Double Grades

by Kristine Robinson

  I go through the motions of being a functional human being, but Hannah lingers always at the back, or front, of my mind. Who am I kidding? She’s front and center always. I have long, frustrating conversations with her in my head in which I find just the right combination of words to break through her analytical armor. What good is logic in the face of love? I am a writer; uncertainty is a constant and I have no qualms with holding contradictory ideas in my head at any given time. Truth is relative and subjective. But Hannah, my ex fiancé, is a lawyer, brilliant and fierce. I was drawn to her strength and cutting analysis. But she left no room for wonder, for exploration and doubt. Love is reckless and fundamentally uncertain. Of course, we can’t know how we’ll feel in 40 years. No one can, but other people somehow manage to make commitments, to get married. Why couldn’t she embrace this as I could?

  She had no trouble embracing other things, I think with that familiar ache. She may have been cautious and calculating when it came to life choices, but Hannah was never reserved when it came to passion. She was all in. The contrast between Hannah-the-professional and Hannah-the-woman is part of what made our love so charged. With me, she could get dirty and let her hair down. And she liked getting dirty, she just needed a little push. Shocking her was nearly as enjoyable as the rest of what we did together…nearly.

  Just before turning in for the night, I decide to check my email one last time. As the page loads, I see that I have 1 new message from someone I don’t know. Clicking to open it, my blood turns to ice in my veins. Somebody out there knows what I did all those years ago. The message reads:

  Chloe-

  A belated congratulation to you on the success of your first novel, High Water. Such an unusual topic; however did the idea come to you? I know your secret. If you do not want anybody else to know your secret, then you will pay ten thousand dollars a month for the rest of your life.

  A knot is forming low in my belly as I stare at the words “I know your secret.” If word got out about this, I know that my writing career would be over. I’ve worked so hard to build my credentials and reputation as a novelist and I have so much more I want to say. Not ready for my career to be over, I start pacing the cabin, trying to figure out how to respond to this impossible dilemma. I decide to meet the blackmailer demands. I will make the first payment, at least. I don’t have the money to continue paying after that, but that’s a problem that I can’t worry about right now. As I sit down to reply to the message, I hear a gunshot ring just outside the cabin.

  I’m not a coward, but my instincts tell me not to approach the sound of gunfire; that’s just good sense. Nevertheless, I venture towards the front door. This is a fairly rugged, sparsely populated area. Occasionally I hear shots as people take aim at jackrabbits or rattlesnakes, but nobody should be hunting at night. The sun set hours ago. And on this strange night, after getting an email from a blackmailer, gunfire is an ominous sound that couldn’t mean anything good. Nevertheless, with shaking hands I turn on the porch light and open the door.

  My heart starts racing as I see the dead man on the stoop, garishly illuminated by the bare yellow bulb above. I’m momentarily paralyzed with shock, half in and half out of the door, goosebumps on my arms from the cold or from fear or both. I can’t process what I’m seeing; a dead man on the stoop of my cabin? Impossible. Am I crazy? Maybe he isn’t dead; perhaps he’s a lost hiker, passed out from dehydration and hypothermia. Maybe he needs help.

  This last thought jolts me out of my paralysis and I stumble towards him, kneeling to place a hand on his throat. I feel nothing, not even a flutter of movement. It doesn’t look like he is breathing. I should find out who he is, I think fuzzily. Maybe he has family I should contact. I start rifling through his pockets, searching for I.D. As I withdraw my hand from his jacket pocket, I notice something lying beside him on the edge of the stoop in the near darkness; it’s my 9mm. I’m sure of it. I’m also sure that I had left it under the driver’s seat of my Jeep. So, why is it here, beside this dead stranger? Just as my foggy brain starts to realize how incriminating this all looks, flashing blue lights flood the driveway.

