by Heidi Brod
“With this type of killing, there is very often a cooling-off period in between. And I think that explains the time between the murders now and what happened in Boston. Crimes like this are uncommon and often driven by sadistic compulsions.”
“How about the secret society that Jessa told you about?” Belle asks.
“The Skull Club sounds like some benign conspiracy crew. This guy preys on women in the sex trade because they are often overlooked and forgotten. As for motivation, it could be religious or some fucked-up form of vigilante justice,” Harper says.
“Have Lara circle back with Boston and pull everything on those murders. I need you to run an inquiry on a boat that Seraphina has seen off the dock of our house for the last few months. She feels like someone has been watching her and the baby. Also, she said she was followed the day of her car accident. Get the report.”
“Jesus, Harp, you thought she was crazy. What if she’s been right all along and someone is setting you up?”
Harper feels his head spin. He closes his eyes. He isn’t sure how much more of this he can take before he uncovers the truth.
Sixteen
SERAPHINA
I wake early to an apologetic message from Harper. I never meant for this to happen. I don’t know what type of evidence they have on him, but I know my husband. He is guilty of having sex with another woman, but not of committing a crime as hideous and gruesome as the murder of Jessa Dante.
Then I think about Harper, his history with his father and all of the drinking. Could he have murdered Jessa Dante? If so, who killed Brooke Beck and why?
Deep down, I want to believe Harper is innocent. I have to believe the father of my child is a good man, and his affair with Jessa Dante was a mistake and his only affair. That doesn’t explain the anger I feel from him all the time now.
I feel like no marriage is safe from a woman like Jessa. I just have to find out who’s behind all of this, and catch the predator as he spins his web of lies.
Harper is an easy target. He has an allegiance to pain, a foundation set from his childhood that is no longer permeable.
If only Harper believed in me from the beginning, we could have put an end to things before all of these events were so violently kicked into motion. The murderer is still out there, gaining strength and force, like a hurricane.
My memory is broken. The weight of my panic attacks is crushing me. The anniversary of my attack has passed, and my fears remain. I will learn to fight for the sake of my child, so she will have a voice. She is so innocent and peaceful as I watch her sleep in her crib, unaware of the danger that preys upon our family.
I drive straight to Jacob and practice shooting for hours. I have some basic skills from summer sleep-away camp and archery practice. It takes the same skill and precision to fire a gun and hit a target. I have natural talent. I’m now carrying the gun on my body. It takes me four seconds to draw and shoot it from the Flash Bang holster.
“That’s too long,” Jacob says. “You would be dead. You need to practice in the mirror when you go home tonight. I will time you again in the morning.”
For the first time, I’m not stewing, mind racing and out of control. This must be how Harper feels all the time. He’s always so unemotional and detached, just moving forward, one step at a time, never getting overly wrought or too far ahead.
I’m just sticking to the facts and working toward a goal, letting no obstacles stand in my way. I can feel my body start to change and get stronger. I’m less bloated from the lack of alcohol and pills. My mind is clear and lucid. I want to train, get stronger, mind and body.
This is the only thing that is within my control, given that I am at the center of the storm. Everything twists and turns around my movements. I can still feel someone tracking me, watching me, wherever I go.
My cell phone rings.
“Hi, Dr. Ellis. Thank you for calling.”
“Hi, Seraphina. I’m sorry to hear about Harper and everything you’re going through. What can I do to help?”
“I don’t think I’m being paranoid, at least not anymore. I think I’m at the center of all of these murders. I think someone has been stalking me, and I think they’re framing Harper to get him out of the picture.”
“I understand how you feel. I think we should talk about your medication.”
“I’m not crazy. I swear. Please believe me.”
“How can I help you, Seraphina? I can see you’re in pain.”
“Is there any way to recover what happened that night in Boston when I was unconscious?” I ask.
“We can try hypnosis. It’s an aid to psychotherapy because the hypnotic state might allow you to explore painful thoughts, feelings, and memories you might have hidden from your conscious mind. Sometimes it also helps to block the awareness of pain.”
“Is there a downside?”
“There is a risk of creating false memories—usually the result of unintended suggestions by me. It’s not usually used to treat dissociative disorders for that reason.”
“What else? I can tell you don’t like the idea, but what choice do I have?” I say.
“Well, you could experience the pain from the attack all over again. It may be too much for you, at a time when you are healing, finally getting stronger, and moving forward. I think it’s too dangerous.”
“I don’t think I can handle that right now. Is there anything else I can do?”
“We can try EMDR.”
“What is EMDR?” I ask.
“Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing. It’s been effective in treating post-traumatic stress disorder. It doesn’t rely on talk therapy or medications, which I know you are opposed to.”
“Thank you, Dr. Ellis. I’m willing to try it.” I hang up.
I close my eyes. I inhale. I exhale, focusing on the breath and staying calm. Then I pick up the phone and hit speaker, replaying Carter’s message.
