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“A lot. I didn’t count them.”
“Who was involved in the shooting?”
“I don’t know.”
“So it could’ve been Corrado?”
“It fucking could’ve been Jimmy Hoffa.”
“I’d rather you keep the sarcasm to a minimum. This is a serious situation.”
“I’m not being sarcastic. I told you I didn’t see. I don’t know who shot first, who shot who, who’s dead, and who’s still alive. All I know is what I did.”
“And what’s that?”
“Nothing. I didn’t do a goddamn thing.”
Round in circles they went, the same vague answers being given for the same questions. He saw nothing, he did nothing, and he couldn’t recall a thing.
It was the truth . . . partially.
He didn’t know what they expected from him. All he could recall were his father’s last moments, the brutal image haunting Carmine like someone had taken a blowtorch and burned it in his brain.
Gone . . . his father was gone.
As Carmine’s chest constricted, a memory came to his mind. It happened a few weeks before his mother had been murdered when his parents had taken them to Six Flags. He and Dominic had climbed into one of those spinning cups and spun it so furiously that by the time the ride was over, he couldn’t make sense of which way was up. His legs buckled as he climbed off the ride, his stomach churning ruthlessly. Collapsing, he threw up right there in the middle of the busy amusement park.
Today, in that room, he felt a lot like he did back then—dazed and disoriented, betrayed and confused.
Vincent had pulled him to his feet that day, kneeling in front of him. Carmine’s face turned bright red as tears of embarrassment welled in his eyes. He kept his gaze fixed on the cement, not wanting anyone to see him cry—especially not his father.
“Are you okay?” Vincent had asked. Carmine hesitated but slowly lifted his eyes, nodding as he took in his serious expression. “Everyone falls sometimes, son, even me, but the trick is to get right back up. They’ll always target the ones who appear vulnerable, so you need to be strong. Fake it until you make it.”
o;Yes, sir.”
He stared at Carmine for a moment as he sat up. “We’ll have to take you in for questioning, but you’ll be out by morning as long as you cooperate. Do you want to make a statement now?”
He wiped his face, trying to get rid of the tears, and groaned when it did nothing but smear blood on his cheek. “Abby,” he said quietly. His throat burned from screaming, the word barely audible.
“Abby?”
“The girl inside,” Carmine said. “Her name is Abby.”
37
The interrogation room at the Cook County police station smelled like someone had attempted to clean up week-old piss. Corrado grimaced as he took a deep breath, the harsh stench of ammonia and bleach burning his lungs. Gazing across the metal table in front of him, he eyed the federal agent with distaste.
Agent Cerone started to speak, but Corrado cut him off before he could get started. “I wasn’t there. I was home, I was alone, I was asleep, and nobody saw me.”
The agent gaped at him. “I saw you tonight, Mr. Moretti.”
Corrado raised his eyebrows. “Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“You were even arrested at the scene.”
