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One week before I left  Rhode Island for Annapolis to live with my father, my mother vehemently insisted that I must have a going-away extravaganza that doubled as my graduation party. My expectations were low because I knew this was her last Hail-Mary attempt to convince me she was the “cool parent.” The invitation was a laundry list of “school friends” that were nothing but a seat at a  lunch table of anime outcasts in a sea of pretentious private school kids. My years of convincing vocabulary and outlandish stories must have convinced her that my veins were pumping with popularity blood. Our living room was a regurgitated nautical mess of reds, whites, blues, and anchors. Laura really doesn’t know how to throw a party. I call her by her first name because honestly, she lost her privilege to be “mom,” a while ago.

 

Yet when that final Saturday came, I found myself paralyzed by fear in a cocoon of body pillows and comforters. At 7:32am, Laura rhythmically knocked on my door with that Morse-code like “tap...tap tap...tap”, invited herself in, and sat at the foot of my bed. She had tears in her eyes as she handed me my Rhode Island driver’s license. She revoked it a month ago after a panic attack I had while driving. I’m not sure if it was for dramatic purposes or she genuinely just wanted me to remember my ID.  She mouthed Savannah Marina Kaiper and covered her quivering lips with a light touch of her right hand.

 

“Savannah, you know, it takes six months to establish residency in Maryland.” she said. “You are always welcome to come home.”

 

June 1st was my departure date and in no way did I anticipate a return to Rhode Island arrival date of January 1st. By January 2nd I planned to apply for a new ID and permanent residency. I didn’t hide my look of disgust as I shot her a voiceless glance that screamed no. Afterall, body language makes up 90% conversation - or something like that.  

 

I broke through my cocoon (much to my disappointment, emerging still as Savannah) not bothering to change out of my sweatpants and baggy “Newport, RI” tourist tee-shirt that I got on some field trip in the eighth grade.

 

“I need to have you at the train-station by 9:45am. You’re scheduled to arrive in Washington D.C at 8:37pm.” She said.

 

With that, I was ready for her speech. I unwillingly succumbed to her  ninth millionth rant about how there’s nothing to do in Annapolis. There’s nothing around except water, tourists, and Midshipman capitalizing on their uniform and titles in an attempt to get laid.  My mom can complain for hours - especially about men.

 

“Your father won’t even be around. You’ll be alone.” Laura scoffed as she gathered my bags and threw them in the trunk of our Volvo. Ok, first of all, rude. Second, Laura was just pissed that my dad was successful, and she divorced him before she got to reap the benefits. My dad was an ex-officer in the Navy, now a professor of English at the United States Naval Academy. It was kind of cool, but it did consume him. I’d never admit to her that I knew I’d be alone.

 

On our way to the train station she continued her rant.

 

“Savannah -- you’re literally named after a damn ship. Even your middle name is water related!”

 

I rested my head against the passenger side window, half in annoyance, half in disappointment. She was not wrong. My dad has always been married to the sea.

 

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 I arrived in D.C at the Columbia Heights Station on time, 8:37pm. I grabbed my bags and made my way to the lobby looking for my dad, Joshua Kaiper, (but I call him dad, he earned that one). He is of average height -- 5’10, at most. He has pale German skin and piercing blue eyes. His ears are always just a little too big for his head and stick out like open car doors from his faded navy and gold ball-cap with the Navy “N*” symbol on the top. I parked myself on a bench darting my eyes around the room looking for those ears. At 9:17pm he still was nowhere to be found. I checked my iPhone for a text from him but my phone was dry. I texted him, “what’s the SITREP?”

 

SITREP means “situational report.” I thought if I spoke in Naval terms it might get his attention. I went into settings and changed my clock from civilian to military time. That killed a few minutes. 21:32. I was annoyed. I gave up and called an Uber. I saw the 48 minute time and 33 mile ride charging a whopping $92.00 and audibly said, “big oof.” I ordered it, obviously charging it to his card on file, and waited outside believing the estimated five minute arrival time. I looked for Rashid in his 2013 Hyundai Sonata thankful that his bio said he was fluent in Turkish and driving to earn money for med school. He stumbled through a broken English, “hello, how are you?”

