Torture to Her Soul

  I walk away, walking out, not bothering to say goodbye.

  I know this isn't the end.

  The end will be a bullet to the head.

  Nobody walks away, but I'm going to.

  Maybe I'll get a day.

  A week.

  A month.

  It won't matter, though, because the end will come eventually. I'm living with a ticking clock strapped to my chest, counting down the seconds I have left.

  But then again, I've been living that way for decades.

  I drive around for a while, not ready to go home. I haven't been home since she left, since she walked out that door and didn't look back. It hasn't even been a whole day, but it feels like an eternity. She took nothing except her purse, leaving her clothes and phone behind. I wish I knew where she went, or what she's doing, just so I know she's safe, but a promise is a promise.

  She's resilient.

  As long as she stays away from this godforsaken place, she'll make it.

  I have to believe that.

  I end up in Hell's Kitchen an hour later, standing on the front steps of my parent's townhouse. I hesitate before knocking quietly, tapping on the old wooden door. I hear my mother's voice inside calling out, saying she's coming. I lean back against the railing, crossing my arms over my chest as I wait.

  A moment later, the door opens, my mother appearing. Michelle Vitale is beautiful, looking so much younger than her sixty years, and I know it's natural. It's the kind of beauty that comes from years of unconditional love and a lack of stress. It's what my staying away does for her. As much as she might miss me, and love me, I know she's better off away from the reality of my life. I know it, and my father certainly knows it.

  It's why he doesn't want me near her.

  But I can't help myself today.

  There's no cure for life's ills quite like your mother's smiling face.

  She beams when she sees me, gasping with surprise, and instantly pulls me into a hug. Her grip is tight. I hug her back.

  She has a way of making me feel like that little boy again, and not just the shell of him. All of him.

  "Ignazio!" she says. "What a wonderful surprise!"

  "Mom," I say, kissing her cheek. "You look as beautiful as ever."

  "Oh, you keep your flattery," she says, blushing as she swats at my chest. "Come in, come in… I was just making some lunch."

  I hesitate before stepping inside. She shuts the door behind me, making a point to lock it. They never did that when I was growing up, never bothered to lock their doors, just like they used to not worry about security at the deli. Just like there, I wonder if this is a sign of the times changing or if it's something my father did because of me.

  I follow her to the kitchen, plopping down in a chair at the small table.

  My mother's a spitfire, gossiping and chatting away like no time at all has passed since she last saw me, treating me as if I'm here for lunch every day. She treats me like I belong.

  I miss that.

  Belonging.

  I listen, happily, her voice putting me at ease, and I chime in when she asks something, but otherwise I just let her talk. She's interrupted after a few minutes by the phone ringing, and she scurries to the living room to answer it. I sit in silence for a moment, looking around. Everything still looks like it did years ago.

  She returns, spooning some spaghetti onto plates, and turns to me with a smile. "I hope you're hungry."

  I return her smile as she sets the plate in front of me, joining me at the table with a plate of her own. I bow my head instinctively as she says a quick prayer before I grab my fork, stabbing at the pasta.

  "This isn't poisoned, is it?" I ask, taking a bite.

  She laughs, reaching across the table to smack my arm. "You know better than that, Ignazio. Who in the world would try to poison my boy with spaghetti?"

  I shrug a shoulder. "You'd be surprised."

  She launches back into gossip again. I just enjoy the company and the homemade meal. My plate is practically licked clean when I push it away, leaning back in the chair. I'm about to thank her, the words on the tip of my tongue, when there's a pounding on the front door. My muscles tense as she lets out an exaggerated sigh, pushing her chair back to stand.

  "That's probably your father," she says, rolling her eyes. "He always forgets his house key."

  "Were you expecting him for lunch?" I ask.

  "No, but I'm not surprised he's here," she says. "That was him that called a bit ago… he was so surprised when I told him you were visiting. He thought I was pulling his leg, said he couldn't believe you were here."

  My stomach sinks as she says that.

  She thinks his surprise is good.

  I know it's not.

  I push my chair back and stand up. I follow her, hearing the familiar voice as soon as she opens the front door. It's not my father, no, but he sent somebody. I expect no less.

  "Ma'am, is Ignazio Vitale here?"

  Jameson.

  My mother seems flustered. "Uh, yeah, sure." She turns to call for me, but I'm already standing there. My eyes meet Jameson's as his dance with amusement. Any reason to harass me is a field day to him.

  "I'm assuming my father called you?"

  Jameson nods.

  "I wasn't aware petty trespassing was your jurisdiction."

