Little Threats

by Emily Schultz

  “Did Kennedy watch it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” Carter exchanged the towel for a robe, then found her phone and sent a message to Kennedy. She sat down next to Everett on the bed.

  On the screen there was an unsteady home video of Haley Rae Kimberson at ten. The footage was aged, amber. She was wearing short Adidas shorts, skipping rope in the Kimbersons’ driveway.

  Carter drew a breath. To see her friend, alive, happy.

  “I’m the toddler in the background,” Everett said, his chin jutting forward.

  “I don’t know if I can watch it.”

  Everett took her hand and she realized she would stay, she couldn’t not be beside him for it.

  Dee Nash appeared onscreen, wearing a burgundy pencil skirt and a black blazer. She stared into the camera with an intensity that asked you to lean closer, listen—even from across an ocean.

  Carter imagined the show playing on TVs in Laundromats and bars across the United States. People looking up at Kennedy’s face, then back down to fold towels. She was in close-up now, her name across the bottom, the beginning of the interview they’d shot at the hotel. They were done hiding, Carter realized. Even though the house in Blueheart sat empty, Kennedy had been living in Nathan’s vacant apartment, and Carter at Everett’s. When she returned home, they would go back to their lives, and people would, or wouldn’t, recognize them. Carter got up and paced to the window, stared out at the lights of the Fourteenth Arrondissement below. She drew a shaky breath and let it out into the blue night.

  When she came back to his side, the monitor showed the photo of their father holding a baby on each arm. It was surreal to look at him now.

  “I’m on the right,” she told Everett. “The quiet one.”

  She knew because her mother had told her. She had used color-coded pins on their diapers, white for Carter, blue for Kennedy. Kennedy’s eyes were shut tight and her mouth was open, as though she were crying loudly. It had obviously been taken in their first week at home. Her skin was soft and pink, new.

  March 1, 2009

  Yesterday morning I boxed old files of Gerry’s and shredded receipts, took the books down from the shelves, and ran a long-handled duster over the surfaces. It was clean because he had always paid for a service—but I wanted every skin cell of his gone. When I phoned the Macaulay niece who still lives down the block and asked if she had any advice for where to donate the law books, she told me it was likely that most were outdated. Prison has made me think time stopped. The suburbs too. But nothing ever stops.

  I tied a faded paisley bandana from one of my bedroom drawers over my hair while I cleaned; I wanted the air in this place to shine. I sprayed and swiped at the mirrors, watching my face convert—wet and blurry, then coming clear. I’m in Nathan’s metal shirt. He’ll be out in a couple months, but I haven’t decided what place—if any—he’ll have in my life. Or anyone, except Carter.

  I still have the feeling that I know when Carter is happy or sad. When I woke this morning, I felt it. Knowing where my sister is in the universe is like walking through a familiar room that’s pitch-black and not bumping against any of the furniture.

  This morning I phoned a charity that takes job interview clothing for parolees and asked for a pickup.

  When I carried his clothes downstairs my hand lingered on a sweater of Gerry’s. It was the one he wore the day he came to get me from the jail, but I refuse to allow myself nostalgia, not for him. I lugged the stuff outside and left the bags and boxes, piled neatly against the house on the walk.

  * * *

  —

  Dee Nash visited earlier this week. She was on her way to a shoot in Baltimore. I could see how fascinated she was by the house as she walked through it, like she was meeting a friend of a friend she’d been told stories about for years.

  “All by yourself here?” Dee asked.

  “It’s everything I know.”

  “If he’s found guilty you can sue the state,” she told me.

  “They already offered a settlement. Fifty thousand per year of imprisonment.”

  “Smart of them. But cheap.”

  “I’m grateful, you know.”

  Dee turned from the window where she’d been looking out at the Japanese garden. She smiled. “Good goes both ways. Thanks to your episode, we got renewed.”

  * * *

  —

  The rec room will become a music room. That’s the plan. Next week the piano will arrive. I’ve been spending a lot of time in there with my old Gibson Epiphone. There’s a melody I’ve been trying to find. It begins slowly, then becomes hard quickly. Like me, I guess. Where it goes after that I’m not sure.

  Today while playing I heard a sound upstairs. A door shutting.

  I set the guitar down and called out, “Hello?”

  When I peered out the window the bags stacked outside for the charity were still sitting there. When I went to my own bedroom, I pushed open the door, and stepped around the paint can and brush and tray that were sitting there. The room is now a bright cherry-blossom pink.

  “Are you here?” I said to the empty room.

  That moment the evening was falling. Some CDs and books on my shelf had slid over, as if a hand had riffled through them, knocking several down on their sides. The copy of Jane Eyre I stole from the high school sat on the plastic-draped bed, its pages rustling slightly, as if someone were skimming through them.

  “Don’t leave me, Haley. I like to have you near me.”

  It’s what Helen told Jane, before she died at the Lowood School. When I said it, the book stopped flipping, as if someone there had paused, looked up. I crossed the room and shut the window, returned the paperback to its place on the shelf. There is no ribbon of hair in it, and there is no time for me to be a girl again. There is only time now to be a woman.