 

Rashid dropped me off 137 Prince George Street at 22:23. I typed in the garage code, 8533, the first four digits of dad’s USNA I.D number. I walked into the living room only to find him asleep on his recliner, in that hat, with his phone next to him. I shook him awake.

 

Groggily, he batted his eyes and made a feeble attempt to say, “Hey.”

 

“Hey, Dad. I’m home.” I quietly said. It took a second for him to register that it was me. I was annoyed. He’s known me for 18 years. I’m an only child. He has no-one else to keep track of. What the fuck. In that moment, I made the conscious decision to comply with his sea-faring ways and swear like a sailor, too.

 

“Oh hey, Savannah! How’s my girl?” His eyes lit up when he said, “my girl.”

 

Oh just a little pissed off, ‘cause ya know, you forgot about me. “To be honest, I’m exhausted, Dad.” I gave him a hug, told him we’d catch up tomorrow, and headed upstairs to my room.

 

I didn’t frequent my dad’s often, so my room was exactly as I left it. Looking around, it affirmed that my dad always wanted a boy.  I always wanted the walls painted with earthy colors -- maroon, greens, and grays. So we compromised and had it painted yellow and navy. My dad was obsessed with the Navy and the Academy. I had a lamp stand shaped like a goat, USNA’s mascot. The floor lamps were wrapped in rope and shag area rug was a jumbled mess of letters that, if you knew what to look for, read “Don’t Give Up the Ship.” I dramatically dropped my bags -- my maroon, green, and gray bags -- on the floor and fell into an exaggerated “flop” on my bed. I physically ached for a good night's sleep. Tomorrow I would acclimate myself with the cobblestone roads and small businesses in hopes to make some sort of home here. I’d start by trading in my Patogania jackets and Uggs for Helly Hansen windbreakers and Sperry boat shoes.

 

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Three weeks later I was beginning to feel at home. I paraded around town with a confidence I lacked in Rhode Island. I was becoming a familiar face. I had befriended a middle-aged woman who owned the cutest little coffee shop on West street right beside the bay. The name lacked creativity and honestly left me a little confused; Coffeehouse Winebar and Gallery, owned by Kelly Grier. I tried to call her Miss Kelly but she never let me -- said it was too formal. Kelly and I became friends. She had a squeaky voice that never seemed to run out of words. Sometimes it would literally get to the point that, I swear, my normal sized ears would want to run away from my body. She was trendy. She’d sport herringbone skirts with tattered cardigans and Toms. Her hair hung to her belly button, and no matter the weather, was always topped with a gray Carhartt beanie. Her ears were full of about six too many piercings and sometimes her septum piercing would come untucked from inside her nose. She was a manifestation of what I always wished I had had in Laura. But I digress. We had conversations about everything. I told her I moved here June 1st to live with my dad hoping to find a refuge from the unwelcome home that was Laura’s house. She didn’t have any kids and I didn’t really have a mom, so we just adopted each other.

 

“Do you know what today is, Savannah?” Kelly said with a teasing grin.

 

“Uh? June 27th?” I tilted my head to the side not entirely amused with what she was going to say.

 

“It’s Induction Day!” She exclaimed. “It’s the start of Plebe Summer!”

 

Right, I forgot that was a thing. To me, Induction Day was just another day I didn’t get to see my dad. I just nodded, looked up briefly from staring at my coffee, and gave her the most half-assed smile. Her husband had been an Officer of Supply and Logistics but always thought himself to be some sort of “Maverick” despite not being associated with Naval Aviation, at all. He died seven years ago in a car accident leaving her widowed with a sizable sum of money. Maybe her heartbreak is what left her more infatuated with the Navy than I was.

 

I pushed my coffee aside, (which she never makes me pay for), tossed her an outdated “peace sign” with my left hand and went on my way. As I left she squeaked, “love you!” But I just ignored it because we don’t say that at my house.

 

I turned right towards Main street and headed for Back Creek Books. It’s not big, but it has a ladder on the wall and honestly, what more could you want. My love for writing, books, and the English language in general is the only trait I inherited from my dad. The bells on the door announced my entrance a little louder than I liked. The man behind the counter gave me a cheerful “hello” in what sounded like an exaggerated false British accent. I reciprocated with my best fake country accent.

