I opened the folder and pulled out three photos, laying them all in a line. My heart rate picked up as fear and anger spiked through my body. The pictures were eight by ten shots of my father, a knife steady in his hand, anger and fear embedded in his eyes. Each picture showed my father slicing the neck of Geovini Maratelli.
Chapter 12
THE PICTURES SHOWED a different side of my father, one I had been completely unaware of. Seeing it firsthand was something I could have gone my whole life without viewing. But why? Why would he kill him? More importantly at the moment, why had someone wanted me to see this now? The trial had been over for years. He had been found not guilty.
All those months ago, I had been sitting in the plush chair at my desk after just getting off the phone with Jag. A smile so big it made my cheeks hurt had been plastered on my face. My stupid heart had done that sputter thing you only hear about in the movies, and I had felt foolish for it.
Our phone conversations had become intriguing, and I had learned more about him each time. From the mundane like his favorite color—black—to the time he went fishing with his father. It had been so strange not having sex involved and simply talking, getting to know one another. Seeing the person inside. It had been like cutting that part out had forced us to get to know each other. Honestly, I had thoroughly enjoyed it.
His promises of coming back soon had still been ever present. I hadn’t been sure if he was trying to reassure me or himself at that point, but they had started to lose their luster, chipping away at my heart. I had still hoped, though. Lord knew, I’d had enough work to keep me busy and keep my brain off him, at least for short periods of time.
Looking at my desk, I sighed at the mountains of paperwork cluttering the top. Files, papers, charts, and graphs were all mixed together, not making any sense. Normally, I kept a very organized desk, but lately, it seemed to get away from me, and everything had gotten tossed around.
I picked up paper after paper and file after file, placing everything in its appropriate spot, seeing a slight improvement.
A nine by eleven manila envelope sat buried under some matching colored folders, and I picked it up then turned it around in my hand. No writing or description was on the outside. Wondering what file to place it in, I opened it, quickly flipping up the flap and reaching in. The papers inside were thicker than normal paper, though slick to the touch. I gripped them tightly and pulled them out of the envelope with one strong tug.
The images before me stole my breath. In my hands, I held decades old black and white photos of my father slitting the throat of Geovini Maratelli. I gasped, jumping up from my chair. I threw the pictures down on the desk as if they were poison, about to suck the life out of me. In a way, they were. As much as I didn’t want to look at them, I couldn’t help taking in the features of both men.
I knew it was Geovini instantly. I had seen plenty of pictures of him growing up, and his dark hair and dark eyes were unmistakable. In the pictures, his eyes were pained, as if he was feeling betrayed. My father’s face was filled with anger and menace, but behind that was sadness and grief. Why would he have done this?
Dad had been on trial for Geo’s murder and was set free. Why would someone want me to see these after all that time?
I quickly picked up the envelope and reached in, feeling around for some type of note or something, panic enveloping me. I needed something, anything to tell me who had sent these and what they wanted.
I peeked in the envelope, hoping I really felt something. I pulled out a small piece of paper, my eyes drifting repeatedly over the words.
Your father murdered Geovini. Stay away from Jag, or this all comes out, and your family dies. Tell anyone of this, and the death will be painful. What would Jag think?
My heart clenched, and I couldn’t breathe. It was like a python had crawled up my body, wrapped itself around me, and squeezed the ever-loving shit out of me.
That night, I hadn’t slept, couldn’t think. Every thought had revolved around the effects those pictures would have if they got out. The words written on the paper gutted me in a way I didn’t know anything could, as did the thought of how they would affect my dad, mom, brothers, Uncle Vino, Kiera … Most of all, Jag.
I felt considerable guilt over Jag. What would he think? My father had killed his. How could I ever get past that and talk to Jag without guilt? If he ever came back, how could I look him in the eyes? How could I smile up at him and know the pain my father had caused him? And, if he found out, how would he ever get past it?
Why threaten my family through me and tell me not to say a word? It didn’t make sense.
Idiot that I was, I had kept the secret inside for the past three months, and it was draining me.
Every damn time I had gotten the resolve to say something to one of them, a new note would come. A new warning. Each written in the same writing as before, each one terrifying me into submission. It was as if whoever was behind them was watching me, waiting for me to tell so he could wipe out everyone I loved, and I couldn’t let that happen.
That was where all of my anger came from—the feeling of helplessness. I had googled everything I could think of that dealt with the murder of Geo. True, he had died from a knife to his throat. True, dad’s trial had ended up being a mistrial, and nothing more had been said. True, the crime scene had been compromised. That was all documented. Regardless, what I wanted to see was the undocumented.
I searched for the officers who had been on duty that night and the ones who had investigated. Nothing came up with their names. It was like they had disappeared from the planet without a ‘good-bye’ or even a ‘kiss my ass’. The only options I could think of were they were in witness protection or dead.
The prosecutor in the case had ended up in jail from drug charges. Being so cutthroat had made him a lot of enemies. Before the cops could get him some inside protection, he had been murdered by inmates. Everything I had found was public record, available to all. If it were true or not, I would never know.
I couldn’t find any answers, and the only one I wanted was who had sent this to me and why?
I hired a private investigator, Rusty. He only worked for me and didn’t answer to any of my family. I kept him under radar, only taking his calls on a track phone I had bought on a Target run since I didn’t know if whoever was watching me had tapped my phone.
Rusty had a couple of leads, but they had fallen flat. He was still looking, but I wasn’t holding out much hope at that point.
I had even tapped into our security system at home and searched the grounds, looking for anyone suspicious, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. I was quickly running out of options.
An even more colossal dilemma was believing the pictures. Had my dad really done that? He had told me that he hadn’t all those years back during his trial, and I had believed him. I had trusted him to tell me the truth. Trust was all we really had. If that was broken, I wasn’t sure how I could handle it.
I was at an impasse and didn’t know what to do, but there had to be something. The weight of this was too much to bear. I needed to tell my family, but fear gripped me that they would all pay for that decision. I couldn’t risk it, but God, I wanted some help. This burden was eating me alive. Beating myself up at work, killing myself at the gym, slamming and breaking innocent cabinets—something had to give.