CHAPTER 1
SERAPHINA SWIFT NOW
Iron is the traditional gift for six years of marriage. It is strong and resistant to fracturing. It is malleable yet durable, and it is indestructible.
None of these are words I would use to describe the current state of my marriage.
The nightmares started up again with the birth of my daughter, Sky. The intensity leaves me trembling and fragile, transporting me back to a blood-soaked alley in the dark recesses of my memory. Now I am feeling vulnerable, and vulnerable just isn't comfortable. My imagination is my cage.
Someone is stalking me. The truth gnaws at me like a nail buried deep in my bones.
Safe is an unattainable state. I'm sure other people don't feel this way. They are normal. I have accepted that I will never be a normal girl. I will always be haunted by the broken memory of trauma. I feel as if I've walked straight through hell and come out the other side into the blinding light of day.
I feel the weight of the gun in my hand.
"That's the Glock 42. It's a little big for you. You're tiny," he says, bringing me out of my daydream.
The guy behind the counter at the gun shop smiles as if I should be flattered. He could have used any other word — thin, slender, petite — anything other than tiny, which makes me more venomous. Those other words would have taken the edge off; instead he pours gas on an open flame.
"Try this gun instead. Ladies use it more as a summer carry. You can throw on a T-shirt and shorts and just run to the store. You're a virgin, right?"
I'm feeling on edge and jittery. My heart is pounding, and I'm having trouble breathing. It hurts to have a pulse. I want to die. I'm having another panic attack. I look away. I feel his eyes on me, and I see his mouth curl into a wicked smile.
His eyes wash over my body. I don't like the way this is going. Lately, I think I'm going insane; maybe Harper is right that I need to talk to someone.
"What?" I ask, letting myself be distracted by the coldness of the metal of the gun in my hand.
"Is this your first time in a gun shop?" he says.
I stare at the gun in my hand and realize I have forgotten to put on my wedding ring this morning. With so much on my mind, I rushed out of the house without it.
"No. It's not my first time. It's been over a month since you processed my permit application. I was in last week and this marks the end of my waiting period. I just need the gun and I'll go. Zack knows me. Is he here?"
"No. He's not here. I'm Jacob. I'm just filling in for him today. You really should try before you buy. We've got a range out back. Let me show you a few other options. What did you say your name is?" "I didn't. It's Seraphina Swift."
I've been up all night with the baby, which makes it harder to focus on anything. I was alone again. Another night with a bottle of rosé in the backyard, just staring up at the stars, a blanket of darkness surrounding me.
"Hold on, let me check the back. He probably left it for you," Jacob says, taking out a black velvet tray with more guns and running his fingers over the chamber. I pick up a combat shotgun. It's larger and heavier. I'm in awe of its weight and power.
I'm not the girl I used to be, but at least now I know I'm still desirable. All of my damage is hidden from the world. The marks made by Harper are invisible. They have cut me a million different ways.
Jacob returns with my gun. "Sorry about that. Is this it?" "That's the one." I say, as the world starts to move faster, grinding to pieces and spinning like a wheel.
"I don't think you're ready for this one, love. Not a lot in inches, but it's got a lot of power behind it, if you know what I mean." He winks and moves in closer, leaning over the glass counter, his eyes softening.
I can feel the color rise into my cheeks. I didn't come here looking for this kind of heat. I came here to buy a gun — one that I can use for protection.
A gift that's priceless, pure gold; one that I will wear on my body as if it is a necklace made of diamonds and pearls.
"Try this one. It's a Smith and Wesson. Just like Eleanor roosevelt carried. She carried a .22-caliber gun."
My body is trembling. The adrenaline kicks in, coursing through my veins. The flashbacks always make me lose control.
It's as if my whole life is put on pause. Lately, it keeps happening, over and over. Every muscle is on high alert, seized, and on autopilot. I can see his lips move, but I can't hear any sound. The silence stretches out in the space between us, as I lift the gun and aim it between Jacob's watery brown eyes.
And then I pull the trigger.
I hear the bullet explode from its chamber. Bang! Splatter. Scatter.
The blood is everywhere.
I picture myself tearfully recalling the events for a news crew later. Just like the drama that played out on TV that frigid morning in Boston the night I was raped. I cannot break free from the night terrors or the jagged memories that shatter my sanity. I can't remember anything from that night. Now I have a bad habit of daydreaming in public, often mid-conversation. I indulge my daydreams. I get lost in them. Soon, I realize there is no blood or bullet, just a very pissed-off Jacob, waving his hands to get my attention.
"Whoa, you always do a safety check, make sure there is no mag, no bullets. You can't just pick up a gun, point, and shoot. Are you crazy?"
"Sorry. Almost an accidental discharge. But I'm guessing you know how that is, right, Jacob?" I say through gritted teeth.
