The Letter

The letter came in a manila envelope with my name written across the front in black marker: Nadia. The sloppiness of the penmanship made me think a man had written it. No address, which meant whoever wrote it stuck it into my mailbox themselves or had someone they knew do it.

When I opened the envelope, a letter written on yellow-lined paper fell out, along with two photographs. The photos landed face down on the floor. I picked up the letter first. The handwriting was different from the cover of the envelope, but it still hit me as that of a man’s.

Nadia,

S.

I read the letter over twice, at first convinced I’d misinterpreted it. My father had not been murdered; he died in hospice in 1999. I was by his side, holding his hand, when he passed away. I was only fifteen, a fact that others told me was the saddest part of the whole tale.

I reached down to pick up the pictures, hesitating for only a moment. I flipped them both over but left them on the floor. The first picture showed a man walking down the street of a suburb. Whoever took the photo stood behind him. The man’s head was turned to the side and, for a moment, I thought it was my father. The man in the picture and my father shared the same brown skin, the same close-cropped dark hair, the same prominent chin, and the same hunched posture. This man, though, had a light beard and I’d never once seen my father with one; he shaved every day even if he had nowhere to go, and I would always complain to him about the pungent stench of his aftershave.

In the second picture, the man had turned completely around, his hazel eyes wide, either from fear or surprise. I suspected the latter. He wore a striped button-down shirt tucked into his jeans. He seemed to be in the process of raising his hands. No longer did he remind me of my father.

I looked in the background of both pictures, trying to see if I recognized the location. Nothing on the street appeared striking. I could tell it was autumn, the leaves brown and sick on the tree limbs. Grey clouds were in the sky. I made out a car in the distance, but I could not tell the license plate. Perhaps it could be enlarged in Photoshop by someone with better tech skills than mine.

I paced back and forth in my kitchen before deciding to call the police. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t feel threatened, but it did not feel right to ignore what had been left in my mailbox. Perhaps the police could find the man and bring him to justice. Failing that, perhaps they could find the person who this was meant for and maybe that person could have some peace. Mostly, though, I wanted someone who could give me answers, who could tell me a little more about this interesting avenue of life I’d stumbled down.

Two uniformed officers arrived fifteen minutes after I called, no doubt catching the attention of the neighbors who were used to a quiet street. Both officers were sweating from the summer heat by the time they reached my door. One identified himself as Office Maron and the other as Officer Hemmington. Maron stood a few inches above Hemmington, but both loomed over me. Maron was pasty white, sunburnt on the face, while Hemmington was the type of tan most would view as cool. Maron wore aviator sunglasses; Hemmington wore narrow ones that barely concealed his eyes.

I presented them with the photos and the letter. They looked them over and nodded, but I suspected they were as clueless with what to do with them as I was. Maron stepped outside and radioed back to the station. When he came back in, he said, “Ma’am, there’s someone else who is going to come here and talk with you.”

“Who?” I asked.

“A detective. Nothing serious. Just wants to ask a few questions. You don’t have anywhere to go, right?”

I shook my head. “I’m a teacher. Summers off.”

“Must be nice.”

“Only reason to do it.”

He gave a polite laugh.

I waited in the kitchen, going through my apps on my smartphone, not really paying attention to any of them. The air conditioner moaned at a constant pace, in a battle with the rising heat. Maron and Hemmington remained just outside my house, chatting. I opened the front window a crack to hear what they said.

“So, she was cute,” said Maron. “We were out for a few hours. But she talked a lot.”

“Yeah? What about?”

“About, like, her day and stuff.”

“Nobody wants to hear about someone’s day.”

“Exactly.”

I closed the window, irritated at how little they could help me. I thought about the man in the picture, trying to see if there was a connection I missed. At first, I could pinpoint nothing, but gradually every person I’d ever met began to look like him, and my life seemed full of possible victims, of conspiracies that made sense only in my desperate state of mind. Better these conspiracies than the last images of my father, though. I’d buried those deep, and I did not intend to dig them up, not even for this.

The front door opened. A man in his late forties stepped in. He was bald, although a few straggling hairs persevered, at least fifty pounds overweight, and wore a suit that needed to be ironed. His eyes traced every inch of the house. He flashed a badge and said, “I hate formalities. You can call me Harry.” His voice came from somewhere deep.

“I’m Nadia,” I said.

He joined me at the kitchen table, adjusting his tie as he sat down. He reminded me of a type of boy I always have in my classes, the one who can’t help but fidget. “The officers told me what happened. Why don’t you tell me, though?”