  —Kennedy Wynn

  Blueheart Woods

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my editor, Danielle Dieterich. Her commitment to this book and care for every page guided me to a better novel. Gratitude also to Sally Kim and everyone at G. P. Putnam’s Sons for making my novel this beautifully designed book. Thank you to my literary agent, Ryan D. Harbage, who pushed me creatively, and his co-agent, Christopher Hermelin, at Fischer-Harbage Agency. Thank you, Rob Hart, who read this book in an early draft and offered much encouragement. Thanks to Karen Dionne, Bryn Greenwood, and Karen Thompson Walker for their kind words.

  Thank you to the twins who talked to me about their own experiences, including my brothers Erik and Ross Schultz, my friends Matthew and Mark Thibideau, and Mari Sasano. Thanks to my brother Dave, my lone sibling who is not a twin, who shared valuable insight from his work in corrections.

  There are friends and colleagues who have helped with this novel even though they might not have known it. For the words, coffees, support, and inspiration: Jim Hanas, Cecilia Corrigan, Darley Stewart, Brian Gresko, Tobias Carroll, Paul W. Morris, Rachel Fershleiser, Alice Kaltman, Andy Gershon, Duncan Birmingham, Kirsten Kearse, Jenny Grace Makholm, Cat Behan, Craig Stephen, Sarah Van Sinclair, Faye Guenther, Dan Robinet, Rob Winger, Michael Holmes, David Caron, Jack David, Éric Fontaine, and Rachel Morgenstern-Clarren. A special thank-you to my friends since the 1990s, Rebecca McClelland and Dawn Lewis. They were and are daughters of the kaos.

  Thank you to Michelle Lyn King, Kyle Lucia Wu, Amy Shearn, Kathryn Mockler, and everyone at Joyland, a journal and an idea that gave me my career and my community.

  I’m deeply indebted to my son’s school, his teachers, and therapists, who have been critical to my understanding of autism. As my son continues to develop and overcome his challenges, this ultimately allows me to worry less and write more. Thanks especially, Michelle Flax, Lynne Kalvin, Jennifer Shonkoff, and Katie Yanguas. Thanks to our friend Kristine Musademba, and to Keen Kids athletics program, and the Extreme Kids & Crew grou
p. Thank you to the Davis and Schultz families for your enormous help.

  This book exists because of Brian J. Davis, my partner in life and work. He is my everything. He accepts no compliments but always gives out the right ones when I need them. Thank you to my son, Henry, who inspires me every day to live bigger and try harder.

  I am grateful to my mother, who instilled the love of story in me from an early age. When I first began writing, she gave me great advice: “Just don’t let it be boring.” Thanks and love.

  little threats

  emily schultz

  Discussion Guide

  A Conversation with Emily Schultz

  Discussion Guide

  Little Threats is told from the point of view of several different characters, and through interviews, writing assignments, and memories. How did experiencing these different viewpoints change your reading experience? Was there a specific character that you felt most connected to?

  Kennedy must discover what it means to be an adult after spending her formative years in prison. How does she transform over the course of the novel? What would her adulthood have looked like if Haley had never been murdered?

  Take a look at the different sibling relationships explored in Little Threats, comparing and contrasting the connections between Haley and Everett, Carter and Kennedy, and even Berk and Wyatt. How do relationships with siblings shape us?

  Little Threats is set in 2008, but the crime at its heart took place in 1993. Did the culture of the 1990s have an impact on the crime? How does the 1990s era impact the characters in the present-day? Discuss the interplay between past and present in the novel, particularly looking at the characters who are trying to bury their pasts.

  Discuss the impact that class and socioeconomic status have upon both Haley’s murder investigation and the punishment (or lack thereof) of those responsible. Consider the different ways that money and symbols of wealth are discussed by the various characters.

  Throughout the novel, how did your suspicions about the identity of Haley’s murderer shift and change?

  Though Haley is not alive during the events of the novel, she is very much a character. In what ways is she represented on the page? Which characters act in her interests? How does Haley transcend the typical definition of a “victim“?

  Why do you think that Carter and Everett are drawn to each other? Do you think they would have formed a relationship if they had not been connected by the crime? What do you imagine happens to them after the novel’s end?

  Each of the characters in Little Threats carries guilt over Haley’s death in different ways. How does guilt manifest in each of them? Why do certain characters find ways to cope with guilt, and others crumble beneath it?

  Discuss the moments when different characters believe they see Haley’s ghost. Do these moments have anything in common? What do you think triggers these sightings?

  There are many variations on relationships and power and age in the book. Is this something we see differently now than we did in 1993, or 2008?

  A Conversation with Emily Schultz

  What inspired Little Threats?

  I always knew that I wanted to write about a group of people years after a crime had happened. In my own life, I’ve seen people go through extremely traumatic events and how each reacts and learns to cope is very different. I also wanted to write about the ’90s, and twins—my brothers are twins. And this story of people years after a murder seemed to be able to support all these subjects I wanted to write about. I’ve always found a novel is almost like a band writing a song. It starts as a few notes, then a melody emerges, and it comes together when it does.

  Little Threats is very different from your debut novel, The Blondes—was the writing process different?

