CW: Discussion of SA
I cajole, coax, wheedle, beg, plead, insist, demand and berate, but Ethan holds firm. “Hannah, I can’t,” he says. “I could get fired.”
“From a part-time job at a locksmith’s?” We’re in our parents’ family room, lounging on the sectional sofa. “Who cares?”
“Whatever.” Ethan scrolls through his iPad.
“Five minutes. I promise I’ll only be in there for five minutes.”
“No.” He turns up the volume on the video he’s watching—a snake is swallowing a mouse. The narrator intones, “The king cobra typically prefers a diet of other cold-blooded reptiles but when food is scarce, will often dine on small mammals or birds.” The mouse’s ink-drop eyes stare unblinkingly, resigned to its fate. “Whoa,” says Ethan, tapping his iPad’s screen to make the video larger.
“I’ll pay you,” I offer, enunciating the words with exaggerated patience, as if he’s still five years old.
“No. Hannah, stop.”
Another rodent-looking thing appears on the screen. “The mongoose,” the narrator says. The mongoose and snake hiss at each other. I jump up and pace, rethinking my strategy. Outside, the April skies spit rain, everything soggy and gray. Turning from the window, I summon a few fake tears, wiping my nose on the back of my wrist.
Ethan lifts eyes the exact shape and shade as Emma’s. “Knock it off. I know you’re not really crying. Check this out.” I flop onto the couch, glancing at the iPad. The mongoose has the limp snake in its mouth, whipping it back and forth. The snake makes a cracking sound when the mongoose snaps it against the ground. “Forget it,” I say, standing. “I’ll do it without you.”
“Don’t get arrested. I can’t afford to bail you out.”
A June breeze floats through the window screen, carrying with it childish shouts and the heady scent of lilac. I yank the window closed. In the kitchen, I scarf down half a carton of leftover sesame chicken while scrolling through my phone, checking Mason Krieger’s social media sites. He works as an auditor for a large bank, based out of the corporate office in downtown Minneapolis. His partner at the bank is named Paige. She’s twenty-eight, four years older than Mason. I can tell by the way he talks about her that he’s into her. Mason’s job entails him ticking items off spreadsheets and verifying columns of numbers against other columns of numbers as he instructs harried clerks and underpaid administrative staff to go fetch such-and-such inventory report or bill of lading or purchase order sheet. I know all of this because Mason loves to talk about himself—his job, his car, his workout routine, his low-carb diet.
The Internet has provided me with further details: his boss’s name is Charles and his parents are called Bob and Suzanne. His older brother, Logan, lives in Seattle. Online court records have revealed that Mason has a criminal record—a misdemeanor three years ago for a fourth-degree marijuana conviction. No jail time, just a fine.
Every morning Mason leaves his apartment dressed in pressed slacks, a silk shirt, and a geometric-patterned tie. I typically stay at least two car lengths behind him on Interstate 35W and have lost sight of his leased Beamer only once while tailing him.
After a quick shower, I do my eyes and slick gloss over my lips. A lavender fringe skirt paired with a silver corset, three-inch strappy sandals. The jasmine and green tea perfume Mason goes crazy for. There’s a new text from Patrick, the timing of which feels ominous. I delete it unread.
Evening rush hour traffic petered out hours ago, and the drive to Mason’s apartment takes only twelve minutes. I spy an empty spot in the rear parking lot and text him so I won’t have to walk all the way to the front in my heels. After two minutes he replies, Come to the front. I’ll buzz u in.
Typical: Mason’s MO is the bare minimum. A woman walking a beagle stares at her phone while the dog sniffs wadded-up fast food bags skirting the dumpster. It lifts one leg to pee on a pop can, mouth open in a panting grin.
The hallway smells like somebody cooked tacos for dinner. In one of the first-floor apartments, two people are yelling at each other over the blare of a TV game show.
Mason flings open his apartment door, wearing a pair of low-slung jeans and a smirk. His is the first six-pack I’ve seen in real life. His breath reeks of beer layered with mint mouthwash. My stomach does a slow roll. Grabbing my wrist, he tugs me over the threshold——an unwilling bride.
Before my shift the next day, I stand on the sidewalk, along with all the six- and seven-year-olds, eating an ice cream sandwich I bought from the jingling truck. The fresh taste of vanilla floods my mouth. I crumple the wrapper and toss it into a trashcan. There’s a new text from Mason. hey Hottie, wanna cum over tonite.
Jesus, four years of college and the guy can’t even type a proper sentence. I respond, I get off at ten and he shoots back: I’ll get u off.