 

For three weeks I have been working my way around this store. I started with Maritime genre’s, fiction, art, psychology, and now I was headed to the crime section. I paged through poorly written paperback prose and sociological studies on crime rates until I found a non-fiction small book on the history of interracial crime in the 19th century. Given the lack of...umm...“color” in this city, I was drawn to it. One of the first articles was a documented confession of John Joyce and Peter Mathias; two black men who had been charged with and executed for the murder of Mrs. Sarah Cross in 1807. She was a white, middle-aged affluent widow who also owned a small business, like Kelly. Apparently, they took advantage of her vulnerability, robbed, than murdered her knowing she was incapable of resistance. I heard the bell on the door ring and I looked up. In that moment, I swear I saw Laura outside the storefront window. I locked eyes with “her” but she promptly disappeared. I’d bet my next non-existent paycheck on it that that was her.

 

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Later that night dad and I sat in silence across from each other at the dinner table. He was still dressed in uniform, grading papers and stabbing at his salad.

 

“I met a boy today.” I hadn’t. No response from him.

 

“I bought a gun.” I said a little louder. I hadn’t. No response.

 

“I think I’m going to vote for Biden.” I wasn’t, but it got his attention.

 

“Savannah honey,” he said, “how have you been settling in?” He genuinely looked concerned. He put his red pen down and made eye contact with me. I smiled for a second, happy to finally talk with him, but really what he was looking at was my elbows on the table. See, they teach that etiquette school stuff at the Academy and quite frankly, I just don’t care. Half of me wanted to knock my water over on purpose just out of spite.

 

“I like it. I went to the bookstore today and started reading about criminal history and stuff.”

 

“Why? This is Annapolis? Literally nothing happens here.” He smirked as he said it acting as if crime has an address and that address is Baltimore County.

 

“Have you heard from your mother?” he continued. “Did you see Kelly, today?”

 

“No” I said with a sigh of relief. “But the wild thing is, after I left Kelly’s, I swear I saw Laura on Main Street. We even made eye contact.”

 

He stared at me with a look of concern. He didn’t argue. I wanted him to argue. I wanted him to tell me I was crazy, or homesick, or anything. He almost looked suspicious, as if he was withholding information from me.

 

“Hmm. Well, that wouldn’t make much sense.” He mumbled almost to himself instead of offering reassurance to me.

 

I excused myself from the dinner table and put the dishes in the sink. I wandered up the hall to my room, feeling sleuthy. I opened up the book I’d been studying and Google’d John Joyce and the murder of Sarah Cross. The whole situation was horrible and made me scared for Kelly. The witness was a 14 year old girl, not much younger than I am. Nervous for Kelly, I fell down a rabbit hole of history. I studied the economic trends of small business ownership, violent crimes committed against women, interracial crime rates, and female violence. My search didn’t stop. After hours of reading theses and dissertations, I felt educated enough to defend Kelly - should anything happen to her.

 

I forgot though that a strong mind doesn’t do much for a weak body.

 

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Three days later I walked into the coffeehouse at 09:15, fighting my way through clusters of people. Families were packing up to leave their Plebes and head back home to all different cities around the country. I went behind the counter to help Kelly catch up on orders. By 11:30 the shop was empty with the exception of a few regulars engrossed in their laptops and cellphones. Kelly and I let out exhausted sighs of relief and sat down with our own coffee.

 

“So weirdest thing, Savannah. I got this package yesterday addressed to you?” She handed me the certified gray-wrapped parcel with no name on the return address. It was mailed from Rhode Island, but I didn’t recognize the handwriting. I peeled away at the perforated line and carefully pulled out a collection of papers printed from “Documenting the American South” website. It was the recorded confession of John Joyce and Peter Mathias. I shifted through the rest of the envelope looking for a note of who it may be from. I only found a green Post-it that read in maroon ink, “stay curious and stay alert, little sleuth.”

 

Kelly must’ve seen the slight panic in my eyes because she grabbed my hand and asked what was wrong.