  Getting shakily to my feet, I raise my arms above my head. The police officer leaves his lights flashing like strobe lights in a horror movie as he gets out of the vehicle. His weapon is drawn and pointed right at me. I’ve never had a gun trained on me before and it isn’t something that was on my bucket list. Disbelief at this evening’s insane turn of events makes it feel like everything is happening underwater, in slow motion. He cautiously approaches, keeping his gun up and ready the whole time. I probably look like a terrified rabbit, frozen and shaking with eyes the size of saucers. Ascending the steps, he holsters his weapon and unclips handcuffs from his belt. Standing close beside me now, on the narrow stoop, he towers over me. I’m 5’5” with shoes. He does nothing to overtly threaten me, but I am very aware of my relative fragility and helplessness, especially considering how culpable I must appear. I notice his badge: Sherriff Gregory Kean.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

  The rushing in my ears drowns out his voice as my wrists are cuffed behind me, the angle pinching my shoulders slightly. Walking feels ungainly with arms pinned behind, I think bemusedly, scuffing the rocky ground with my sneakers as I’m led to the waiting cruiser. He opens the back door and puts a hand on the top of my head to guide me into the waiting backseat. I hope this is a dream, I think wistfully as tires crunch the loose gravel heading down the mountain. But, either way, it will make excellent material for my next novel…Assuming I ever get to write again.

  Hannah

  I can feel a headache building behind my eyes. I’ve been at the office going through case files all morning. It’s good to stay busy, but it isn’t good to stare at computer screens for hours and it’s definitely not good to forget to eat. Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I sit back in my soft, black leather, ergonomic desk chair and concede that food is necessary. There’s a deli just a few blocks away. I can get a sandwich and, on the way, stop to check my P.O. Box.

  Stepping out onto the street, I zip my jacket and grimace at the overcast skies. This is the third day of damp, breezy fifties and I’m ready for sunshine. I walk briskly to the Post Office; it takes only a moment to gather my mail and I am back en route to lunch. As I walk, I flip through letters and bills until I come to a dark red envelope. At first, I think it must be a belated valentine. February 14th was one week ago. But who would send me a valentine? Chloe would still be too heartbroken for a frivolous or sentimental gesture. My heart constricts at the thought, knowing that I single-handedly threw away our shot at happily ever after because I didn’t believe in it. Sometimes I have a head and heart disconnect that disgusts even myself.

  I remember our last Valentine’s Day. Chloe, my sweet little romantic, scattered flower petals along the walkway leading to our front door. I had insisted on working that day, of course. Someone has to be responsible, right? When I got home, the table was set for 2. She had made dinner; it smelled like pancetta and tomato sauce: something red. She was wearing the white tee shirt and jeans that I liked best on her. She looked like James Dean, if James Dead had been a beautiful woman. I practically ran into her arms. She held me and we kissed for several long moments before she backed me up against the wall. She devoured me with her mouth and her hands, her palms grazing my nipples through my sheer pink blouse. I slid my hands up under her tee shirt and unclasped her bra while her thigh inserted itself between my legs, pinning me to the wall. I melted against her, wrapping both arms shamelessly around her neck to draw her into me even more. I remember being so wet that it reaches the skin on her leg through the denim. When we broke apart briefly, there was a sizable dark patch on her thigh. I just smirked at her and pressed myself against her again.

  She maneuvered me away from the wall and towards the dining room table, so nicely laid out for 2. And 2 shall be laid upon it! I thought gi
ddily. She backed me up slowly, still kissing me, and lay me down on top of the table with my legs dangling over the side. “I guess I know what you’re having for dinner,” I teased her. Then I wrapped my legs around her body and clung to her desperately as she carried out her intention to have me.

  She just wanted me, I think. I had someone in my life who was beautiful, passionate, and utterly devoted to me and I threw it away like an idiot! She’s probably treating some other lucky girl to a special Valentine’s Day dinner right now, I think petulantly, feeling more and more sorry for myself by the moment.

