I’m seated in a chair that I watched one of the crew members move into the setup yesterday. At Macey’s direction, he placed it near what I soon learned was her chair, leaving the original one stationed across from both of us, creating a loose triangle. The configuration implies we’re a team or working together, and I suppose we are, but I assumed I would be more of a guest, like Harlyn, than the optics seem to be implying.
Harlyn tugs on the sleeve of her sweater and makes her way over. Her light blue eyes are a little wide, but she’s doing a pretty good job of masking her tension. If I didn’t know all the signs to look for, I might not notice the way her chest rises and falls alittle too fast, or the fact that she’s swallowed at least three times since entering the room.
After lowering herself to sit on the end of the chair, she keeps her posture rigid for a heartbeat, then she seems to realize what she’s doing and scoots back deeper into the oversized armchair. I catch sight of her short, dark nails curling into the top of her thighs before allowing my gaze to rise to her face.
Something in my chest constricts, suddenly making it hard to breathe, and the only explanation I can come up with for the phenomenon is Harlyn Wade. I could try to tell myself it has something to do with the fact that she resembles the woman in the crime scene photos I poured over last night, but it would be a lie.
I find myself wondering if the slight darkness under her eyes, hinting at a lack of sleep, was ever an issue before she lost her twin.
“If you’re comfortable, we can get started.” Macey’s voice is now familiar to me from having listened to a few of her podcasts in preparation for this and spending the day being interviewed by her yesterday, but it doesn’t pull Harlyn’s attention nor mine.
Harlyn nods distractedly while sending her suspicious gaze about the room, searching the shadows. It prompts me to see the space clearly arranged in an effort to create a specific ambiance in a different light. What seemed soft and relaxing before now feels dark and shadowy. While I can’t say for certain the obscurity beyond the set is making her uneasy, I’d be willing to bet it is. I know for a fact she is the one who found her sister’s body, and that does something to a person.
When she slowly turns and tries to look over her shoulder, I feel the need to soothe her. Without a word, I pick up my phone, point it in the direction of her chair, then hold the flashlight icon. It lights up the back wall, which is painted a flat black, and some of the surrounding area. Just as Harlyn turns to find the lightsource, I angle the phone down toward my legs. “Sorry, I thought I dropped my pen.” Her eyes dip down to the notepad on my lap, where my ink pen is clearly visible on top of the paper. I use my free hand to flick it into the edge of the chair while she watches, but before Macey can spot what just happened. Casually, as if by accident, I move my phone around, making sure Harlyn gets a decent look at the rest of the empty space around us. When her eyes return to mine, there’s a new softness in her gaze.
“Did you find it?” Macey leans over the side of her chair, looking at the floor.
Harlyn keeps up my ruse. “I think I see it right next to your leg.”
I make a show of feeling around in the crevice of the cushion next to me before finally lifting it up victoriously. “Got it.”
“Okay, I think we’re ready to get started then. Harlyn, I’ll ease you into it. First, we’ll talk a little bit about your sister and what she was like. I want the listeners to really get to know her before we get into details about what happened to her. Okay?”
Nothing that Macey said should rub me wrong, since she’s explaining her process to Harlyn, but something about her casualness and perceived lack of empathy when talking about her twin grates on me. The sad part is, it happens so often with the people closest to victims. It’s easy to forget that they are more than tools to help us solve a crime.
“Okay,” Harlyn agrees with a hard swallow.
“Hey, Unexplained fans. It’s Marcy with a story that will be sure to have you checking that your doors are locked tonight. In today’s case, we’re meeting with Harlyn Wade to discuss the death—no,murderof her twin sister, Hayzel. We are also lucky enough to have renowned criminal profiler, FBI Special Agent Landry with us to give insight into the events surrounding Hayzel Wade’s death. Harlyn, thank you for joining us. I knowhow tough it can be to revisit the past. What can you tell us about your sister?”
Harlyn’s eyes pinch a little, “Uh… She… was my person. Even when we argued or didn’t agree on something, she was… my light.” Her sentence starts slow, as if she’s not quite sure how to answer, but as she continues, her voice grows stronger, and by the end of her statement, I can hear the authenticity of her words.
Macey softly encourages, “That sounds amazing. Tell us about her.”
Harlyn’s eyes shift away from Macey’s face, lifting up and to the right. She seems to be accessing memories. “She wasn’t perfect,” Harlyn prefaces with a small smile. “I hate when people act like someone could never do any wrong just because they died. She wasn’t a saint, but she was amazing, and I know it sounds cliché, but she really did light up every room she walked into. She looked for the best in people. I thought that made her naïve, but it was just who she was.”
“What do you mean?” Macey questions.
“When we were growing up, there was this boy who would tease us all the time about being foster kids?—”
“You were in the foster system?” Macey interrupts with an incredulous tone.
“No, our grandparents took us in when our parents died. He just didn’t know that or didn’t care,” she explains with a shake of her head. “Anyway, he was an assho—jerk.”
“It’s okay, you can say anything you want as far as cursing. Content warnings already put us with a mature rating,” Macey says in a different tone, which I know won’t make the editing.
“Well, I wanted to shove a stick in the spoke on his bike. I was so tired of listening to him, but Hayzel wouldn’t let me. She said he only acted like that because he was hurting on the inside and was lashing out. It was something our therapist said. Forme, it went in one ear and out the other, but she really listened and took his words to heart. We found out later that little boy was abused by his dad.” She gives a small shrug of her shoulders. “Like I said, she chose to see the good in people, even when she probably shouldn’t have.”
“You guys were in therapy after your parents’ deaths?”
“Yeah, for a few years,” Harlyn answers without any sign of hesitance.
“What was high school like for you two?”
“Typical, I guess. She had a few boyfriends, but nothing too serious. She tended to do more of a group thing.”
“And were you in that group?”
“Sort of. I was there for her and a couple other people.” Her answer about herself is less direct, but nothing I would call evasive.
