Sara Voe

The desk still shakes as he presses his elbows into the top, his head sitting in his hands. Three weeks. That is how long he had been trying to find Harper. Without a birth year and place, finding her is near impossible.

Her picture slips through his fingers onto the desk. Thankfully his frustration could only be heard inside his home office. Krystal didn’t know this is what was bothering him for weeks.

He spies on the clock. 2:12 am. He needs sleep. Rossi stands from his chair draping his robe back onto his shoulders. He goes to turn the desk lamp off but notices Harper’s picture sitting face down. The white backdrop has film brand insignias all over, but there, in the bottom left-hand corner, are two gray lines.

Perplexed, David sits back at his desk. Each of the bars has inconsistent fading. Some segments are lighter than others, with the ink smudging into small, intricate shapes. Like the lines used to be text.

His reading glasses not being much assistance, he opens a drawer to use a magnifying glass. Placing the disk over the ink, he attempts to decipher the blurry words.

A date. March of 1990. He pauses, quickly flipping through his notebook, finding his notes about Harper he made in Houston.

The robin. Harper was born in March, and the photo confirms it.

As for the bottom line, most photos are developed at a pharmacy, so that was likely the location. But what is the name of the pharmacy? If he knew where the pharmacy was located, it is likely she was born in that state.

He turns to face his filing cabinets, finding at a picture of Gideon. They were in a bar in Pennsylvania, celebrating a happy ending to a case. The pinned sports flags and jerseys make his expression all the more entertaining. He had just heard his ex-wife had gone into labor with Stephen.  It was rare to find Jason in shock, and luckily the camera captured it. 

David leans over and takes it from its spot. It is cold to the touch but makes his fingers prickle. He admires it before placing the frame on his desk, the glare of the lamp hiding the photo.

He glances at the blurry text again. “New-something”, he mumbles, looking back at Gideon’s photo, “You have any ideas”?

Gideon held onto the neck of a beer, his mouth agape and eyes wide. Rossi smiles at the memory.

“I don’t suppose you d-”.

He stops himself. He brings the photo closer. Partly hidden by Jason’s form, is a red banner. Just clear enough to decipher, the message reads “New Cast”. 

He compares the photo of Jason to Harper’s. Quickly, he jots down simple notations of both texts. They match.

Harper was born in March of 1990, in New Castle, Pennsylvania.

He checks the time again. 3:00 even. He really should be going to bed. Yet, he looks at them again, their eyes prying at him. Egging him to continue.

“Well, we made it this far”, Rossi said to himself, pulling out his laptop, “Let’s see where a preliminary gets us”.

He enters “harper 1990 Pennsylvania” into his search engine.

The legs of David’s chair screech backwards. His body stiffens with the chill that trickles down his arms and legs. Several articles appear on the screen, but the one that caught his attention was the one beginning with “obituary”.

New Castle teen found dead in a suburb

Killer of New Castle teen has yet to be found

Harper Sleisman, 16, died in a fatal attack

He clicks on her obituary, his breath hitching. She had a bright smile, kind brown eyes. Proud girl scout. Planned on being a doctor. Volunteered at nursing homes. Wild brown hair. She looked like Jason.

A wavering breath leaves his lips. There was no hope to begin with. She was long-gone before he even knew about her. Harper is dead. 

The heat in his chest becomes too much to bear as teardrops fall onto his palms. If he had only known about her sooner. If he had looked through Gideon’s things with Stephen before the estate sale. If he had stayed in touch with Jason. If Jason Gideon had written a better fucking letter. Maybe if things were different. He wouldn’t have failed, not just himself but her.

Her stomach strains to keep the anxiety from reaching the surface. They are happy to see her, she knows that. Far happier to meet Isa, of course. But the inevitability of sharing about the past ten years makes her head blur. There are memories she would rather forget and never relive again.

Isadora’s nose twitches as she lays against her mother’s shoulder. Her soft pink puffer coat lets her resemble a marshmallow. Those sweet little eyes are hidden by her thick eyelashes. With a perfectly round face and button nose, she looks like a little doll. The soft glow of her daughter soothes Harper’s nerves, holding a kiss to Isadora’s head and tightening her arms around the little one.