  Returning to present day reality, in which I’m single and alone, I’m starting to think that I might be stupid after all. Looking at the mysterious red envelope in my hand, I see that it is addressed to me, “Hannah Jaffe,” and there is no return address; I decide to open it once I’m seated at the deli. There are only a handful of people in front of me in line. When I get up to the counter, an adorable blond hipster takes my order. He maintains eye contact a moment too long. I couldn’t care less. I almost pity the guys who try to hit on me. There’s no way for them to tell that I’m gay aside from my total lack of interest, which they usually fail to pick up on. My dark, wavy hair is long. I wear feminine, form fitting tops that show off my lovey figure. I’m not too modest to admit it; it is lovely. I’m soft and round, long and lean, in all the right places. I miss Chloe. What is this body for without her? She didn’t just know what do to with my body, she worshipped my body like no one I’ve ever known. Other lovers lacked imagination or depth. Chloe had it all.

  I order a turkey and Havarti sandwich with spicy mustard. The mustard is locally made and very good; I’d mix it into my breakfast cereal if I thought I could get away with that and still integrate into society. Claiming a barstool at the counter, I wipe the mustard from my fingers and pluck the blood red envelope from the stack of ordinary, white missives. Still chewing, I rip the letter open and pull out a photograph of myself.

  I break out in a cold sweat, recognizing myself from ten years earlier. It’s like seeing a ghost, for surely that confused 19-year-old child no longer exists. That’s not me. But it is me. I’m nearly 30 now, a responsible, law abiding citizen, an attorney with a solid reputation. But the girl in this photograph tells a different story. There’s only one reason somebody would anonymously send me an incriminating photograph of myself. Somebody means to blackmail me. I don’t intend to let that happen.

  Calling a trusted friend, Matt Malone, I acquire the name of a private detective who comes highly recommended. The man’s office is across town. My car is in a parking deck beside my office; within 10 minutes I’m zipping around the dark bends of the garage, following the exit signs. My haste is brought up short by the LA traffic which can easily turn “across town” into an uncertain expedition or, worse, a waiting room for cars. Sitting in traffic and having so much time to worry does not improve my headache and by the time I find the private detective’s office, my nerves are frayed to the breaking point.

  The private detective as an unassuming looking middle aged man with light brown hair and pointed features. He invites me into his office and closes the door. Sitting, I pull out the red envelope, showing him the photograph inside. He studies it attentively, eyes darting from the girl in the picture to the woman holding the picture in her hand. I explain the circumstances in which I received the envelope. He asks me a handful of pertinent questions which I answer honestly. At the conclusion of our meeting, the man meets my worried eyes and confidently assures me that my blackmailer will be tracked down.

  Against all reason, I return to work. The thought of downtime just makes me more nervous. Work, at least, feels like normal, like things are okay. I stand on the street in front of my office, taking deep breaths and trying to slow my galloping heartbeat. I’ve done all that I can do. I walk inside and finish my workday with a moderate hum of anxiety buzzing behind every moment and spiking every time my eyes fall on the torn red envelope peeking slyly out of my bag.

  At 5 o’clock, I gather my things and get back in my car. Driving home, my mind is swirling with speculation. Who could the blackmailer be? How did they get their hands on this picture? If the person who took the picture is also the blackmailer, then did we go to school together? And if the photographer and blackmailer are one and the same, why did they wait 10 years to blackmail me? Pulling into the driveway, I cut the engine and make my way to the front door. Moving like a sleepwalker in my preoccupation, I turn the key, not realizing at first that the door is unlocked.

  Putting my keys away, I turn the handle and step inside thinking it strange that I forgot to lock the door this morning. I always lock the door. It’s habit. The hallway is dark, but I can easily find my way from memory and shadow. Once I reach the kitchen, I flip on a light, the bright fluorescents bouncing off the tea kettle and the hanging stainless steel cookware. I see a flash of something out of the corner of my eye and stagger in shock. There’s a dead man lying on the kitchen floor. His slumped shoulders and light brown hair are visible behind the island and what caught my eye was the knife sticking out of his back.