 

“It’s nothing, Kelly. Probably just some weird prank.” I said, trying to convince us both of that obvious lie. I poured myself some coffee to-go and hugged her goodbye - an unnatural gesture to me. I had this pit in my stomach that I couldn’t shake. I just stared at the envelope the whole way back to Prince George street. My hands were shaking as I punched in the four digit code of our garage. It was 13:40 so dad should’ve still been at school helping the Detailers with the Plebes. To my surprise, his Mercedes SUV was in the garage. I cautiously opened the door nervously yelling for dad, but there was no response. Hesitantly, I walked up the back staircase to my room. I opened the door, confused. The ropes had been undone from my lamps, my shag rug taken, and my goat lampstand disassembled and gone.

 

I didn’t want to feel scared, but I was. I flipped on my TV and put in that romantic comedy with Justin Timberlake -- Friends with Benefits -- and fell asleep begging my mind not to dream about this unsettling string of events.

 

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August 14th, 2019,

 

I took up journaling. Dad said it’d be good for my mental health (which is weird because I didn’t even think I had a mental illness?). It’s been pretty quiet since June. I stopped my criminal research and haven’t received any strange packages. The whole thing spooked me though so I had to go on anti-anxiety/depression meds. Dad seems fine with a prescription medicine remedy. We’ve gotten closer in the past two months which is a welcomed change of pace. I still don't know what happened to my stuff. I got a new lamp and rug, though. I’m not too concerned about the rope on my lamp stand. I still haven’t heard from Laura, which I’m not complaining but it does seem a little strange for a mom to not reach out to their own kid. But that’s what I have Kelly for. I guess that’s all I have to say. That’s my SITREP.

 

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On my way to Kelly’s coffeehouse I was passed by sirens of all kinds. Multitudes of police cars, fire engines, and ambulances whizzed past me in an array of lights and horns. This wasn’t normal. Crime didn’t live here. Crime lived in Baltimore County. I saw them turn on West street and I changed my gait from a walk to a sprint. I could only think, Kelly.

 

The first responders slammed their brakes outside of the coffeehouse. I saw interior lights on in an ambulance as it sped away. Caution tape was strung across the door and windows loudly announcing that this was a crime scene. I wept. I fell into an officer’s arms and begged the officer to tell me what happened. My tears were hot behind my eyes, but ice cold as they waterfalled down my cheeks. My body froze as I watched a detective bring items out of the store marked as “evidence.” Though my vision was blurred, I am confident I saw him leave with my goat lamp stand. My body violently shook as I replayed the chain of events in my head since my arrival in Annapolis.

 

At the dock, I watched them pull a body out of the Chesapeake. A bloated and gray Kelly was bound with rope. I fell to my knees.

 

“Are you Savannah Kaiper?” a man in uniform asked me. I nodded a feeble “yes.” He flipped his badge in my face, Detective Yower, it read, and told me I needed to come with him. Handcuffs were being slapped onto my wrists and I was forcefully pushed into the back of a cop car. I saw my dad sprinting towards us in mania yelling, “That's my girl, that’s my girl!” Two officers restrained him as he tried to red-rover through their locked arms. I screamed in hysteria, “daddy!” hoping he’d be the savior I always wished he’d be. I watched him crumble to a puddle of tears as we drove off from the scene.

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January 2nd, 2020.

 

I was found guilty today for the murder of Kelly Grier. It’s been four months since her death. I was institutionalized immediately after my questioning with Detective Yower. I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder and schizophrenia. I had been told everything. My mom sent me away from Rhode Island when it started getting bad. She hoped that the structure and routine of my dad’s parenting style would bring some mental stability. I thought I was doing great this whole time. Apparently I left the envelope at Kelly’s. It was Laura that I saw outside the bookstore -- she had come to Annapolis to check in on me. She even met Kelly and talked with dad. It was the day I came home to find his SUV in the garage and all my stuff missing that they went out to lunch and talked about me. The tapes show that I used the lamp to knock her unconscious and the rope from my lamp stand to tie her arms and legs. A single 16 year old girl saw me leave the coffee shop and drag her to the extremely short distance to the dock, dropping her in the water. I don’t remember any of it. I don’t even feel sick about it. I was supposed to apply for permanent Maryland residency today. When the lawyer asked why I did it, I didn’t know. She loved the Navy. She missed her husband. I wanted to help, I guess. So I married her to the sea.