The cold air earns a sneeze from Isadora. While rubbing her back, Harper sings an Irish lullaby that her mother used to sing, until a short figure approaches them with open arms.

“Bienvenida casa Pera”, said a woman, coming in for a hug. She had a black winter jacket on, covered in a thick scarf, hat, and gloves. Some things haven't changed, like her hating the cold.

Smiling, Harper leans in and says, “Hola, Larissa, how are you”?

“Oh, I have been good, but I have been better too”, she hummed, squeezing tight. Harper forgot that Larissa gives the best hugs.

“And I have already heard so much about you, Pequeñita”, she squeaked, opening her arms to take Isadora in a hug, “You look like me too”!

Harper smiles at the two of them. She heard how Larissa was going to teach Isa to make tamales, handle her spice, and speak better Spanish than her mother. Harper is thrilled that Larissa wants to teach Isa about Hispanic cultures in ways she couldn’t provide.

“Where is Uncle Walt”? Harper asked, grabbing their bags and a carseat.

Larissa gives a pitiful smile, “My dumbass husband bumped into another car”, she joked, stifling a laugh, “Don’t worry, I will be driving home”.

The three of them walked outside, finding a charcoal Honda SUV, with white paint on the bumper. A man with grayer hair and a familiar khaki sweater tries to sweep the scuff off with his sleeve .

Catching them out of the corner of his eye, he sits up, and with a warm smile says, “Hi Pear”.

Tears threaten to leave her eyes as Harper approaches him, pulling him into a tight hug. In a soft voice, with some somberness, she says, “Hi Uncle Walt”.

One of his hands that had already found her shoulders started gently stroking her back, feeling her stress. They part from the hug and Walt brings both his hands to cup her face. His eyes crinkle as he releases a bittersweet smile, tears falling in the process.

She shares a heartfelt grin back, sniffling to keep the tears from falling. “It’ll be okay, Uncle Walt”, she said, rubbing his arms.

He cuts the seriousness by exclaiming,“I should be telling you that”! 

Between weak chuckles, his hands move to her shoulders, saying, “I am just…so so proud of you”.

Her voice wavers slightly as she mouths, “Thank you”.

He moves an arm back around her shoulders squeezing her tight. Looking back at his wife, and his new great-niece, he announces, “Let’s go home”.

_____________________________________________

They arrive at the house at ten o’clock at night. The neighborhood had changed drastically from the last time she saw it. They lived in a wealthy suburb in Arlington, but when Harper was younger there were several blank grass lots surrounding the house. The area had grown as she did. 

The front yard was the same, even with the weather hindering the vision of her memory. The grass perfectly mowed, the flower beds around the house being full of tufts and bushes. The tree she carved her name into so many years ago looked as it once did, despite being clouded in snow. Although it had been replaced, a porch swing still sits in front of the window.

They all clobber inside, struggling with the spare luggage. Uncle Walt takes the girls' bags upstairs while Larissa carries Isa in her carseat. She offers to put Isa to bed, carefully stepping up the stairs, unlike Walt. This left Harper to refamiliarize herself with the house.

It was always a beautiful house. Originally built in 1890, it had rich wooden accents in almost all the rooms. Her mother inherited it from Grandpa Elmer, and remodeled it for modern living. However, Harper’s mom was able to recycle the wood decorating for some of the rooms. The only rooms that remained untouched were her mother’s office area, which was the house’s study, and the sunroom, which was an old conservatory. 

The color scheme stayed true to the roots of the house with earthy tones. The floors are a beautiful hardwood and are protected by elegant, patterned rugs. Despite not being an architect or a designer, her mother did a spectacular job remodeling the house. The only choice that irritates Harper is the beige, floral wallpaper for some rooms. It made the house look musty and haunted. 

Harper ventures through the home, reliving memories held within it. Through the photographs on the wall, or by the spaces her feet touched years prior. When she stood at the island, tapping away on the brown marble, she saw the entry of the conservatory. It too had changed from when she was little, with the addition of sliding barn doors.

Curious, she slides them open. She slips into the room, which is dark for the exception of the light peering in from the kitchen. Warmth clings to the room despite the cold outside. The tile knocks against her feet as she walks toward the center. She could make out shadows of leafy plants and grasses, the humidity from them nibbling at her skin. In the far back of the room, below the ever growing ficus tree, sat two chairs and a table. She carefully saunters to the table, her fingers grazing the iron tabletop.