“Seraphina, it’s Carter. It was great to hear from you. I’m in Montauk. Why don’t you come out for a visit? It’s forty-five minutes on the seaplane. I’ll send it for you if you’re interested. It’s really beautiful out here this time of year. Call me.”
I call Carter back. If anyone can connect the dots to the night I was attacked in Boston and whoever is stalking me now, it’s him. I must have mentioned something or someone in the days that followed. Any small clue could trigger a memory that would help me figure out the past.
In my mind, I’m hunted and stalked, hands tied behind my back. The memories are stuck on fast-forward in my mind, silently creeping up on me.
These flashbacks pursue and haunt, refusing to end their reign of terror, wreaking havoc on everyone around me.
Seventeen
SERAPHINA AND JACOB AKANI
The news of Harper’s arrest went out like shockwaves. The police have set up barricades blocking all of the entrances to get to our home. TV crews are lined up with vans and satellite feeds, sharply dressed anchors in front of their microphones, commenting on our family and the fate of Harper’s future.
Helicopters fly overhead, getting an aerial shot of the property. How ironic. I no longer feel alone.
A team of investigators, medical examiners and forensics investigators are going through our home, searching for evidence.
Harper texts me:
*Where are you?*
Fifteen seconds later, I reply:
*I’VE BEEN CALLING YOU!*
And then another from Harper:
*I’M SORRY!*
*Please meet me at the Greenwich Inn at 7pm?*
I don’t respond. I let him feel the pain of having a partner quit, simply disappear like a missing person.
Still, even after his arrest and being out on bail, he does not come home. The one place he might find family, love, and some sort of redemption. It makes it harde
r for me to forgive his affair with Jessa. I’ve lost faith in our marriage, and I don’t trust him anymore.
I get into the car, ignoring the onslaught of questions from meddling reporters, and slam the door, throwing it into reverse, speeding out, and leaving a trail of gravel and sand.
I head north on the Garden State, heading toward Jacob Akani. I have a plan, and I’m prepared to go at it alone. The clouds have rolled in, bloated and gray. My eyes are bloodshot, head pounding; I clench my hands tightly around the steering wheel.
I’m so tired, it’s as if the entire world is on fire around me, the streets blazing, and everywhere I go, I leave a trail of ash and smoke in my wake. I’ve always been a magnet for destruction, the heat somewhere inside me, glowing and burning, like a heart on fire.
The air is heavy around me, as if the molecules stack up and exert pressure on my bones; so much pressure, it feels like they are about to break.
The weight of the barometric pressure rises all around me.
I manage to find a parking spot less than a block away from Jacob Akani, which is nothing short of a miracle or an act of God. I’m ready to start my Krav Maga training.
Jacob buzzes me in.
I step through the door, and the blare from the television distracts me. The local news is playing, and the anchor is abruptly laying out the murders, spinning her own bed of lies, with Harper now the scapegoat of the scandal as it unfolds.
Jacob turns off the television.
“Is it true? Is Harper guilty?” Jacob asks.
“He’s guilty of being selfish and fucking another woman, but that’s all. He slept with Jessa Dante on the night of the murder. I believe that is all he’s guilty of. But right now, that’s enough for me.”
“Are you okay?” Jacob asks.
“I think one person is behind all of this. The killer was there the night I was attacked in Boston. And now they’re after me. They just want Harper out of the way.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“Yes, that is what my intuition tells me. I have a visceral feeling of being stalked. Mostly in my home, I have a very bad feeling that someone or something is watching me and my child all the time. I have shut down the part of me that has been questioning it, blaming it on my imagination, paranoia, or too much time on my hands. Whatever happened that night in Boston is coming back to haunt my family, and I need to fight to protect my child.”
I take my gun out and put it on the table in between us. Somehow, it doesn’t matter if I’m wrong, if all of this drama, the gossamer web I have spun, is somehow only in my mind, opalescent, a kaleidoscope of color.
My years with Harper have done irreparable damage, but I have emerged a warrior, one who is ready for the fight—and to win.
“Seraphina, when you are out on the street and you draw your gun, know that you accept responsibility for someone dying.”
“I understand.”
“Say it back to me.”
“If I draw my gun, I accept responsibility for someone dying.”
“That’s good. Are you sure you’re ready to start training? Are you present and committed?”
“I am present and committed. I will no longer live in fear. The next person that gets hurt will not be me. I have a child to protect. Please tell me you can help and give me enough skill quickly so that I can defend myself from another attack.”
My skin feels hot and flushed, hands clenched, and it is hard to stop my legs from shaking.
I let the adrenaline course through me, resurrect me, rising up from the ashes, to bury a past that still haunts me.
“I can,” Jacob says.
“Do you believe me?” I ask.
“Does it matter?”
I hear the beat of the drum again, this time getting louder.
“Tell me about the night you were attacked,” he says.
