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Treading carefully around the desk, I study the top for signs of disturbances, but all the papers and files are in place, painstakingly neat and square, just as I left them. I hit a random button to repower the screen. A folder I don’t know appears. The name sets my heart racing. I nearly go into cardiac arrest when I open it and read the file names.
Fuck. Shit. No.
My eyes fall on the black stick with the Louw Unlimited logo inserted in the USB flash drive.
Magda.
Magda told Valentina. She told her what I did. According to the files staring back at me, she did more than that. She gave Valentina the fucking evidence. Throwing the pile of bills on the desk, I clench and unclench my hands. I do this several times to prevent myself from hitting something. Valentina knew. She had our baby knowing what I did to her. Magda had no right. Why? I never meant for Valentina to suffer the awful truth. Goddammit! I take my anger out on the chair, kicking it until a sharp pain rides up my leg and lances into my hip.
What did Magda show Valentina? A recording of my conversation with the doctor? I open the file with a shaking hand. Just as I thought, an audio file of my call to Engelbrecht opens. I listen to the whole, dire speech, hearing what Valentina heard, trying to imagine what she felt, what she thought. I kind of guessed what the content of that file was even before I clicked on it, but I have no clue what the so-called Evidence folder contains. What other proof is there of my deceit?
A nasty foreboding sits in the pit of my stomach. This feels heavy. Dirty. Suddenly, I’m impatient. In my haste to open the file, I miss-click and have to do it again. What opens is a video clip. A blurry picture fills the screen. It looks like a low-quality home movie. As the images unfold, ice-cold dread fills my veins. The dread turns to boiling hot, melting fucking lava. Anger explodes in every blood vessel of my body. Rage makes me shake. My organs tremble as I witness a younger version of Valentina in her worst nightmare. I recall the uncontrollable shiver of her body as she knelt before me and told me her secret. I feel her pain and see her humiliation as six grown men caused those feelings for their pleasure. I want to kill them like I never wanted to kill. I want to make them suffer a thousand times more. I want to chop off their limbs and throw them at Valentina’s feet. I will drag them through stones and thorns until they don’t have an inch of skin left on their bodies. I simmer in my fury, forcing myself to watch every cruel second, wishing that every second is the last of her torture. It’s gruesome to behold and sheer agony to witness, but I push on, because the video contains something I’ve been after for the better part of a year––the identities of Valentina’s assailants.
Somewhere in the back of my mind a warning pops up. Something is familiar, but I can’t place it. When one of the fuckers speaks again, the fog lifts from my mind. I know that voice. Barney. He was—oh fuck. No. One of my father’s cronies. One by one, their ugly faces drift onto the screen. The whole damn team. If my father covered up their crime, if he shoveled dirt over the despicable act he’s no better than them. Then the camera turns, and I look into the eyes of the man who raped Valentina—the man who gave me life.
Sweet mother of Jesus. Shocked and sick, I fall into the chair, staring at the black screen. Several facts pierce my mind like burning arrows. One, my father raped Valentina while his friends held her down. My own fucking father. Two, Magda knew. She knew about the rape, and she never told me. Three, this has something to do with why Magda wanted Valentina dead. The debt was only a smokescreen. And four, what Valentina saw in this folder triggered a shock big enough to set her into labor and risk both her and my baby’s life.
Charcoal flecks of burnt-out ashes drift in front of my vision. Slowly, determinedly, I rise to my feet. I lock the USB stick in the safe and take my keys. Magda works in Brixton today. The drive there takes too long. It’s mid-morning when I park in front of the loan office. Only the Merc is outside, meaning Scott is my only obstacle before I get to Magda.
I slam my hands on the glass doors and push them open. Scott, who sits behind the front desk, jumps to his feet, reaching for his gun. Before he can grip the shaft sticking from the hip holster, I plant a kick in his stomach and a fist on his jaw. He falls backward, his body connecting with the wall. I use the momentum to grip his hair and throw him face-down on the floor. With a knee in his back, I restrain his wrists and wrestle the pistol from his holster. I flick off the safety, cock the gun, and push it against his temple.