Harper used to play chess here all the time. The two of them would sit on the tiled floor, drinking chocolate milk, scooting their pieces around for hours. This became common practice from the time she was two. She even developed a habit of sucking and chewing on one of the black pawns. Her mother would tell her that it was disgusting, but he couldn’t tell her no. He thought her quirk was adorable. She wonders if he kept it. 

Suddenly, small spikes pierce her head, clawing and pulling at her hair. Swipes of air beat at her ears as she screams. She lowered her head and ran closer to the entrance, feeling sharp punctures at her hairline as the clawing sporadically mingled around her head. By the time she is out of the sunroom, flashes of gray and red are all she sees, and distorted gurgling is all she hears. She places her hands near her head, grabbing the body of a small animal, bringing it forward to look at.

The feathered creature glares at her, its head facing her shoes and its feet facing her hair. It flicks and wriggles its toes while squawking.

“Dammit Rudy”! Harper screamed at him, turning around toward the sunroom. The parrot hisses at her as she throws him up toward a tree. He flys up and screeches at her as she leaves the room. 

Closing the doors behind her, she feels her head. He caused her to bleed slightly, but not as bad as she had thought. She thinks he scratched her everywhere else. But a voice pulls her attention away from her bloody fingertips.

“I would be angry too if you woke me up”.

A woman adjusts her robe to accommodate for the colder down stairs. Her hair is black, but with streaks of silver. She gives a small smile, proudly sporting crow’s feet and laugh lines, to show how fulfilled she is. But perhaps most noticeable is her limbs are thinner and her body more feeble. This is a contrast to her previous self, who was full of energy. She was always audacious. But now the life in her body, skin, and eyes has weakened. Her spark had dimmed. Although aging had treated Roisin Cardith well, cancer most certainly did not. 

“The bird always hated me, Mom”, Harper said, cradling her arms around herself.

“No, that’s not true. He loved to read with you, remember”?

“Yes, because he would sit on your shoulder the whole time. He never liked it when I read to him”.

“You never did the voices right”.

“You’re defending your bird, not your child”?

“Well he’s not going to defend himself”.

Harper huffs a chuckle and gestures to her bleeding forehead. “Clearly”, she said sarcastically, both of them chuckling quietly.

Roisin walks over to the kitchen, opening a cabinet and pulling out peroxide and a bandaid. She gestures to the island, telling her daughter to sit down.

Harper winced as the peroxide made contact, earning a smile from her mother.

“You know I’m an adult, I can nurse my own wounds”.

“I am your mom I will always patch you up, no matter how old you are”, Roisin said, placing a Hello Kitty bandaid on Harper’s forehead.

Roisin places the peroxide back in the cabinet as Harper sat at the bar. She notices her mom moving slower, her joints more rigid. Harper is grateful Uncle Walt called. She knows that her mom would resist help, and that she is the only one who could convince her mom to let others take the lead on things. 

A cup of water is placed in front of Harper, which she graciously took. Sipping on it, her mother started to speak.

“I’m sorry, Pear. About everything”.

Harper looks up at her mom, and feigns a gasp, “The Great Roisin Cardith, apologizing? That’s a first”.

Roisin scoffs, “Only once, eat it up while it lasts”.

They lull for a moment before Harper speaks softly, “I’m sorry too Mom. I should’ve called. Or visited. I shouldn’t’ve left like that”.

“I don’t blame you, honey. You were hurt, confused; wanted answers, and..I couldn’t give you any”, Roisin voiced, leaning forward on the counter, grabbing her daughter’s hand, “Don’t apologize, you were justified”.

Harper looks down, feeling a heaviness in her shoulders as she nods her head. Roisin rubs her thumb against Harper’s hand as they sit, processing what should have happened ten years ago. 

Roisin breaks the silence, “Do you still want to know about him”?

Harper shakes her head, “No. I didn’t need to know him, or about him. I just want things to feel normal”, Harper unwrapped her hands from her mom’s, shedding her frown for a small smile, “Besides, I’d prefer to catch up with you anyway”.

Roisin nods, holding Harper’s glass in her hands. Her little girl is home, even if it is under unfortunate circumstances. She looks at the clock, it has almost reached eleven.