  Before I can form a coherent thought, I see blue flashing lights through the kitchen window. A moment later, I hear heavy footsteps in the hallway heralding the arrival of two burly police officers with guns drawn. In stunned disbelief, I raise my hands above my head as one of the officers holsters his weapon and puts me in handcuffs. I am charged with the murder of the private detective that I hired only 5 hours earlier.

  At the police station, I am allowed one phone call. I call Matt, the same friend I spoke with earlier today. He is also a lawyer and I trust him to be discreet. He arranges bail for me and I am released temporarily. Hailing a cab, I return home. The police have finished their initial processing of the crime scene but there is caution tape blocking off most of my kitchen. Good thing I’m too freaked out to be hungry, I think grimly. Retreating from the kitchen, I switch on the hall light for the first time today and notice a red envelope wedged under the front door. It must have been there when I came home, I just didn’t notice it in the dark.

  Bending down, I lift the envelope delicately in trembling fingers. Taking a deep breath, I pull out a typed letter:

  Hannah-

  Do you know where Chloe is? I do. She is an unhappy guest of the Visalia Police Department. Poor Chloe. You will find her there and you will help her to escape. Or she will die.

  I need to go find Chloe. Wait, think think, I tell myself. It’s late. And Visalia is 3 hours away. By the time I get there, it will be the middle of the night. No police officer in their right mind would trust me if I show up looking haggard in the middle of the night. Though every cell in my body is screaming to get in the car and go to her, to make sure that she is alright, I know that I must wait until morning. I will think this through and leave at dawn. I toss and turn, trying not to watch the clock or think about Chloe spending the night locked behind bars. Is she lying on the floor? Is she sharing the cell with violent criminals? Is she cold or scared? She gets cold so easily. I always teased her about that, “I’m going to start melting butter to sneak into your food. You need some body fat, girl!”

  As morning approaches, I watch the clock and, at 5 A.M., I spring out of bed, pulling my jeans on in the dark. I grab my wallet, a coat, and a bottle of water and head north. The thought of Chloe in jail, and her life threated on top of that, makes me furious and scared. She’s not as tough as she looks; and she doesn’t look all that tough. She’s basically a heart with legs, I think ruefully and blink away tears as I lower my foot on the gas pedal. These are tears of anger, I tell myself. There are almost 200 miles between Los Angeles and Visalia and I delineate every possibility I can think of on the way. To start with, the letter might be lying. It’s possible that Chloe is not in jail or, even if she is, that she will not be harmed if I do nothing. But I cannot take that risk. Not with Chloe.

  Assuming Chloe is in jail, the big question is, why? Last night, I was frame
d for the murder of the private investigator. Did something similar happen to Chloe? Does that mean that another innocent person has been killed? Why jump from blackmail to murder, without even allowing time to exploit the victim? My would-be blackmailer has yet to ask for money. There is no discernable coherence to these actions. Incoherent behavior drives me crazy. I analyze it over and over again, but it never makes sense.

  Driving into town, I spot the Visalia Police Department and park around the corner, out of sight of the entrance. I take a moment to fix my hair and face before striding resolutely into the police station, every inch the lawyer that I am. I am met by a tall, swarthy man in his early sixties. His badge says “Sherriff Gregory Kean.” I extend my hand to introduce myself, deciding at the last minute to use my real name in case he decides to check whether or not I’m really a lawyer.

  “Sherriff Kean, my name is Hannah Jaffe. I am here to meet with my client, Chloe Portman.”

  He nods, shaking my hand. “Of course, Ms. Jaffe, please follow me. As I’m sure you know, Chloe Portman is charged with first degree murder.”

  Without another word, he leads me through a door, down a corridor with bare, white walls, to a short row of cells. I follow close behind him, digesting the fact that Chloe, too, was framed for a murder. I don’t even consider the possibility that Chloe actually killed a man. She would never do that. Two innocent men dead. Both of us framed. Why? It makes no sense!