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It was about then that she started hallucinating, hearing voices and seeing faces she couldn’t be sure were truly there. The nightmares were extreme, filled with flashbacks in an inconsistent loop. Dr. DeMarco haunted her with the piercing glare of hatred she had seen that day in his room. She could feel the gun pressed into her throat as she gasped for air. She screamed in the darkness, her chest vibrating with the high-pitched shrieks.
The moments of lucidity became few and far between. Unfamiliar people stood over her, having strange conversations that made little sense. Her monster even surfaced, his mangled face appearing as if it were melting away. He said nothing, just stared as the fire engulfed her from the inside out.
* * *
The Metropolitan Correctional Center, a three-sided triangular skyscraper in the middle of downtown Chicago, has no barbed wire or electric fence, no armed guards standing in towers along the edge of the property. With its flat surface and narrow vertical windows, the front of the building resembles an old punch card. It appears harmless, indiscriminate, but some of the most dangerous people in the world call the place home.
Vincent sat in a small cell on the twentieth floor, a few yards from where Corrado was housed. The window was frosted, obstructing Vincent’s view of the outside, so all he had to look at were the drab gray walls surrounding him.
Every day was the same: three meals, frequent head counts, occasional sirens, and little conversation. The guards watched their every move, all calls and visits monitored so none of them could risk communicating.
He sat there early one day, right after morning roll call, when a few corrections officers approached. They placed him in restraints and led him to a room, where Agent Cerone waited at a small table.
“Vincenzo DeMarco,” he said, motioning toward the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”
Vincent sat down, grateful to be out of that dreary cell. They tried to secure him to the table, but the agent stopped them. “That’s unnecessary. We’re both civilized human beings here.”
The officers looked at him with disbelief but walked out, leaving Vincent unsecured. The agent folded his hands on the table. “You’re probably wondering who—”
Vincent cut him off. “Doctor.”
Agent Cerone’s smile faltered. “Doctor?”
“And unless you’re my mother or my priest, don’t call me Vincenzo. It’s Dr. Vincent DeMarco.”
The agent stared at him before nodding. “Right. And I’m Special Agent Donald Cerone with the Justice Department . . . head of organized crime.”
Vincent sighed exasperatedly. “I have nothing to say.”
“I figured that much. You wouldn’t have made it as far as you have if you weren’t cunning. But truthfully, I’m not here about your case. I hoped we could discuss something I found.” Reaching into his briefcase, Agent Cerone pulled out a black notebook. “Do you recognize this?”
Vincent didn’t respond, having no intention of saying another word to the man.
“I’ll take the lack of reaction as a no,” he said. “We found this in a bedroom on the third floor of your residence.”
He flipped it open, and Vincent saw the page was covered in barely legible juvenile scrawl. Realization hit him that it belonged to Haven. He tensed, concerned as to what information those pages might contain.
“The entire thing’s engaging, but there were some passages I found particularly interesting. I thought I’d share them with you.” He stopped on a bookmarked page and scanned the lines of writing with his finger before reading a passage out loud.
Katrina sometimes said she would kill me in my sleep. She told me to keep one eye open if I wanted to live. I stayed awake those nights in case she meant it. I wasn’t afraid to die, but I didn’t want to leave Mama alone. I didn’t want Master Michael to hurt her more, and I thought Katrina would kill her next.
The agent flipped to a different page and read another one.
I called Master Michael daddy once when he visited the ranch. I heard someone say that was what he was to me, but he got angry and beat me. Mama begged him not to kill me. He stopped because Frankie made him. Frankie hit Michael for it and I remember thinking we weren’t the only people who got punished like that. I should’ve been scared, but it made me feel like maybe Frankie didn’t hate me. He hit his son, but he still loved him, right?
Agent Cerone glanced at him when he was finished. “The Antonellis? So unfortunate about their deaths.”
Vincent sat still, not giving any indication he was panicking inside. Things were unraveling quickly.
“How about one more?” Agent Cerone asked, flipping to another page. “I think you’ll personally find this one fascinating.”
I’ll never forget the look in his eyes. I was only trying to do what he told me to do, because I didn’t want to get in trouble for not listening. I thought he was going to kill me, but he did something worse. He left me alone in the dark. He was nice to me, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. I dream about the look on his face when he turned into a monster. I wish I could forget. I wish Dr. DeMarco liked me.
Vincent kept his expression blank, but the words hit him hard. The agent closed the notebook, shaking his head. “What did you do to the poor girl? Why don’t you like her?”
“Reading that is an invasion of privacy,” Vincent said. “I know the law, and I’m well aware of what you can confiscate during a search and seizure. A young girl’s diary is off limits.”
Special Agent Cerone slipped the notebook into his briefcase. “Like I said, cunning. I’d love to return it. Do you know where I can find her?”
