“Anything,” he replies without hesitation.
“Do you think Isaac Holt is a criminal?”
Even irately angry at Isaac, he’s still in the forefront of my mind.Why can’t I just forget about him?
Brandon stops gorging on the cookies like it is his final meal as his hazel eyes lift to mine. His brows furrow before he begins to answer, “His file—”
“Don’t tell me what his file says; tell me whatyouthink.”
His eyes dart down to the countertop. He takes several moments to seriously contemplate my question. "I don't know what to think.”
He isn’t the only one.
“But I’ll say one thing. I’ve been part of this investigation for nearly a year, and I’ve not yet stumbled on one shred of information that corroborates Alex’s presumptions of Isaac.”
“Do you think he is hiding something?”
Brandon chuckles under his breath. “Are we still talking about Isaac or have we switched to Alex?”
“Both.”
“Everyone is hiding something, Isabelle,” he replies. “Even you.”
I don’t refute his accusation. Even if I did, he’d see through any elaborate ruse I dangle in front of him. Brandon appears laidback, but when you watch him closely, you soon realize he’s a genius wrapped up in a humble boy-next-door disguise.
“Speaking of secrets.” His mouth is stuffed to the brim with cookies. “That file you requested has arrived.”
My shocked eyes meet his. Smiling, he nudges his head to his leather satchel resting on my dining table.
“Can I?” Excitement echoes within my voice.
When he grins and nods, I smack a sloppy kiss on his cheek. His face flushes with heat as his jaw drops. I probably shouldn't be so bold, but I've been waiting to get this file in my hot little hand for weeks.
“You have to promise Alex will never find—”
“Alex will never know,” I interrupt. “I promise Brandon.”
Brandon went through an immense amount of hassle to secure this file for me. I’d never allow him to be reprimanded for it.
“Come on, I’m dying.” He nudges me in the ribs with his elbow.
After taking a deep breath, I open the thin, cream manila folder. My eager eyes run over the police report displayed on top of the documents and photos. Brandon’s concerned eyes lift to mine when he spots a tear rolling down my whitened cheek.
Marjorie Anne Hawke, a twenty-four-year-old native of Rochdale was struck by a vehicle on May twelve, five years ago. She was thirty-four weeks pregnant at the time of the accident. Marjorie survived the initial impact, but her son was delivered stillborn by cesarean the same day. Marjorie’s husband, Carey Hawke, returned from active duty in Iraq, and on his request, Marjorie’s life support machine was switched off. She passed away three hours later.
“That is incredibly sad, but it doesn’t warrant the shroud of secrecy,” I blubber through the sheet of tears flowing down my face.
“No, but this does.” Brandon hands me a heavily blacked out court document.
One name stands out in thick black ink when I scan the document: Mr. Roberto Petretti, son of Col Petretti.Oh god.
“Roberto didn’t do any time behind bars, even with being arrested at the scene and recording a blood alcohol level three times over the legal limit,” Brandon advises, his eyes darting up from the documents in his hand. “His name was never reported in any news or press articles. He would have had to give the DA something substantial to get a plea that lenient.”
“Or someone,” I interrupt.
There is no doubt Marjorie is Hugo's sister. He is in nearly every family picture in her file. My heart breaks when I see the photo of Marjorie and her husband, Carey. It looks like it was taken not long before her accident. They’re smiling at each other, and he has his hand hovering over her protruding stomach. It's a beautiful photo that shows their unbridled happiness before their lives were brutally ripped apart.
Now Isaac’s reaction two weeks ago makes sense. His hatred of Col is personal. It has nothing to do with the mob.
