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There wouldn’t be, Corrado thought. They weren’t going to find Vincent.
“It seems he found a way to remove his monitoring device,” Mr. Borza continued. “They tracked it to a location here in Chicago, but it turned out to be a Dumpster. They searched it, just in case, but there’s no sign of a, uh . . . you know.”
“A body,” Corrado said, finishing the man’s thought.
“Yes.”
Nervousness seeped through the phone, clinging desperately to every word. It made Corrado tense. Even his lawyer doubted things.
“That’s hardly what I’d call evidence of wrongdoing on my part,” Corrado said. “They’re just looking for an excuse. Punishing me for my brother-in-law’s sins.”
“While that may be true, it doesn’t mean it won’t work,” Mr. Borza said. “You’re on trial for a statute they invented to be able to nail you for crimes you’re only somewhat linked to. The government isn’t above stretching things to suit them.”
“So you’re saying they’ll be successful.”
Mr. Borza hesitated. Corrado knew the answer before the man even said, “More than likely, yes.”
While he wasn’t surprised, given Mr. Markson’s words from that morning, Corrado’s stomach churned from the turn in events. “How long does that give me?”
“The hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning. They wanted to do it tonight, but I stalled a bit. It’s better if you aren’t present, I think, or they may detain you on site. Otherwise, they’ll give you about forty-eight hours to surrender.”
“So the weekend,” Corrado said.
“Something like that.”
Corrado was silent for a moment, mulling over the situation. Forty-eight hours wasn’t enough time for him to do everything he needed to do. If they detained him, he could be gone months, or even years. Too much relied on his ability to remain out on the streets.
“Just do what you can,” Corrado said finally. “I trust your abilities.”
“I’ll give it my all, but I can’t work miracles.”
Corrado let out a sharp laugh. “Are you insinuating only God can help me now?”
“Not at all. I’m just saying we may have to give them this battle and keep our eyes focused on winning the war.”
Corrado pressed the button again, ending the call without giving a response. He sat there for a moment, rubbing the tips of his fingers together deep in thought, before standing up and grabbing his cell phone. He slipped it in his pocket and headed out of his office, passing his wife on the way to the front door.
“You’re leaving?” she asked.
He kissed her cheek. “I have things to take care of. Don’t wait up for me.”
* * *
I think some people are born with tragedy in their blood. Mixed with the cells, the plasma, and the platelets are deeply hidden secrets they just can’t escape. It’s a part of them, passed down between generations, but it doesn’t define them. It doesn’t mean they’re doomed. Like a smart man once told me, the nastiest fertilizer makes the most beautiful flowers grow.
Haven ran her fingers along the yellowing paper, tracing the handwritten words as she read the paragraph for the second time. She sat in the middle of her couch, legs crossed, with the leather-bound journal on her lap. Kelsey lounged in a chair across the room, her legs kicked over the side, as she flipped through channels, seemingly uninterested in anything on television.
After a moment, the familiar voice of Alex Trebek resounded through the room. “The author of the twentieth-century work The Secret Garden.”
“Frances Hodgson Burnett,” Haven muttered, looking up from the journal at Jeopardy on the screen.
Kelsey glanced at her when she answered, shaking her head as she changed the channel. “You’re such a nerd.”
Haven shrugged. If she meant that as an insult, she didn’t take it as one.
Kelsey flipped through a few more before giving up, turning off the television and tossing the remote down. She grabbed a blue registration folder from the coffee table, eyeing Haven peculiarly as she sat back in the chair. “What are you reading, anyway?”
“Nothing.” Haven closed Maura’s journal. “It’s just a book.”