For a guy obsessed with diet and exercise, Mason sure loves to hit the drugs and booze. He likes to make the distinction between coke——‘cola’ he calls it——and trash drugs. “Fuck yeah, baby,” he’ll say, swiping his fingers beneath his nostrils. “This isn’t some dirty redneck meth. This is pure blow, baby.” He clearly doesn’t recognize the value of keeping his wits about him.
I told him I’m religious——that’s why I don’t smoke, drink, or have sex. I think the prospect of defiling an innocent is what he likes about me.
“Just taste it if you’re scared to snort,” he says now. Mason’s so easy, almost too easy; guys like him see exactly what they expect to see because——in their minds——other people exist only in relation to them. It wouldn’t occur to Mason that I might not be enthralled with him. I watch in mock fascination tinged with apprehension as he rubs his finger over his gums, saying, “Like this,” and laughing when I exclaim, “It made my lips numb!” He leans over to plant a sloppy kiss on my mouth. “Can you feel that?”
“Aren’t you scared of getting in trouble?” I make my eyes big as he packs a bowl.
“Nah. I pay my dealer extra to hand-deliver the goods. That way I don’t risk getting pulled over with anything on me.” The lighter flares, the weed crackling as he inhales and a skunky smell fills the room. He says on the exhale, “You always got to stay one step ahead of them.”
Indeed.
While he takes a piss, I crumble half a Roofie into his Pepsi. Mason comes back into the living room, flopping down beside me. I ask, “Do you share your drugs with all your girlfriends?” I make a pouty face, as if I’m jealous.
“Only the really hot ones.” He runs a hand up my thigh, beneath my skirt, as he drains his soda. He pushes me onto my back.
“Not tonight,” I whisper into his neck as he dry humps me. “My period came. Let’s do it next Saturday.”
“You’re finally going to let me?” he asks, the words coming out slurred. “Promise?” He licks my earlobe.
I swallow back the taste of vomit. “Promise.”
Mason thinks cocaine is the best buzz on Earth, but I know there’s something better——the queen of highs: revenge.
Forty minutes later, Mason is a heap on his bed, all stale breath and drool. In the living room, I pocket his baggie of coke. I lift the fob to his BMW from the coffee table, where it lies next to his wallet and cell phone. I snag a Minnesota Vikings hoodie off the back of the sofa. I wad the hoodie up and prop open the door to the building half an inch so I’ll be able to get back inside. In the parking lot, I sit in the leather driver’s seat, running my hands over the steering wheel. The two of them probably spent a lot of time in this car, him behind the wheel, speeding down the highway toward parties and restaurants, her in the passenger seat with windblown hair, smitten eyes.
Back upstairs, I set the fob on the coffee table. I cock my head; faint snuffling snores drift from the bedroom. In the kitchen, I flip on the light above the stove, leaving most of the room shrouded in darkness. Mason’s laptop sits propped open on the table. I tap the enter key and the screensaver vanishes. There’s not even a password. I smile. See, Ethan——I told you I’d get it done on my own.
It’s all here, everything I need. I pull up an email thread between Mason and his coworker, Paige. All their interactions are about work: What time is the meeting tomorrow? and Did you request the invoices from WRT?
From Mason’s email address I type to Paige: U up? I’d love to get my hands on u. Send me a nude. I open a folder labeled “Clients.” Pulling up the search engine, I type in a few of the female client names and find three that I’m able to match to social media profiles. I send messages propositioning them.
Next, I go into a spreadsheet titled “Current Jobs.” After studying the columns of numbers, I make half a dozen changes and click save. I delete a folder titled ‘Due Friday’ and then delete it again from the recycling bin. Mason’s browsing history reveals saved passwords for his bill-pays. I roll through utility and credit card websites, one after another, changing the automatic payment dates. Late payments are a bad look for a bank auditor.
He’s been sending a woman called Ashley dick pics. He’s made plans to meet up with another woman, Brit, at a local bar next weekend. I email Ashley copies of his last two messages to Brit and forward Brit a message from last week asking Ashley to come over so he could “blow his load all over her fine ass.”
What was that? I spin around, a lie already forming in my mouth, but the room is empty. Out in the hallway, muted laughter.
Mason recently responded to a professor from his alma mater——he’s scheduled to issue an alumni speech regarding the merits of his chosen field. I use my phone to take a picture of this information. On social media, I scroll through his contacts, attaching the dick pic to private messages that I send to several of his female friends. I craft another email to Paige and send her the dick pic, too. Mason has an online friend named Haley Thompson. Haley is a short blond with a flirty smile. In her profile picture, she’s wearing ripped jeans with a cut-out top.