  "We also have a few questions for you."

  "Of course you do."

  "Trespassing?" my mother asks. "Who's trespassing?"

  "I am," I tell her, leaning over to kiss her cheek again. "Thanks for lunch, Mom. It was great seeing you."

  I step out onto the porch as an officer pulls out his handcuffs.

  "Can you do that when she's not looking?" I ask. "Out of respect?"

  My question is ignored, unsurprisingly, as I'm thrown against the railing, my arms forced behind my back. Once I'm handcuffed, I'm dragged toward a nearby car. I glance back at my mother, lingering in the doorway. She's horrified, eyes wide. She looks so much older now, just like that.

  I should've just stayed away…

  I don't say anything on the drive to the police station.

  Nor do I say anything once we get there.

  As usual, they wait until my lawyer arrives to even try to question me. We sit in the small dingy interrogation room, my arms crossed over my chest, as Jameson and his partner, Andrews, sit across from us.

  "What is this about?" my lawyer asks. "I hope it's not to ask the same questions as before. My client knows nothing about the murder of Daniel Santino."

  "Or John Rita… or the murder of John's wife, Carmela? He knows nothing of them either, right?"

  "I'm sure if my client had any information about them, he would've come to you. But just because they used to be acquainted doesn't mean he knows what came of them."

  "What about their daughter, Karissa?" Jameson asks, looking dead in my face as he speaks. "Does he have any information about her?"

  "What about her?" the lawyer asks.

  "We have reason to believe she's missing."

  "Missing?" The word is from my lips instantly. My lawyer shoots me a glare that tells me to be quiet, as usual, but I can't help myself. Not when it comes to this. "What makes you think she's missing?"

  "We received a report that—"

  "A report," I chime in, cutting him off. "Someone filed a missing person's report? Because you just saw her yourself less than twenty-four hours ago, detective, so I'm not quite sure why your department would take a report on an adult who was just seen last night."

  He pauses, glaring at me. "We received information from a source."

  "A source."

  "Yes, a source."

  "And what did your source say, exactly?" I ask. "Because I can assure you, she isn't missing, and there's no reason for anyone to think she is."

  "So is she at your house?" Jameson asks. "Because we went by there and nobody answered. She also didn't attend her classes today."

  "She left."

  "Sh
e left," he repeats, and I suddenly understand why it annoys Karissa when I repeat what she says. His condescending tone makes me want to punch him. "Where did she go?"

  "You'd have to ask her."

  "How can I get a hold of her? Where can I find her?"

  "You're the investigator," I say. "Investigate."

  He glares at me with so much hatred it almost makes me smile. Almost. He leans forward, across the table toward me. "Is she dead, Mr. Vitale? Did you kill her?"

  "Why would I do that?"

  "Because she let us into your house yesterday," he says. "Maybe that was what finally did it for you."

  "You think I'd kill her for talking to you?" I ask, mimicking his movements and leaning forward. My lawyer tries to stop me, interjecting, but I ignore him. "If that's the case, shouldn't I have killed her long ago, when she first started talking to you?"

  His brow furrows, and I see a hint of genuine confusion in his expression. He's struggling to recall when she talked to him. That tells me right away that Karissa had been telling the truth. Had she been his source, he would've purposely kept his expression blank.

  "The fact of the matter, detective, is that Karissa's alive, so whatever your source told you is bullshit."

  "So you didn't take care of her for talking to the police?" he asks. "Raymond Angelo didn't want you to get rid of her?"

  "Raymond Angelo isn't the boss of me."

  "Ah, right, because you walked away."

  The moment he says that, it all clicks into place. He's practically reciting my conversation from this morning word-for-word. He had a bug planted there, but it wasn't the electronic kind. Ray sweeps for them daily, carefully controls who comes in and out of that place. No, he had a bug in the form of a rat. His source.

  There was only one other person there.

  One that's always there.

  Brandy.

  "I have nothing else to say." I sit back in my chair as I turn to my lawyer. "You want to handle this?"

  "I'm trying," he grinds out, clearly annoyed I even played along with the detective's questions, but it gave me what I wanted. He goes into his usual spiel—charge him or release him, stop hassling my client or you're looking at a lawsuit—before I'm brought back out of the interrogation room.

  For the first time in my life, with as many times as I've been dragged down here in handcuffs, I'm booked into the system.

  Second Degree Criminal Trespass

  "That's a bit much, isn't it?" I ask as they fingerprint me. A misdemeanor. "My mother invited me in."

  "Your father said you were asked more than once to stay away."

  "So he's pressing charges."