I relayed the morning’s events to him as best I could. I paused a couple of times, making sure I got the details right. How quickly time can manipulate our memories.

“A strange situation, no doubt,” said Harry. “So, you’re positive you don’t know the man in the pictures?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m positive,” I said. “I’m pretty sure, but I can’t be certain. I’ll keep thinking on it, of course.”

He scratched at his face. “Y’know, I’d usually put this down as a prank, one of two types. I don’t mean to offend, but you’re one of the few Arab women in this neighborhood. Some racist shit of a high school kid gets it in his head to torment you, well, this is a good way to do it. The other prank is that you’re bored, you decide you want some attention, feel like you want to be at the center of things, so you write this up and call the cops. It’s all in good fun.”

“I’m not that inventive.”

He smiled. “Well, your inventiveness notwithstanding, I don’t think it’s either of those two situations. The pictures make this something more. I looked at them for a second, and I knew two things right away, and I do mean right away. First, the man in them was startled. When we’re surprised, we end up somewhere on the spectrum between excitement and fear. Most people land closer to fear. Some land closer to excitement. This guy was pretty close to fear. I was in the Iraq War. First one. I saw this look on a lot of civvies’ faces. This guy is shocked and scared. Second thing I noticed is, as the note claims, that picture was taken in the early '90s. You can tell by the style of jeans, which, thankfully, have gone out of style. The car in the background is from ’89, too. My older brother had one just like it. It’s possible it’s all staged, but that would be the work of one hell of a detailed mind, and, if you’re that detailed, why would you be wasting time on a stunt like this, right?”

“You think it’s really the picture of someone who was about to get killed?” Amazing how I could see someone’s last moments over two decades later. It was a bleak, almost pathetic, form of time travel.

“Could be. We’ll have to match descriptions to previous cases, see if anything crops up.” He turned in the chair, gazing into the living room. “Anyone else live here?”

“Just a rabbit,” I said. “He’s in the back room.”

“Where does your family live?”

“Both my parents are dead now. My sister lives in Wyoming. She’s married and has a kid.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Just outside Buffalo.”

“Nice neighborhood?”

“Nice enough.”

“Good. It’s important to grow up somewhere nice. Keeps you a little saner.” He stood up and stretched, his breathing heavy. I couldn’t imagine him having been a street officer. I couldn’t imagine him being younger at all. He seemed like someone who would’ve existed fifty years ago, looking exactly the same. “I know they’re not around to ask, but you don’t think your parents knew anyone who was murdered, do you?”

“I don’t think so.” I could conjure up very few memories of my parents socializing. They stayed with us at home most of the time, a hint of fear about the outside world just beneath their skin. My father would often do puzzles at the kitchen table when he came home from work. My sister and I would sit at the table while he asked about our day, both of us helping him fit the pieces. My mother would usually read, telling us it was how she chose to experience the wonders and horrors of the world.

“No family enemies?”

“My father grew up in Syria. Left in the 1980s. He didn’t talk about it too much, but he certainly never mentioned enemies.”

Harry nodded. “I’m not surprised. The letter makes it sound like it was a random killing, but you never know.”

“It wasn’t my father who was killed,” I reminded him.

“I know, but it’s possible whoever wrote this letter thought it was your father.”

While I knew that was possible, the theory didn’t sit right with me. “I guess.”

“I’m sure you’ve thought about this, but do you have any idea what the S he signed off with could’ve meant?”

“His initial, I’d guess.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Harry. He crossed his arms and leaned against the sink. “So, you’ve killed someone, and now you’re feeling guilty. It’s been years and years. You write a letter to the daughter of the person you’ve killed, or at least who you think the daughter is. What do you expect to happen? Do you make sure there are no fingerprints? Or is this your way of giving yourself up? It’s an interesting thing you’ve ended up in the middle of, eh?”

“Do you think I’m in danger?” I asked. It seemed like a sensible question, one I was expected to ask.

He sighed. “I can’t say for certain, but I’d doubt it. I’m sure he assumed you’d go to the police, and it’s not like the letter came with any instructions not to. I will tell the patrols to drive by a few times during the night, keep an eye on things, maybe have them do it for the next week or two. That said, maybe get a dog. Make sure it gets along with rabbits, though.” He laughed.

