty but also like food doesn’t belong there. I force myself to eat a roll, to wash down the pasty bites with warm water that tastes like dish soap. There are noises, but I hardly hear them.

  Maybe I close my eyes. Maybe I sleep, I don’t know. A day passes that way.

  * * *

  The cell door opens again, waking me, and I sit up. At the door, the police officers stand two by two. When it rolls open, they enter slowly. None of them wants to come near me.

  “Ms. Duval, you have a visitor. You’re going to need to come with us. You’ll need to be cuffed.”

  One of the officers holds a taser. I want to tell him he won’t need it, but instead I just rest my head against the cinder-block wall, sticky from my sweat mixing with the humid air. Being touched, even cuffed, isn’t as bad when I know when it’s coming. I put my hands behind my back and hear the metal zip and feel the cold against my skin.

  We walk down the hall to the room where I was the day before. Same table, same buzzing lights, same mirror. I wonder if the detective who questioned me then is watching from behind it. I look at my reflection—my right eye is slightly less swollen than it was this morning. Though my vision is still a little blurry, at least the eye opens now. When I sit, the police lock my hands behind me to the chair with a long chain.

  Then they all leave, and for a few seconds I’m alone.

  The door opens and the same detective from the day before, Detective Allen, walks in. His eye is slightly bruised and what looks like a white piece of tape covers the bridge of his nose. Today, he talks to me more calmly but still close enough that I can smell his citrusy aftershave.

  “Behind that glass is a team of people watching—the detectives working the case, as well as the state attorney. I want you to know that this scenario is extremely unconventional, but since Mr. James has agreed to it—against the advice of his attorney, I might add—we will allow a short face-to-face meeting. The state understands that because of the circumstances earlier in your life you may require a special arrangement in order to make a statement. Mr. James, in particular, wants to proceed with the investigation as efficiently as possible. But please hear me when I tell you any reckless behavior on your part will end the meeting immediately. Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  He gestures toward the glass before returning to the door through which he entered. “You have five minutes,” he says, then leaves. I’m by myself again, but I don’t feel alone because I can sense that I’m being watched.

  After a minute or so, I hear footsteps in the hallway and see the door handle turn. Owen James opens the door and walks in. His boot heels click on the concrete. He is no ghost. He stands across from me wearing a dark gray button-down shirt and blue jeans.

  I stand up so quickly the handcuffs connecting me to the chair bite into my wrists, but if there is pain, I can’t feel it. Owen and I look at each other for a second—him just standing there, frozen—like we’re each the last person the other expected to see. His eyes are red and lined with tired grooves. He moves with his usual stage-practiced grace until he pulls the chair away from the desk and begins to sit down. Then, he practically collapses onto the chair, his legs seeming to buckle beneath him. He tugs at his collar as he looks at me, his gaze heavy with exhaustion.

  “Hi, Jessie, I’m Owen,” Owen James rests his hand on his chest and looks at me as if to make sure I know what he’s saying. His shoulders relax when he seems to understand that I do. Seeing him makes me wonder—just for a second—if I’ve dreamt everything that happened, starting with the Petersons’ party. The hopeful thought fills my lungs, and my chest seems to reach up toward the ceiling. Is Shelly alive? Has all this been some fantasy?

  But Owen’s expression dispels any doubt that Shelly is gone. Reality returns—I’m in jail, and may be for the rest of my life. I’m believed to be a killer. I glance at our reflections in the glass and swallow, or try to.

  “Good to meet you,” he says. The metal chair he sits in creaks a little.

  There were always two Shellys—the rebellious entertainer she showed everyone and the vulnerable person underneath trying to keep up with her own persona. But there is only one Owen I understand just then. He’s the exact same on stage and off, and interacting with him is thrillingly real.

  He points over my shoulder. “I’m sorry about the handcuffs. I asked that they leave them off, but Metro and my lawyer wouldn’t consider letting us talk unless you have them on.”

  I feel the double cut in the flesh of my wrists—pink lines already beginning to swell.

  “It’s okay,” I manage to say.

  “No, it’s really not, but I reckon it’ll have to do for right now. They said you wanted to tell me about what you saw on Saturday night.”

  “I do,” I say slowly, gathering my nerves, “but it may be hard to hear.”

  Owen examines his fingernail before looking up at me and nodding, solemnly. “Go ahead,” he says.

  I take a deep breath before I begin. I imagine that the mirror is a movie screen and that Owen and I are in a movie together. I picture Detective Allen watching, and Detective Williams’s glare. It’s the part of the movie when I’m supposed to own up to what I’ve done. Except in this movie it’s the other way round—instead of confessing, I’m about to tell Owen things I know but he doesn’t. I will have no trouble finding the right words. I know exactly what to say.

