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“Oh, good.” She breathes, seemingly relieved.
“Why don’t you get to why you’re here and what it has to do with Mr. Acerbi?”
“He wants to kill me!” she shrieks as her eyes go even wider than before. “And my baby,” she adds as if he’s an afterthought, her tone doing a one-eighty. Then out of nowhere, she rises, moves toward the car seat, and lifts the infant out. And none too gently sits back down in her chair with him.
She’s young. Cut her some slack, Bri.I chastise myself.
But I know from watching my sister-in-law and other mothers that’s not the way you handle a baby. Inwardly I’m cringing. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from taking the child from her when she doesn’t cradle him or do anything to support his head.
What is wrong with this woman? Are they not offering baby 101 in high school anymore?
“Why do you think he wants to harm you and Gabriel?” I ask, trying to stay on task.
I need to wrap this up and get her out of here. I’ve never once come close to wanting to hurt a person I’ve interviewed or interrogated before. And I’ve met some extremely messed-up individuals who deserve a trip to Hell rather than the penitentiary.
“He doesn’t want to harm me—us, I mean,” she corrects. “He wants to kill. Cause death! Do you understand my words?” Her hand flies into the air for dramatics, but the first thing that registers is that she has removed one of her hands from her hold on the baby.
My eyes glance down as one side of his body falls forward. Everything inside of me is screaming something about this is off. Way the fuck off. Not right and certainly not adding up.
The one vital thing I’ve learned in law enforcement: trust your instincts. Your guy won’t lead you astray.
God, I wish she would put the child back in his seat, where he’s safe—from her.
Immaturity. She’s just immature, Bri.
“Hello. Did you hear me? The monster wants to kill us,” she ends with a sob.
“Yes, Miss Carlisle, I’m listening to you.” I take a breath—a deep breath. “Tell me. Why does Mr. Acerbi want to, using your words, kill you and Gabriel?”
“Because,” another sob breaks out, but as soon as she breathes air in and then back out, magically, she’s all better, her tone now even. She calm again. “I had his baby.” She points to the tiny boy in her lap that can’t possibly be more than a month old.
About the same time I look down at him once more, he begins crying again. Only this time it’s louder and harder wales. My heart is starting to crack for this little man.
When I look back up, I witness irritation crossing the mother’s face before she stands, and with fast, jerky movements, puts him back into his seat. Doesn’t even bother giving the baby anything to soothe him like a mother typically would.
One part of me is relieved he’s out of her hands. The other wants to tie up with her on a mat and teach her a lesson in the ways you don’t handle a baby. God, I feel sorry this kid has to leave with her.
Monday cannot come soon enough. Tomorrow, I may have to go to Knocked Out—the MMA gym I frequent, to train with the owner—just to work off the tension that is steadily building.
Shitty parents are a sore spot for me.
Get this over and done with, Brianna.
“Why would you having his child make him want to commit murder?”
Her head snaps to the side, toward me, then she peers down from her standing position in front of Gabriel’s infant seat. Her eyes skate to the side for a brief second or two before her hands fly up.
“How should I know?” She plops back down into the plastic chair. “We probably don’t fit in with his drug smuggling lifestyle.”
Drugs.
Smuggling.
Two words that pique my interest and have me eyeing her a bit harder.
Is she telling me the truth?
It’s rumored the Acerbi family has a long history of importing drugs into Los Angeles, but there has never been any hard evidence to prove it. Any Law Enforcement Officer to ever get close, whether local police, FBI, or the DEA, has either quit their job or had an unfortunateaccidentthat resulted in death. None have infiltrated the family successfully.
