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42
Bookcases towered above Haven like skyscrapers. Strolling among the stacks, she occasionally pulled out a book and surveyed the front cover before skimming the description on the back.
They’d been back in Durante for a few days, just in time for Carmine’s senior year of school. He immersed himself in class and football, leaving Haven with days to fill on her own. She cooked and cleaned, but she still had hours left over with nothing to do and no one to talk to.
Needing something to distract her, she turned to the library, hoping to get lost in a different world, to be absorbed in a fictional time and place, the life of someone else. She wanted to forget about everything so she wasn’t constantly plagued with thoughts of her mama’s last moments. She found herself wondering what she’d been thinking: Had she been scared? Had she been in pain? Was there ever a moment that she second-guessed her decision?
The feeling of failure nagged Haven. She ran that day in Blackburn because she had been desperate to save her mama, and she hadn’t forgotten that. But now it was too late. Her mama was gone.
Haven ran her fingers along the spines of some books, and came across one without a name. She pulled out the leather-bound book and a piece of paper tumbled to the floor. She picked it up and unfolded it, her brow furrowing when she saw it was a letter.
Walking to the chair by the window, she sat with the book in her lap as she scanned the withering note.
10/08/97
Mrs. DeMarco,
After careful consideration, I’ve decided I can no longer be a part of this investigation. I took the case without knowing the details, and had I known them at the time, I would have declined. For all intents and purposes, Haven Antonelli does not exist, and I implore you to forget you ever encountered her. Enclosed you’ll find a full refund of my fees. Consider our contract severed, and I request you no longer contact me concerning this.
Arthur L. Brannigan
Private Investigator
Stunned, Haven scanned the paper a second time, certain she had to have misread, as pieces of the puzzle filled in to expose a hidden picture that left her speechless. Eyes brimming with tears, her stomach dropped when she realized the date on the top of the paper.
October 8, 1997—a few days before Maura DeMarco had been killed.
* * *
Vincent tapped his pen against his desk, surrounded by mounds of files. Work piled up, but he couldn’t focus on it. His attention kept wandering, his thoughts and eyes drifting toward the live feed playing on the screen beside him.
It had been two weeks since the kids had returned from Blackburn, and the days had proven to be some of the longest of Vincent’s life. The atmosphere in the house was tense, the silence that followed both of them unsettling. He sat behind his desk every night and watched his son pace the hallway just feet from the office door, his hands assaulting his hair as he berated himself. Vincent couldn’t hear him, but he knew where his thoughts were.
Vincent pressed a few buttons on the computer and the screen changed to a view of the library. He spotted the girl, curled up in the chair by the window with a book on her lap. It was the same place she had been every night while his son paced—sitting in the darkness and staring out into the yard. She withdrew further and further as time went on, but Vincent was too exhausted to mediate.
He was in deep with la famiglia. He lied, cheated, plundered, and slaughtered for them, but one thing he had prided himself on was his loyalty. He may have been a criminal, but at least he could think himself an honorable one. That had fallen to the wayside as of late, and they weren’t ignorant to his behavior. They made that obvious during their recent visit. Every one of them was trained to spot deception . . . and Vincent was weary of being dishonest.
Maura had once told him that while not everyone lived, everyone did die, and with death came release. Death meant freedom—freedom from the things that hold us back. Vincent used to tease her when she said such things, but he understood now. He understood what it was like to wish you could find peace, but you couldn’t because your work wasn’t done. You hadn’t served your purpose, and until you did, you were damned to keep going. Vincent envied those who could rest in peace. What he wouldn’t give to have the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.
He switched cameras once more and went back to the hallway. Carmine still paced, his eyes darting between the office and the stairs to the third floor. Vincent glanced at the time: after eleven in the evening. Carmine usually made his decision before now and stomped up the stairs. The girl would scurry out of the library, darting to her bedroom before he made it there.
Tonight things changed, though. When Carmine headed toward the office door, Vincent felt nothing but relief. Judgment Day had come. One step closer to peace.
The knob turned and Carmine stepped inside, slamming the door behind him. Vincent refrained from chastising him for not knocking, thankful he had actually made it inside. “Sit down,” he said, switching the view back to the library.
Carmine flopped down in the chair with a huff. Vincent met his gaze, seeing the curiosity and confusion. Resentment lurked underneath, but Vincent couldn’t blame him.
“You look like you haven’t fucking slept in years,” Carmine said. “And Christ, have you eaten?”
Vincent leaned back in his chair. “You want to discuss my health, Carmine?”
His expression was sober. “Yeah, you look fucked up.”
“Well, thanks for the compliment, but something tells me you haven’t spent the past week loitering outside my office gathering the courage to hold an intervention.”
“How . . . ?” Carmine paused. “You’ve been watching the cameras.”
“Yes,” he said, “and I was beginning to wonder if you ever planned to come in.”
