“It wasn’t the first time you left.”
Tuttle knew more than she thought anyone else was aware of. Someone was feeding the DEA information about Cordeau – a very dangerous game to play. She had to go carefully because that meant they had someone in his organization.
“No, it wasn’t.”
He waited a few moments but when she wasn’t forthcoming, he leaned toward her. “You ran away when you were fourteen years old. A woman by the name of April Harp helped you. She was murdered along with her entire family, and you were safe back in Cordeau’s house.”
It was an accusation. She knew her face had gone white. Her stomach lurched and beneath the table she twisted her fingers together. There were some memories that would never go away and some deeds there was no redemption for.
“Yes, that’s true,” she whispered.
“Why did you run away?”
“I wanted to see my mother.”
“She was already dead.”
“I didn’t know that,” Catarina said. “He didn’t tell me.”
“He had her killed. Two days after she delivered you to him, she died of an overdose that the coroner said she didn’t give to herself.”
“That isn’t news, Detective Tuttle. I was given that information after I was taken back to Cordeau, although how you can attribute my mother’s death to Rafe, I don’t know. Again, you seem to have information I don’t.”
“Taken back? You didn’t go voluntarily?” He pounced on that.
Now they were treading on dangerous ground. She said nothing, just watched him. He would want to bring kidnapping charges against Cordeau.
“Did Cordeau kill April Harp?” he demanded. “Did he order his men to kill her and her family?”
She remained silent.
“Did you help Cordeau kill her?”
Her stomach lurched again. “If you’re asking am I responsible for her death, I believe I am, yes. I didn’t kill her, but I left. I knew there would be consequences but I stupidly thought they would be for me, not someone else.”
“Were you there when she was killed?”
There was no statute of limitations on murder. She saw where this was going and shook her head. “There is no way, under any circumstances, that I could, or would testify against Rafe Cordeau. None. If that’s what your desired end result is, then we’re finished here.”
Tuttle sat back in his chair. “You know what he is. You know he’s killed people. Many people. He runs drugs. Prostitutes. Guns. Still, you aren’t willing to help us put him away.”
“You’ve had how many people willing to help you put him away? They’re all dead, Detective Tuttle. You can’t protect them from him. You certainly won’t be able to protect me from him. He owns men like you. He has connections everywhere. You aren’t going to bring him down and certainly not with my testimony.”
“You saw him kill April Harp. You were there.”
“I was held there,” she spat back. “Fourteen years old. All I wanted to do was see my mother. That was all. I saw a knife go into my friend’s belly and she was slit all the way to her breastbone. Then my hands were pushed into the gaping wound so that I would always remember her blood was on my hands. I heard the shots that killed her family, but I didn’t see anything else. I couldn’t see anything else. I was on my knees screaming and I couldn’t even cover my face because my hands were covered in her blood.”
She would never forget the horror of that moment. Rafe holding her in front of him. His man, Marcel, holding April. Catarina had been unable to look away, not even when Rafe plunged the knife into April and sliced her open. Blood sprayed all over her, but that wasn’t enough for Rafe. He wanted her to learn a lesson.
Rafe calmly forced her hands inside the horrible wound and whispered in her ear. You did this, my little Catarina. You. Their blood is on your hands. Don’t ever be so foolish as to leave me again. The memory was so sharp, so vivid, she was afraid she would vomit right there.
Rafe spoke softly. He never needed to raise his voice. He simply looked at his men and gestured toward the mess that had once been a live woman, now something he considered trash for them to take out.
April had cleaned their home, and Catarina had followed her everywhere. She’d been one of the few people who had been kind. She’d even helped Catarina learn to read and write, and Catarina had gotten her killed.
“Who killed her, Ms. Benoit?” Tuttle asked. “You didn’t say who held you there and pushed the knife into April.”
She raised stricken eyes to him. “I don’t know. I didn’t see his face.”