I'm still wrapped up in the powerful sensation of finally pulling the trigger. I am used to handling men with big egos, like Jacob, but never with a gun, much less one that may have been fully loaded.
I know Harper will be the first to agree that his wife has gone crazy — and not just a little crazy. I have gone full-blown, batshit crazy. The darkness of my past has finally pulled me under, and I've given in to the pressure of it. The violent memories are taking me further away from everyone and everything I love most.
Now, with a gun in my hand, I feel peace. I want revenge. I have found my safe place in the world. I have the strength I will need to fight back. I put the gun down. It feels heavy, even without the ammunition.
After all, Jacob is right: I am a virgin now, but not for much longer.
Jacob isn't going to stand in my way. He is a fool to think he has a chance with me anyway.
He reacts to my words as if they are made of steel, ripping at his flesh and exposing a bloody, open wound. I am angry in an obvious way. I gave up caring about what others might think a long time ago. The old Seraphina would run or shut down. The new Seraphina came to win. I focus only on the endgame. No distractions. This time, I make it clear with words that I don't need or want anything other than for Jacob to complete the transaction so I can be on my way.
"I'll pay for that in cash. I really need to go."
"Are you sure you're all right? Let me try to reach Zack," Jacob says, narrowing his eyes.
The fan hums from up above and the air around me is cool. All I can feel is heat, baking into my bones. Jacob is about to ruin my plans.
Tomorrow morning, I will disappear without a trace.
In the years since we married, Harper has become a prominent investigator with the district attorney's office. With so many highprofile cases, he made it easy for me to specify in detail the urgent need for self-protection.
Jacob's words cut through the heat of my emotions. "We have a range out back. You can practice. You need speed. You need accuracy. You need to know how to manipulate. Something tells me that you're a natural at manipulating."
Now his eyes are cold, dismissive. Jacob leans forward, and his soft smile fades into a sneer.
"Say I'm going to attack you, Seraphina."
I try to swallow the memories. I bite down on my tongue and taste the metal of my own blood. I fight to stay focused and present.
"You need to have your wits about you. You can't be lost in some daydream. And that thing in your hand, little girl, it may as well be a hammer and a bucket of nails. Chances are you put a nail through your hand before you figure out how to build a house all by yourself."
I pause for a second as the anger takes over. I am feeling unsteady. I can tell he is trying to reach me, to press my buttons with his misogynistic tone and attitude.
"It's not every day I get a celebrity in here, you know."
"What, I'm not ..."
"I remember you. Zack told me all about you. You're that girl, right. The one from Harvard. Didn't you make national news when you killed him. It was self-defense, right? Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"If you killed him, why didn't you ever tell your side of the story?
It's been years."
"I wanted to get on with my life," I say.
"Yeah, how's that going for you?" he asks, counting the cash.
"I'm fine."
"That's a lie. You're standing in a gun shop, having a panic attack." I look outside. The heavy cumulus clouds tower in the sky, threatening to obscure the sun.
"I guess I'm not sure how my story ends, you know, who the bullet is actually for," I say with a bitter laugh.
"We don't sell pity here."
Thunder and lightning, the sounds of a heart breaking.
Jacob hands me a bag with the gun and ammunition.
I close the door on the gun shop. I will leave in the morning. I can imagine leaving all of this behind. Just me and Sky, starting over again, somewhere far away from Harper and his violence.
My mind is restless as I walk across the parking lot. I reach for the car keys in my pocket, but I'm distracted by a strange display of debris on the pavement, glass fragments everywhere, like tiny jewels.
As I move closer, I see a broken beer bottle next to the car door. I can feel a sharp pain above my eye, followed by a blinding headache.
My mind flashes back to that night in Boston. The shards of glass are sharp and jagged like a lethal weapon; the top glistens a deep sanguine color. I remember slashing at the air wildly. I remember trying to scream and fight for my life, but I couldn't make a sound.
I kick the bottle away and massage my temples from the dull pain.
I slump against the car door, exhausted.
I open my purse and take out a pill. I swallow the Benzo dry and get in the car, resting my forehead against the coolness of the steering wheel.
I am haunted by the flashbacks. I struggle to connect the faint sounds, feelings, and memories to picture, like an inverted silent movie. I jump from a knock on the glass of the car window.
"Hey, you okay?"
"Fuck, Jacob. You scared the shit out of me," I say, my hand flying to my chest. I can feel my heart pounding.
"Sorry. You left your hat, and it's freezing out here. Listen, I'm sorry about what I said back there. It's your story, and it's none of my business, but I can tell you're in trouble. I think maybe I can help you." "You asked me why I don't tell my story. I can't remember anything.
I blacked out. I woke up in a hospital the next morning. Whoever committed murder is still out there. They've come back for me. I'm having horrible nightmares and flashbacks. I'm really scared."
"Let me help you. Let's talk about it. I'll get you a cup of coffee before you head back home?" he says, pointing to the All-American diner across the street.