“You should go to bed, you’ve had a long day”, Roisin said.

“I can say the same thing about you”.

“You just got home, you haven’t earned the ‘parent your parent’ yet”.

Harper stands from her seat and wanders over to her mom. She wrapped her arms around her mother, resting her chin on her mother’s shoulder.

“I love you, mom”, Harper said, with sincerity and guilt for not saying it enough.

“I love you more, Harper”, said Roisin, relieved to hold her child, but feeling more similar to Harper than she could realize.

After her distraction, she returns everyone's attention to the front of the room, a calm falling into her lecture. 

“Detectives, getting the right suspect is just as important as presenting the right evidence. Even if you got the suspect incorrect for the final, as long as your evidence for it is well thought out, you will still get credit. Now, I have held you five minutes past the hour; so get out of my class”.

Her students leave busily, talking to one another about the paper. In the scurry, the young professor wanders back to her desk, organizing her notes into their respective folders. While placing the paperwork in her bag, she hears heavy footsteps descend on her. She looks up and sees the tall, professional woman from previously. The suit is neatly tailored and expensive.

“Why do you give them a riddle”? The woman asks warmly.

“Pleasure to see you too Dr. Lewis”, she returns, settling back into her lecture hall, “It helps facilitate active learning, and prepares them for psychoanalyses. What brings you back”?

Tara shares a friendly, hopeful beam with her before saying, “That woman, Cynthia Burke, she just got out of the hospital. She’s going home and her fiancé is taking care of her”.

“Oh my god, that’s great! I’m so glad”, she said with a relieved smile, unsure if Cynthia was going to make it.

The words slip into a mute space, comfortable but still transitioning into a deeper talk. Lewis makes the shift saying, “You know, if it weren’t for you, she wouldn’t be alive”.

The dryness of the professor’s tongue kept her silent. Cynthia had experienced something ghastly. Cardith is just grateful they got to her in time.

A humble laugh escapes her mouth before saying, “I don’t think that’s true. I’m just happy to help when I can”, as she organizes her paperwork.

“Don’t downplay yourself”, Lewis said, leaving not room for horseplay, “We were stuck on that case for weeks. We show you the file and take you to a crime scene and you have it figured out in minutes”.

Cardith shakes her head, “You guys were just getting desensitized. You needed fresh eyes, that happens to all of us”.

The professor wraps the strap of her bag around her shoulders, but before she can take a step toward the door, Lewis grabs her arm. Tara’s eyes are warm but rich with ulterior motives, something Cardith is all too familiar with. 

They had known each other for a couple of years now, and this is not the only case Cardith was asked to help on. Every time she helps with a case, it means Lewis comes back to her with a certain question. This instance is not unlike the previous ones.

“You should-”

“No”.

“You didn’t even let me finish”.

“I already know what you’re gonna ask”.

“And what am I asking”?

Cardith lets out an exhausted sigh, turning to her with spent eyes. She folds her arms into each other before saying, “You want me to come back”.

“Will you”?

“I can’t”.

“Why”?

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, starting to become annoyed at the persistence.

“Because it’s dangerous. I have a little girl to think about, and working for the FBI is far more demanding than the job I have now. I will barely see my daughter”.

Lewis, starting to get frustrated, spits out, “Then why do you keep helping us”?

This causes pause within her. She steps away, pulling her arm from Lewis’ hand. The two of them stay silent but talk through glances. 

Lewis reaches into a pocket on her jacket and pulls out a card, handing it to Cardith, “You know as well as I do that you are gifted at this. I won’t bother you about it again, but just think about it okay?”

The young doctor looks down at the card, Tara’s new business number and email scrawled on it. She looks back at Lewis and snags it. 

“Give me a call when”, Tara said, before walking toward the exit door.

Cardith stares at the card, tapping the edge of it on the desk. She didn’t really miss it, did she? She couldn’t possibly. All those images of men, women, children; her mind couldn’t avoid them since they first came to her. They each would linger for several sleepless nights and creep into her dreams during her rest. At times she swore she heard shrieks when the world grew quiet. And copshop coffee, the dread of it. Somehow it was tasteless and putrid all at once.

But still she has an itch that teaching cannot scratch.