“I don’t remember much. Everything happened in slow motion. I couldn’t think straight or hear anything but the voice of my attacker. I froze. And now I keep seeing that look of rage and his blue eyes. I was hit with something heavy, like a baseball bat, and then I blacked out.”
“I’m sorry. That sounds like a terrifying, violent, and stressful encounter and one that you didn’t deserve. No one has the right to invade your space or attack you in any way, mentally or physically. Repeat after me.”
“No one has the right to invade my space or attack me in any way, mentally or physically.”
“The feelings and thoughts you experienced during the attack are normal responses to a violent encounter. Trauma has a universal effect on the mind and body.”
“What do you mean by normal response? You mean instinct?” I ask.
“Exactly. The first thing you describe is called ‘speed of mind.’ Even though it felt like slow motion, your mind was actually in overdrive, just processing at a more rapid pace.”
He touches me lightly on the shoulder and says, “The second feeling you describe is ‘tunnel vision,’ and it’s your body going into survival mode, focusing everything on the immediate threat. Soldiers on a battlefield experience it. You shouldn’t have had to. The ‘freeze’ that you describe, that’s just the brain shutting down, refusing to acknowledge the imminent danger.”
“If these are all natural reactions or instincts, I need you to train me and replace them with the instincts of a killer.”
“I can’t do that. They’re hard-wired because you’re not a killer. We can do stress drills, but you have to be able to hear and process the information, stay present while still moving forward to deal with the threat. Keep breathing and visualize winning. You can’t quit, and you can’t disconnect. You have to push through, but I can’t get rid of those instincts, and I can’t promise you it won’t happen again,” Jacob says.
“I understand.”
We warm up with shadow boxing, moving around the floor like a dance, ending up in fighting stance.
“What are the vulnerable targets?” Jacob asks.
“Eyes, ears, throat, and groin.”
“Also, the kidneys, liver, and fingers. And when he hit you, did you fall to the ground?”
My mind goes back to that night, and I can see myself tumbling into the street. A car grinds to a halt. A second later, it would have crushed my skull. I remember begging for help as he drove around me, as if I were an obstacle standing in the way, as if all that mattered was getting on with his night.
“Yes.”
“If that happens, protect your head and tailbone and always keep your feet between you and your attacker. You are vulnerable in that position, so get off the ground as soon as possible.”
Suddenly, I think of Jessa. I can see her so clearly on the ground, those bright-blue sapphire eyes gazing up at me.
“Don’t let me hit you.” He slaps me in the face, jolting me to present.
I push myself to stay focused. We work on more drills. I weave in and out.
“Focus on my voice, Seraphina. Keep breathing.” He gives me black leather strike gloves.
“He can drop you with one good hit because he’s stronger. You have to keep moving. You have to stay with me, Seraphina. You can move faster because you’re lighter. And you’re smarter. He won’t expect you to fight back.”
“Why do you keep saying my name?”
“Because I can see you disconnecting. Stop training and sit for a minute,” Jacob says.
I sit on the mat, collecting my thoughts and my breath.
“Listen, I’ve worked with survivors like you, soldiers with more trauma than you can even imagine. Violence against women is a global pandemic, most of the time by an intimate partner. So, yes, I believe you’re in trouble. I never doubted that. But hear me now: you are one of the lucky ones. You survived, and now you know you have a weakness. And it’s not that you’re a woman. You are human. You froze. You
didn’t fight back. Forgive yourself. You didn’t know how to fight. Seraphina, that feeling of being a victim is etched in your mind, and you’re the only one that can overcome it.”
Then I can’t stop the tears; my body feels battered and bruised, as if I have been pushed off the edge of a cliff, and the wounds are still bloody and bruised, only now, I’m bleeding on the inside. I feel like a zombie. None of this seems fair, and I let myself wallow in self-pity.
He takes me in his arms, exposing all of the scars I hide, until I’ve used up all of my tears, and the only thing left to do is fight.
“I was with the special unit, Israeli Defense Forces, for ten years. I’ve trained the counterterrorism unit. I have seen and heard it all. Unimaginable evil. I can give you the street-fighting skills you need, but you have to trust me. You can’t keep overthinking this or letting your flashbacks and triggers interfere with training.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“You can’t trust your husband, and you think you’re in trouble, right? So what choice do you have? Dr. Ellis sent you here because combat training helps with recovery. I can’t walk with you. Once you leave through that door, you have to believe you can own the moment and that you can fight to win. You may only get one chance, so make it the best one you’ve got, have faith, and make your own truth.”
I think about Brooke and Jessa. If they fought back, would they still be alive? Jacob is right. I couldn’t have killed anyone. I don’t have any idea how to fight back and win.
“I understand,” I say.
“The most important thing is to stay calm. If you let fear take over, you lose. Visualize your opponent. Try to anticipate his next move. Make him swing more and miss. That uses up energy; let gravity and the energy around you help take him down.”
My heart is pounding again. I can almost hear the voice of the animal that is pursuing me. He is potent, insatiable and devious.
“How many rounds do you have loaded?”