I click on the folder I’ve saved for last, the one titled “Ho’s.” Nearly two dozen faces——over a hundred images in all——stare back at me. I delete all one hundred and seventeen images, again going into the trashcan and wiping it clean. I snap a photo of Mason’s contact list and clear the browsing history before shutting down the computer.
Outside, a flowering tree drips silky blossoms. Beneath cones of light raining down from the streetlamps, the scattered petals blowing across the pavement appear gray.
I wonder if Mason’s boss is more upset by Mason harassing the female clients or by his data entry mistakes. I wonder if he still has a job. I’d like to drive by his apartment before my shift but I’m already late.
On my break, I eat a couple of chicken wings and chug an energy drink before the next round of customers make their way into the bar. There’s a text from Mason: Did you use my computer?
Over the next ten minutes, he sends me increasingly angry messages.
Did you take my fucking stash?
Where’s my coke, you thieving whore?
I swipe a chicken wing through a smear of ranch dressing and lick my fingers.
When I clock out that night, there’s another text: Psycho bitch. I smile at my phone.
I use my dad’s printer while he’s at work to print out copies of Mason’s latest text message. I mail them to his parents and his boss. This is how your son/employee treats women. I include details of Mason’s drug use, including a specific story he told me about buying cocaine from a coworker named Austin and then snorting it with a client named Dave. I leave a copy of his text message beneath the windshield wiper of the car of a woman he’s seeing while she’s upstairs inside his apartment. Maybe it’s Ashley. Or Brit. I attach a note that reads: This is how Mason treats women. The text reads, Fucking cunt. Answer me crazy BITCH!
Am I worried he’ll report me for harassment? Not really. He can’t prove anything. And you can’t exactly call the police because somebody stole your drugs. Also, there’s Haley Thompson. She was seventeen when she and Mason were dating, and was an employee at the bank he works for. He was her direct supervisor, making their relationship illegal.
Sitting in my childhood bedroom, I position my laptop on my knees. I copy the wording from the website of a local law firm. According to Minnesota statute 309.645, you are guilty of statutory rape. I slide the folded sheet of crisp white paper into an envelope addressed to Mason.
Does his family rally around him, refusing to believe it? Or has the fact that he’s been terminated from his job——his car’s been parked in its usual spot outside of his apartment building for the past three days——cause a niggle of doubt? Perhaps he hasn’t told them he was fired. I decide to remedy this, typing out more letters addressed to Mason’s parents, his brother, his friends. Mason was fired from his job. Ask him why.
I address a letter to his former college professor. Mason regretfully declines your invitation to act as guest speaker at your facility, as he’s recently lost his job due to a series of poor decisions.
That night I bus tables, dumping dregs of beer down the sink and scraping soggy French fries and globs of crusted ketchup into the trash container. The fry cook whistles a tune I know but can’t place. The smell of caramelized garlic infiltrates every corner of the kitchen. Somebody called in sick again and my manager needs me to stay late to wash dishes. As I soak silverware and scrub pots and pans, I decide I’ll go back to Iowa in the fall, finish school. Make a fresh start.
Nobody contacts me, police or otherwise. I mail a letter to Mason’s landlord: The tenant in three-twelve has sex with underage girls and uses drugs on your property, and in response, Mason sends me a spate of hateful messages. He sends several more after I send a similar letter to his new boss.
This is the beautiful irony——there’s no recourse for stalker victims. I picture him lying awake in his Ikea bedroom with the swimsuit-model posters curling away from the walls as if some acne-faced adolescent inhabited the space, as he wonders what else I know and who I might tell. My sleep is the deepest it’s been in nearly a year.
Did Mason ever detect echoes of her features in my face? Is that what drew him to me that first night, as I sat reading a novel in a bar I knew he frequented? Or perhaps he’s simply attracted to young women with long hair and upturned noses and smoky eye makeup. Women with hesitant body language and too-eager smiles, the kind who exude a certain sort of “something.” Something that the Mason Kriegers of this world instantly recognize and easily cultivate.
Mason’s final message before I delete the burner app from my phone reads, Who are you?
Emma was both Mason’s girlfriend and his ex-girlfriend last summer. I never met him while they were dating, because I was attending college in Iowa while Ethan and Emma were graduating from high school. During summer break, I stayed in Iowa because I had a job I liked and a boyfriend I also liked.
She sent me texts telling me she was in love; she sent me a photo. In the image, Emma was laughing, eyes shining, a lock of wind-blown hair caught across one cheek. A smirking guy had one tanned brawny arm slung across her shoulders. I wanted to know everything: What’s his name, how did you meet? What does he do, where does he live? Does he love you back??