  “It’s a long story,” I start, “but I know we don’t have much time so I’ll tell it quickly. You knew … I used to follow your tour?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I had a strange childhood. I was confused about life for a while. I had … I wanted to be a part of what you and Ms. James were doing. I never meant to hurt anyone, or to frighten anyone, even though it may have seemed like it sometimes.”

  “I believe you about that,” he says, evenly. “I’ve heard about your childhood. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  I keep on, aware of the audience behind the glass, and of the dwindling time. Five minutes, Detective Allen had said. Now, I had less.

  “I was arrested at your show in Nashville, but I started a new life after I got out of jail. I started working as a caterer and focusing on living a good life. I didn’t want to bother you or your family anymore. The weekend before last, the company I worked for catered the Petersons’ party. I didn’t know your family would be there, and I was scared. I tried to stay out of the way. Ms. James saw me once, but I managed to get away.”

  “When the lights went out, that was you,” Owen says, the corner of his mouth showing—very slightly—a shadow of a smile. “Right?”

  “That’s right. I turned
them off. I wanted to stay out of trouble because I wasn’t supposed to be close to your family, so I slipped away.”

  “You were scared,” he says calmly, like he’s forgiven me.

  I nod. “But you hired us for your party the next weekend, and your manager, Robert Holloway, found me at my work after everyone else was gone. I said I wouldn’t go, but he told me that you and Ms. James felt bad about my arrest and wanted to set things right with me, that you admired hard work and we would all have our photo taken together when I worked at your party—it would be a happy ending. He said it would be good publicity with the album coming out.”

  Owen’s face clouds over with confusion. He cuts a quick glance at the mirror.

  My thoughts flash back to the cases of wine, the smirk on Robert’s face, the sound of the music coming from inside the house, and the flickering light reflected in the swimming pool.

  “He was actually stealing from you and Ms. James, some of it valuable, but he wanted to look like a hero—like he’d caught me trespassing and protected you. He wanted me to be caught at the house so it would look like I was the one taking it. I learned later that Ms. James had suspected him of taking things as far back as last summer’s tour, and that he had access to a bank account of yours. But that’s another story. Robert didn’t know what was about to happen to Ms. James Saturday night.”

  Owen’s jaw clinches. “He asked you specifically to come to our party? Even though you intended to not go?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  His exhausted eyes brighten with understanding. “Go on,” he says.

  “Of course, I wanted what Robert was saying to be true. So I believed him and agreed to work the party. I saw Ms. James on my way to your house. She passed me in her SUV, then walked into the woods. After Robert called the police to tell them I was there, I was scared and ran to my car. In the dark, I saw someone on the same trail Ms. James had gone up—the shape of a man. I know now I was seeing Sean Peterson. They were having an affair. He had gone to meet her.”

  Owen doesn’t move a muscle, his face perfectly still.

  “But you knew already. You found out right before the party.”

  He doesn’t respond, so I keep going with my story.

  “Finch told me that you and Shelly had fought earlier. You were fighting because you found out about the affair. Shelly left just before the party, that was when I saw her. When I left the party, Sean saw me coming toward my car. He ran after me, so I drove away. A few minutes later I nearly ran into Finch on the road. She said there was a man too. She said she’d run away from him. I asked her to get in my car, and she did. She sat right in the passenger seat. I wondered if the person chasing her was the same person I’d seen. But she didn’t actually see a man in the woods. Finch made that up. I didn’t understand that until yesterday.”

  I hear Owen’s chair creak and I look up. He puts his hands in his pockets. “Finch was at a friend’s house,” he says.

  I glance at the glass, then back at Owen. I see his pulse throbbing in his neck.

  “She actually made that up too. Finch wanted more than anything for her family to stay together, but she knew everything was about to end, right?”

  “That’s not …” he mumbles, then stops.

  “She was angry, and she chased Shelly to the park to confront her.”

  “Finch was at a friend’s house since earlier that afternoon,” Owen says, changing direction. I picture a car slowing at a dead end and turning around. “She never got in your car that night.”

  “You know that isn’t true,” I say. “And so do I. I believed every word Finch told me that night, and I didn’t understand until yesterday how the murder weapon ended up in my car. See, when I thought back, I realized I never actually watched her go inside the police station. I was afraid—the police had been called on me. And I was scared because of what Finch was saying. I drove away before I could see her open the police station door. But Finch left something behind when she got out—the limestone rock she’d used to hit Ms. James. I didn’t see that she had it—it was so dark and pouring rain. She must have quietly slipped it underneath the passenger seat of my car. It stayed there until the police found it.”

  Owen rubs his temples, irritated. “You’re just making things up now.”