I wondered why he came in person, why he didn’t have me brought to him. Was he not telling me something? Or was he bored and grasping at a case he knew wasn’t there? “Do you think this will turn into anything?”

“No idea.” He started walking towards the front door. “But you want it to, don’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said. “It’s natural, really. You want to think this will lead to something. It might not. You have to live with that.”

“Okay.”

“Besides, if the guy who wrote the letter is actually a killer then you can probably figure out how this really went down, even if you can’t be certain. He made a mistake when researching the family of the guy he killed and stumbled on you. He’ll probably never even realize the mistake. And that’ll be it.” He lifted his right index finger. “But the dog. You need a dog.”

~

A humid night meant the air conditioner continued to groan. I found it tough to get the temperature right and ended up taking out the comforter, figuring it was easier to compensate for the cold than the heat. I did not sleep, the letter stuck in my head, each word a clue to something deeper. Around 1 AM, a tapping came on my air conditioner and I sat straight up in bed. Normally, I’d guess a squirrel or even a raccoon. Not now, however, not after the day’s events.

I went to the blinds and peered through them, scanning my backyard. I saw nothing other than still trees and a starless night. The noise had ceased; I tried to convince myself the cause couldn’t be anything unusual, certainly not the man who dropped off the letter. Why would he come back? What would be the point of tapping on my air conditioner? The logic didn’t help, though. The arrival of the letter had opened a new avenue in my mind, and paranoia now seemed like intuition. How had I ever lived without being suspicious? Was I a fool now thanks to the letter or had the letter shown me what a fool I’d been before to assume nothing sinister lingered on the outskirts of my life?

The darkness made me feel exposed, so I grabbed my bathrobe from the closet. I walked into the kitchen, not daring to put on any lights in case someone was outside and realized I was on to them. My house no longer felt like a place of safety but a cage, its welcoming atmosphere a lie I’d allowed myself to believe. I took a steak knife from one of the kitchen drawers and looked out the front window. Still nothing. The streetlamps illuminated little.

I went to the front door and opened it. Stupid, perhaps, but it would also offer an escape should something come from the back of the house. The open door offered me a better view of my quiet neighborhood. All I could hear were the air conditioners rumbling from the homes on the block. Heat came into the house, nothing more.

Near the end of the block, seven houses down, stood a figure. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, an adult or a teenager. It stood so still that I almost doubted it lived; only a small shift of the head confirmed its humanity. I wanted to call out, to ask if it was here to see me; I didn’t know what answer I’d want. What would happen if it came to me, hand outstretched, offering answers and meaning? What if I let it in? I could see that happening, I could see it approaching, with a smile on its face, one that would chill me, yet I wouldn’t be able to say no.

Instead of calling out, I watched until the figure turned the corner, leaving me with only questions and a sense of cowardice. I opened my mailbox beside my door, trying to find another letter. My hand scraped the bottom of the box. I cursed and shut the front door. I put the knife back in the drawer and returned to my bedroom. If someone had been outside, be it the figure at the end of the block or someone else, they were gone now. The thought should’ve made me comfortable, but I only felt more agitated than before, my skin prickling with frustration. I glanced at my rabbit, sleeping soundly in his glass enclosure. He had the gift of innocence.

~

After a week went by without further contact, I called Harry. I got a desk sergeant who put me on hold. About thirty seconds later Harry came on. “You been looking into that dog?” he asked me.

“Yes, actually,” I said. “A large one seems nice. Thinking of a rescue greyhound.”

“That’s real nice, real nice. They need a home. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you’d found anything out.”

He snorted. “Well, normally it’s against procedure to give out too much about the cases we’re working on, but on this one there’s nothing to give out. No fingerprints on the letter, and we can’t identify the man in the pictures. For now, there’s nothing we can really do, I’m afraid. I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

“It’s fine,” I said, although I hadn’t thought of anything else over the past week.

“Listen, I’m sure your mind is a jumble. Everything must seem like a clue. But it’s not. Trust me, I’ve been down that path. This probably won’t come as a surprise: I’m not a people person. How could I be in my job? I’m dealing with homicides. So, take it from me: don’t turn into a misanthrope. Don’t see danger lurking around every corner. Don’t let a stupid letter change your life.”

“What about the dog?”

“Well, that change is okay.” He laughed. “I’m not a therapist or anything, but just try and keep your head on straight.”