Our mom called me in mid-August, saying Emma and her boyfriend had broken up, that she’d lost twenty pounds and was refusing to leave for college. I drove home to Minnesota and never left. Emma never left either, although she had a scholarship to the Milwaukee Institute of Art and Design.
The two of us sat cross-legged on her bed in our childhood bedroom, surrounded by pink pillows and stuffed animals with missing button eyes. “Jesus, Em,” I said. She was rail-thin, her face bare of makeup, hair lank with grease. Depressed, I thought.
Emma swore me to secrecy; I wasn’t to tell Ethan or our parents or my friends or anyone, ever. The story was this: last summer Emma went to a party she almost didn’t attend——but for a headache, a prior commitment, a missed text, she never would have met Mason Krieger. Her sin: a momentary lapse of judgment as the oxytocin and dopamine of a new love affair flooded her brain. Her crime: bruising a self-important man’s ego.
She broke up with Mason in late July, after discovering he was seeing another girl. The other girl was a year younger than Emma——an almost-senior in high school——and this seemed to bother her more than the actual cheating. The other girl’s name was Haley Thompson.
A week after she dumped Mason, Emma started receiving dick pics from a couple of his creep friends. One of the guys she worked with at the coffee shop texted her: Wow, nice tits, Em!
Emma was terrified our parents would find out, that the pictures would make their way to the college administrators. She’d heard of a girl——a friend of a friend——who’d had her picture and address posted on a revenge porn site. Emma’s fingers scrubbed at her damp cheeks. “Everyone’s seen them, all of his friends. All of my friends. He sent them to like fifty people, Hannah.”
A woman could spend her whole life chasing down those fleeting errors in judgment.
I didn’t think it was a big deal; people sexted all the time. I told her girls in the Middle East were having their genitals mutilated. In some places, women risk being strangled or stabbed for having a boyfriend of their own choosing. “Who cares?” I said, “He’s just some dumb guy.”
Ethan found her. It was a beautiful morning over Labor Day weekend, the sun a radiant golden disc in the sky as cheerful birds sang from treetops and Emma’s whole future lay spread out before her, like a wish or a dream.
I was at the lake that day with a group of my old high school friends——Alexis and Hunter and Calvin——showing off my new bikini and racing Hunter’s little brother down the dock to go skidding into the water with a splash and a shriek.
Our mom blames herself, for not recognizing the signs. Our dad blames her, too. The police said most people have no idea that up to fifteen percent of cocaine is laced with Fentanyl. I wonder though. What if an idea——dark, insidious, seductive——passed through Emma’s mind, fleeting at first, rushing past before circling back, lingering, becoming more familiar, more compelling, more real, until the thought took root, until it was stuck, lodged firmly in her mind like a bright beacon flaring through the darkness, blocking out everything else and assuming the appearance of the preordained?
Does Mason know about Emma? Does he regret his choices, as she lamented hers?
Sometimes I scroll through my texts, looking for that special one——the last one I ever got from Emma: see u in 10
Occasionally, my eyes drift toward a more recent message: Who are you? As if he’s gone through life treating so many people like shit that he can’t keep track of them all.
More often, I pull up my newsfeed and type his name into the search engine. This has become a compulsion, an activity I engage in multiple times a day, much as Emma spent last summer frantically scouring the internet for photos of herself. Anonymous Tip Leads to Arrest of Minneapolis Man on Drug Charges. Mason Krieger, 24, was arrested after a tip led to police confiscating a controlled substance found inside his vehicle Monday evening. Krieger faces up to five years in prison and will likely receive the maximum sentence due to a prior drug conviction…
I climb behind the wheel of my Camry, trunk packed with clothes and books, my broken-down futon stuffed into the backseat, slats and rollers and rails clanking as I merge onto the highway. Who knows——maybe Patrick is still waiting for me in Iowa City.
Behind me, my family moves through life as if underwater, with a heaviness to their limbs and their hearts, all the joy and pleasure washed away, wrung out, faded, drained of color.
Who are you?
I am Hannah. I am Emma’s sister.
Jessica Hwang’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in more than twenty literary journals, including: Mystery Magazine, Tough, Uncharted, The Rockford Review, and Bright Flash Literary Review. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and for the Best American Mystery and Suspense, Best American Short Stories, and Best of the Net anthologies. Her favorite revenge story is Stephen King’s “Big Driver.” You can find her at jessicahwangauthor.com.