  “I’m not making anything up. A minute ago you wanted to hear the truth, and I’m telling it to you.” I think of Detective Marion when I go on: “Check the times in her phone records. Friends sometimes cover for each other. When I went to warn Finch about Sean, she had to act like she’d never seen me. Her friends were watching. She had to keep her story straight that she hadn’t seen me the night before. She started screaming for help.” I look right into Owen’s eyes. “At the time, I didn’t understand why she acted like I meant to harm her.”

  He stares at me blankly before standing up, glaring at the mirror. He begins to shout, “You don’t know what you’re …”

  There’s a knock on the door, then Detective Allen and a man in a dark blue suit enter. Owen’s nostrils are flaring, but his voice softens back to how it sounded a minute earlier. “I’m … sorry you were involved in what happened,” he says.

  The man in the blue suit squeezes Owen’s shoulder. None of them look at me as they leave the room. The door stays open, and I watch as Owen runs his hands through his hair. The man in the blue suit speaks very quickly. Detective Allen folds his arms over his chest.

  Then the door is pulled closed, and I’m alone in the blinding lights.

  18

  I’m led back to my cell and am alone again for a while.

  A meal arrives, and I eat it. A little time passes. I drift off to sleep, and dream.

  I’m standing in front of a newspaper recycling bin, a stack of old editions in my arms, conflicted because I’m destroying history. But somehow I know that what I’m destroying will actually be transformed. I open the lid and find a snake coiled inside, defensive and ready to strike. Its fangs gleam, slick with venom. When the lid slams closed with a bang, I step back, wondering as my heart pounds: Am I safe?

  Then, I wake up.

  Later, my lawyer returns. He seems in a rush this time—chewing and then hurriedly crunching a mint. He talks into a phone while typing onto a tablet. I raise my hand but he’s looking upward, like he’s trying to remember something by reading it off the ceiling.

  “Sir?” I ask. I’ve forgotten his name.

  “Oh, hi.” He smiles, almost like he’s just realized we are sitting in the same space. “I’m trying to get you released.”

  I pause as this sinks in.

  “Suffice it to say that meeting with Owen James may have gone just as you planned, but it was definitely not what he or his attorney expected. You’re now being held in connection to a crime that someone else has now been arrested for.”

  My hands begin to tremble with relief. My eyes look heavenward. But at the same time my chest begins to ache. I don’t want to be in jail, but there’s no joy in Finch being arrested. I never wanted any of this to be true. My throat feels tight as I ask him, “So, I’m going to be let out?”

  “I’m trying to see if the state wants to press any other charges—which they may. But they also may not, you know, considering your, you know.”

  He means my history as a kid. He sounds shy as he mentions it, and he sounds young. He looks at his phone and squints, then lowers it and looks up at me. He says, “From what I understand, Finch James has confessed to the murder.”

  * * *

  The next day, I am led into a room with little tables where visitors sit on one side and prisoners on the other. A guard is stationed at each side of the door. The room smells like hairspray and perfume and everyone speaks in a voice just above a whisper. The echoes caught between the hard walls sound the way I imagine a beach’s tide would, only softer.

  When I see Ms. Parsons sitting stiffly with her hands in her lap, I realize she looks completely out of place but I recognize her expression. It’s the sam
e as when we first met, when she first heard the details of what had gone on when I was a kid—before and during my living in the dark. To my eyes, she has a warm glow around her. I feel bad that she has had to come to a room like this to see me.

  She chews her bottom lip as I sit across from her.

  “Jessie,” she says, “Your eye.”

  “It’ll … it’s okay. In the case, Fin …”

  Ms. Parsons nods. “Yes, Finch was arrested.”

  It has to be true. Ms. Parsons wouldn’t lie.

  “What you said in your meeting with Owen James changed the whole investigation. When you told him Shelly was with the Petersons’ son, Sean, the police had to look more closely at Finch. Up to then, they hadn’t had a motive, and she had an alibi. She was questioned again after you spoke to Owen. Her story didn’t fit what she’d said before, apparently. They searched your car again and found a strand of her hair. There was no other explanation for that except that you had picked her up like you said. She said she wanted to talk to her father and to the family attorney.”

  I take a breath as what she says washes over me.

  “Your lawyer told me that the state isn’t going to pursue charges against you. But there may be a hearing that sets different terms of your probation.”

  I glance at the people sitting at the other tables and feel a strange guilt that I may be leaving soon but they won’t. I ask Ms. Parsons, “You and I will still be able to work together?”

  “Probably even more than before.”

  There aren’t many good things about what happened, but this is one.

  * * *

  How could she?

  That’s what anyone who knew the James family asks about Finch as the true story comes to light. How could a girl kill her own mother? After Shelly and Owen adopted her, took her into their home, and made her a part of their family? How could she be so cruel? The question is already a whisper around Nashville, I’m sure.