"I don't drink coffee."
"Tea?"
"Nope."
"Tequila?"
I consider his request. Finally, I put the key in the ignition. "Tempting, but no. I have to get home."
"Are you always like this? So distracted and intense?"
I nod.
"Listen, take my phone number. Sometimes things aren't as bad as you think they are."
I hate that as much as I hate it when someone says, "Smile."
"And sometimes they're worse," I say and give him my best sympathetic smile. I roll up the window. The car jolts onto the highway. I feel a tightening in my chest, like Jacob has taken all of the air with him. The sound of the tires on the road are like the beat of a drum. The rhythm does nothing to soothe my nerves.
My tank is empty; I need gas. I look around at the blank faces driving home, and I can't imagine anyone stopping to help me when my car runs out of fuel. All of these people are rushing home to something. I feel so disconnected and off in my own world. The deep-red Japanese maple trees line the highway, and heavy gray storm clouds bloat up above as wisps of fog hang on the mist like smoke.
My eyes scan the cars around me. I notice someone has pulled out behind me, and they are weaving in and out to catch up. I switch lanes.
Someone is following me.
My pulse throbs in my veins. My muscles are tense and frozen in fear. I'm hyperventilating. Another panic attack. The broken bottle must have been a trigger.
With conscious effort, I calm my breathing.
Time ticks slowly. I put my foot on the gas. The stranger is still following me. I feel danger as the car moves closer, weaving in and out of traffic.
I turn on the radio, distracted and anxious to be going home to my sweet baby, Sky.
I don't see the light turn red. I slam on my brakes, but I am traveling too fast to stop.
My view is instantly consumed by the airbag. My eyes well up with tears. I don't expect the radio to keep playing, but it does, which makes the car crash feel more surreal.
"A Sky Full of Stars" by Coldplay is my soundtrack for destruction, mixed with a symphony of grinding metal and shattered glass.
I realize that somewhere in the dark places of my mind, I am still a freshman at Harvard, freezing, alone, and beaten in a dark alley.
I didn't fight back that day, and looking back now, I've been frozen and numb ever since.
After the crash, I can feel my body split into two people. The other Seraphina is some sort of an apparition perched on the trunk of the car, watching.
The hood is crushed like an accordion. Both of us are soon surrounded by an emergency crew.
I am locked in a heated stare with my dark shadow self; her smile starts to fade as she turns into a haze of fog and smoke.
I am either hallucinating or in the presence of an otherworldly evil, a harbinger of doom.
The stranger is gone. My eyes track the space around me. I remain frozen in pain and fear.
I have no words for what my life has become. Time feels heavily compressed and moving at the velocity of a falling body.
After the crash, there is the emergency crew and then the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Something about death — when you have cheated it as many times as I have, you start to make peace with the grayness of it.
I've already painted the picture in my mind of how it will look. I want my ashes blasted to the edge of space, so my soul is free to travel, soaring above wildflowers, mountaintops, and violet-tinted sunsets. I'm finally safe and awash in color and light.
This life has hurt me more than death ever could.
A call to Harper prompts his usual mix of concern and hostility. In all fairness, he has gotten the short end of the stick when signing up to be my emergency contact.
The attack has left me in a permanent state of emergency, often swinging between paranoia and fear. I can always imagine all of the things that can go wrong in the world, because in my world, just about everything has.
There is still a part of me that feels alive — the one that cheated death when it came to collect me, attempting to sever the last ties between body and soul.
I feel lost in the world. I can't find the part of me that stayed strong, the part that feels indestructible, even bulletproof; the part of me with the instinct to scream and fight back, to live and feel safe again.
I met Harper at Harvard. He was graduating at the top of his class. I had recovered as best I could from the attack, and all of the publicity surrounding the murder forced me to spend most of my time in the library.
I was hiding, still flailing and floundering in the chaos of recovery and self-doubt. I watched in awe while Harper soared, with no fear or limitation to what he could achieve. He drifted through life light as a feather, never burdened by the weight of things. When I was around him, something as easy as breathing became hard to do. Each time I saw him, he still took my breath away, crawling into that narrow space in my heart, cracking it wide open until he touched every part of me.
Harper's love, the pleasure and pain of it, felt like a reason to live.
Yes, this is what it was supposed to feel like, to know another's body, the way he knew mine.
Deep down, I wondered why he would pick a girl like me, with my damage on display. Something about me, dark hair and blue eyes, gave me an edge among all the Boston blondes.
I knew that night had changed me, and now all of my secrets had grown dark and rusted.
Maybe my darkness is what attracted Harper. The Boston bars were full of good girls named Laura, who had grown up inside white picket fences, feeling safe and protected. Those same girls were more than happy to roll over, open wide, and let him have his way.
Harper had never met anyone like me. I was touched by violence. It still flowed through me, threatening to crush the last bit of goodness in my soul, and something about that made our sex electric.