  I’d like to point out that Little Threats also begins with hair! So there is at least that throughline. But it was very different in that The Blondes was told entirely through the voice of one character, Hazel, as she’s on this journey through a very strange pandemic. The process for Little Threats was all about settling on the voices of the story. During editing, we decided to only give POVs to the characters who had been through the 1993 events: the two families and Berk. Limiting the writing to them let me focus on what made me want to start this novel: what happens to people after the crime you read about in the news is no longer front-page.

  Why did you decide to veer toward the suspense genre? What genre would you classify Little Threats as belonging to?

  This is my first psychological thriller, but my late father, who was an English teacher, read three mysteries a week and always wanted to write one. Because of that he was a supporter of all my writing: poetry, literary fiction. I wish he could have read this one to tell me how I did.

  I think I moved to the mystery genre because something has happened: Women are taking up this genre as our own, as writers and readers. We get to express our darkest thoughts here—what we’re most afraid of—in ways we couldn’t in other places. For me, I would say what’s more terrifying than your very first boyfriend showing up unannounced in your backyard years later? Once I had that scene between Kennedy and Berk, I knew I had to tell the story.

  I think how women read mystery is different than how men read it. For us, these are cautionary tales. While we’re being entertained we’re also processing our own experiences.

  The culture and chaos of the 1990s is at the heart of the novel—why were you drawn to write about this time period? What were the 1990s like for you, personally?

  I started off the 1990s very young, in my teen years, and ended that decade as an adult. That meant I made both the best and the worst decisions of my life in that decade. I always wanted to write about the music, novels, and films of that period because for me they were so exciting. It was a time of intense optimism and also subversiveness. Depending who you were, 1993 was peak grunge, or riot girl. Activism was everywhere. Hip-hop was also exploding, and by 1995 we were moving into electronic music and rave culture. I remember 1993 very clearly because it was the first year I lived in a house with my friends, away from home. Berk’s apartment is going to be familiar to anyone in college at that time, but I wasn’t able to put in everything—I had to tailor it to these specific characters’ experiences.

  Are any of the events in the novel based on your own experiences?

  When the character of Berk made his way into the book I recognized where he came from, and I started to understand Kennedy better. Like Kennedy, my first boyfriend was in his twenties when I was sixteen. I spent an unreasonable amount of time after it was over focused on a person for whom I was little more than a conquest. Those early relationships are formative and really shape the way you look at the world, whom you trust or don’t trust, whether you are capable of love and meaningful connections. For a very long time, I was not. It was a consensual relationship, but the power imbalance affected my confidence for years.

  I want to think I’ve forgiven that person in my life. I could say nice things: He introduced me to the Beats and encouraged me to write. But I admit it was really easy to write Berk as a jerk—the sly, flirty comments that also undermine, and the things he brags about. It was freeing to write Carter as someone who sees through him, even though Kennedy doesn’t. The Berk Butlers of this world used to be a rite of passage for young women and men, and now we’re looking at that differently. Another thing I learned is that I’m far from the person I was at sixteen. In all those ways, Little Threats is my most personal book to date, but it’s also the most fictionalized. I’m not very good at memoir or essays because I do need the freedom of fiction.

  Little Threats is narrated from multiple points of view—did you find that some character perspectives were easier to write than others? Did you have any favorites?

  It was trickiest to write Gerry because I’ve never
been a fiftysomething male lawyer. But it’s just like in acting. You happen on one thing and it becomes the key to the character. Once I put him alone in that house, changing the linens, it opened up his world for me. He really is all about the house, the suburbs, and trying to keep life the same. Writing Everett felt natural because his life is probably closer to mine: I’m a country girl. His relationship with his mom, Marly, was also something I wanted to explore because it is complex. She’s stuck in the past and she needs him to stay with her but also wants him to get on with it and live his life. There is such a push and pull between them.

  Kennedy’s writing assignments from prison are so interesting! Why did you decide to share some of Kennedy’s story in this way?

  These sections are in first-person because I wanted to give the reader an intimate portrait of the crime even though it’s far in the past. It lets us know how much Kennedy has struggled with what she knows and doesn’t know. I found it a very powerful device because it is a break from the main narrative. At the same time, it’s easy to do it too much, so limiting it to her assignments was a way for me to use it just enough.

  What kind of research did you do while writing this novel?

  With fiction you can slow yourself down with too much research, so I try to get the story done first and make sure the facts are right during editing. And getting feedback is sometimes the best way to make sure it’s right. I have relatives who have worked or taught in prisons and some of the details have come from their stories over the years. Gerry having a powerful friend sit beside him in court during the plea hearing came from a celebrity court case I read about, and it turns out it’s common. When I did an early reading of that chapter, a public defender came up to me after and she said it captured how plea deals happen and how the privileged game the system. In terms of pop culture, I think because the setting and era were so personal to me, I had to do very little research. It does pay to fact-check your memories though. I can’t believe how off I was sometimes on music history. On that note, I will say that Carter’s musical taste is much more mine, whereas Kennedy’s is more like my husband’s and my friends from the time. I did always feel like the granola girl around the punks.