“It’s on straight.” We said goodbye. I was disappointed, but not for the reasons he feared. I wanted to know who wrote the letter, yet, more than that, I liked being part of a larger event, part of a sequence that began years ago, even if I was only tangentially involved. To be a cog in something grander is still better than being nothing at all. What a thing it is to have a part of life open up to you, to gaze into something new, only to have it start to close. The fear fades, but so, too, does the excitement, the sense of purpose.

~

I adopted a greyhound. He came with the name Todd, but the three-year-old next door exclaimed “Big dog!” when he saw him, and I decided that was as good a name as any. Todd became Big Dog, and he did a pretty good job of keeping an eye out, although if anyone broke in, I have a feeling he would’ve tried to become their friend instead of protecting me. I liked having him in the house, I slept better, but I did hope that his presence wouldn’t prevent the arrival of another letter. I knew I was trying to have it both ways, wanting to feel safe while also wanting to know another development could happen at any moment. Maybe that’s why the conversations began.

Sometimes when I woke during the night, I’d imagine the killer. He’d be standing in my doorway. I could never make him out, only his voice distinct, sharp in the quiet of my home.

“I’m sorry,” he’d say. “For the confusion and all.”

“Who was it supposed to go to?” I’d ask.

“It’s not like you’d know the person.”

I’d tell him it didn’t matter, that the answer wasn’t the whole point, but he’d start to fade away.

When the summer began to conclude, the school year’s start on the horizon, my conversations with the killer evolved. I’d go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and he’d be sitting in my living room, whether I’d been thinking about him or not. It became impossible to recall one specific conversation; instead, each one merged into the next, and, over time, a general narrative formed, one where I’d ask a question one night and get an answer two nights later. Or I’d get an answer to a question I’d only end up asking a week down the road.

“Why do you keep coming here?” I once asked.

“You keep inviting me,” he once said.

“Do most killers end up feeling guilty?”

“I don’t know. We don’t have a convention or anything.”

“Why did you apologize to me?”

“It was an accident. Wrong name.”

“Still, it ended up with me, and now you’re here. There must be a reason, somewhere.”

“That’s a thought.”

In the mornings, I’d have flashes of these conversations, never sure if they were from dreams or fantasies. The geography of the conversations grew clearer with time. I’d be seated in the rocking chair I’d inherited from my mother, and the killer would be seated on my love seat, his legs curled up beneath him. He’d often start the conversation by asking about how I was, although never in a colloquial fashion.

“How are you settling this evening?” I can recall him saying. Another time, he began with, “It’s nice for two different people to communicate, don’t you think?”

The school year began, and I taught better than ever despite sleeping less and less. An energy that I’d always lacked had begun to grow in me. The kids paid close attention, transfixed by my enthusiasm. I started jogging every day with Big Dog. I began to consider trips. I read more. I didn’t call Harry, although a few times I thought about it, but I didn’t want to hear him say there’d been no new details. The situation reminded me of high school, when I avoided my boyfriend for a day because I knew he planned to break up with me. Here, the avoidance could go on forever, and the killer would continue to visit me during the night, seeing me as his priority.

“You must like talking to me,” I told him one night.

“It’s the other way around,” he’d said, either that same night or another. “You like talking to me, and I enjoy the attention. It’s nice to be wanted.”

“If you won’t tell me who you killed, will you at least tell me why you did it?”

“Most people kill for the same reason: because life betrayed them at some point.”

I asked him what that meant, but he never answered, not that night or any other.

~

Autumn’s chills came earlier than usual. By the end of October, frost covered the grass in the mornings. The weatherman assured me every day that a rough winter lay ahead. I returned home from work on October 30^th, a Friday, my coat wrapped tightly around me, and let Big Dog out into the backyard. I smiled as he ran in a circle for a couple of minutes before exhausting himself. I went back inside, letting him do his business in peace.

I collected the mail and saw a brown envelope with my name on it, just like the one in the summer. For a moment, the heat of that day came back to me. I opened the letter and saw the same handwriting. Warmth soared in my chest.

Nadia,

S.

I stared down at the letter. I contemplated calling Harry but shoved the thought aside. If he read the letter, he’d realize I wasn’t important anymore and wouldn’t let me know about new developments. I crumpled the letter and threw it in the trash. After a moment, I fished it back out and tore it into pieces before returning it to the garbage.

I let Big Dog back in and he ran around me in a circle, his tail wagging. I fed him dinner, and then made my own. I ate little of it. I tried to read but couldn’t. I retreated to bed early. Lying in bed, I noticed how empty the house seemed. The killer was gone.