two decades ago. The people responsible for it are either abolishing their sins with God or rotting in jail.”
Air whizzes out of Phillipa’s nose as she discloses, “All the men responsible for terrorizing you and your mother that night are all abolishing their sins with God.”
What’s she saying? Is she underhandly telling me the third assailant is also dead?
When I fail to read the answers to my questions on her face, I straight up ask them. “How did the final assailant die?”
“We were hoping you’d be able to tell us that.”
“How could I possibly know what happened to him?” I choke on my spit when she slides a familiar photograph over to my side of the desk. It was the one Brandon and Grayson showed me the day my life was upended for the third time. It’s a picture of my father with Henry Gottle, Sr. I know who Henry is better now than I did back then. My position in the DA’s office ensures I’m aware of the number one Mafia figure in the United States. “As I told one of your agents years ago, I don’t know why my father met with Henry that day.”
“But you do acknowledge you know who Henry is?”
I don’t fall for her I’m-your-friend tone this time around. “Of course I do. I’m an Assistant District Attorney for the State of New York. If I didn’t know who Henry was, I’d need a new profession.” After standing from my chair, I run my sweaty hands down the front of my skirt. “Is that all? I have cases to prepare for.”
Phillipa dips her chin, silently acknowledging she understands my frustration, but she’s not willing to let me slip away just yet. “One last thing. Can you confirm if you’ve seen this tattoo before?”
My heart beats out a funky tune when she slides a blown-up photograph to my side of the desk. It doesn’t show the face of the person she wants me to identify, just a tattoo of a family emblem.
“That tattoo belongs to the man prosecuted with setting my dorm on fire seven years ago. The last I heard, he was serving his twelve-year sentence at Wallen’s Ridge State Prison.”
My brows furrow when Phillipa slips away the blown-up image to reveal the original photograph below. The tattoo doesn’t belong to the man charged with setting my dorm ablaze. It belongs to a man lying lifeless in a ditch with a single bullet wound to the forehead. He looks oddly similar to the man my mother sat across from when she testified at his trial for home invasion, deprivation of liberty, and attempted rape. The only man my father left breathing when he and two of his friends forced him to become as violent as they were being to my mother, and the date hidden in the far bottom corner of the photograph reveals he was killed the day of my parents’ accident.
When my wide and uneasy eyes lock with Phillipa’s, she mutters, “Do you think you could spare me a few minutes now?”
If our home invasion didn’t change my father from a loving, caring man to a maniac obsessed with protecting my mother and me, I’d dip my chin without pause for thought. But since that isn’t the case, I shake my head instead. “I’ll be in contact once I’ve spoken to my lawyer.”
I spin on my heels and stalk to the door, halting halfway when Phillipa says, “I’m not here to prosecute you, Melody. I’m here to warn you—”
I whip around so quick, my hair slaps my face. “Warn me about what? That the man who terrorized my mother for over an hour might come back from the grave and haunt me? That that…” I jerk my chin to the photograph of him lying lifeless in the gutter, “… was a much kinder punishment than he deserved? What exactly are you trying to warn me about, Agent Russell?”
“I’m here to warn you that vigilante justice isn’t an appropriate action for anyone to take.”
The heaving of my heart is heard in my shouted words, “Alleged vigilante justice. You’re assuming my father killed a man. You have no proof of that.”
“When did I once mention this was about your father?” Her almost black hair falls into her eyes when she shakes her head ever so gently. “I’m more concerned about who else unearthed this connection.”
My heart falters when she places down a witness statement from my parents’ accident with a blown-up copy of a driver’s