  "He is."

  Despite myself, I laugh.

  Go figure.

  Leave it to my father to make sure the first black mark goes on my permanent record. I can't even be mad.

  Not really.

  He warned me.

  Repeatedly.

  The feed plays normal speed, most of the screen obscured because it's nighttime, but there's enough light in that one section of the back lot to easily make out what's happening. I watch myself collapse to the ground behind Cobalt, watch as the spray of bullets fly at me from the shaky gun just a few feet away. Even in the fuzzy video, it's not hard to make out her face, not hard to identify who it was that attacked me that night.

  As soon as the last shot goes off and Carmela turns to run, I rewind the feed, starting it all over again.

  I've been sitting here for what feels like a long time. Too long. Hours, maybe. I don't know. I just keep watching the same portion of video, like maybe one of these times something will change, like maybe it'll make me feel something other than this desolation. Like maybe my regret will fade and I'll feel justified again.

  It's not working.

  I can't get the look on Karissa's face out of my head.

  Sighing exasperatedly, I close my eyes and lean back in my chair at my desk in the den. I scrub my hands down my face. I need to purge this frustration, purge this aggression, before I fucking implode. My house is quiet, too quiet. I used to appreciate the silence here. But today it feels less like peace and more like penance. The silence isn't a gift. It's punishment.

  Opening my eyes again, I look at the laptop just as Carmela panics and turns to run. I reach for the button, to rewind it a few minutes, to watch it all over again, when something catches my eye. On the corner of the screen, I'm stumbling to get in my car, but my eyes right now are trained on Carmela, fixed on a flash of something hitting the ground as she runs.

  She dropped something.

  I rewind it a few frames before rerunning it again, freezing the frame and zooming in. My stomach clenches, my chest tight, when I make out my keys falling from her hand. She doesn't stop for them, doesn't pick them, disappearing into the darkness and leaving them there.

  No.

  That's not right.

  It can't be.

  Did she come back?

  Did she return just for the keys?

  I hit fast forward, staring at that spot, watching as chaos erupts in the lot, people running onto the scene to try to figure out what happened. Time whisks away, an hour, almost two, before somebody finally stumbles upon my keys.

  It's a man.

  I hit play again, watching as he turns toward the camera.

  Kelvin.

  Disbelief seizes me as Kelvin tosses the keys to someone else, someone with their back turned to me, but I don't need to see a face to recognize Ray. He palms my keys for a moment before slipping them in his pocket and walking away.

  I hit stop, the screen going black, putting the den into total darkness.

  Ray had my keys the whole time.

  That son of a bitch toyed with me.

  I reach across the desk, to where Karissa's phone lay, and pick it up as I contemplate what to do about everything. I run my thumb along the jagged crack down the center of the phone, guilt-ridden that I never got around to buying her a new one.

  I'm a terrible boyfriend.

  A terrible fiancée.

  An even worse husband.

  I'm not a good man. I prove it over… and over… and over again.

  I press the top button, relieved when it actually turns on. I swear the thing has more lives that a cat. Opening her contacts, I scroll through them, not surprised to find a listing for Brandy.

  I understand now why the girl tried to befriend Karissa.

  She was trying to get to me.

  I can't help but wonder now if Ray knew. Does he know who the rat really is? Did he plant the seed, bring her in on a scheme, and use her to make sure it all ended the way he wanted it to? After what I saw, I wouldn't put it past him.

  If I'm not a benefit, I'm nothing more than a hindrance, a roadblock he'd be all too eager to clear to get where he wants to be. Sentimental only runs so deep.

  I don't take well to being disrespected, nor do I take well to being manipulated. I'm not one of his playthings. But if he wants to make this a game, I'll happily participate. I'll gladly show him how these things are played.

  Brandy lives in an expensive high-rise in Manhattan, a penthouse suite, with a doorman and the highest security money can pay for. Ray foots the bill, of course. He pays for everything. It makes it nearly impossible to get to her. No way to slip in and out without being seen. I'm not much worried about being caught. I just don't want to be stopped.

  I can't go to her, so she'll have to come to me.

  Pressing the call button, I listen as it rings… and rings… and rings. I'm about to hang up and try again when the line clicks. "Karissa?"

  "Brandy," I say calmly. "It's Ignazio Vitale."

  "Oh, uh… Vitale. Hello. What can I, uh… what can I do for you?"

  "Actually, I thought I could do something for you," I say. "I was cleaning out the house, you know, of all of this stuff… Karissa had a lot of things, things she won't need anymore, so I thought maybe you might like to comb through it, see if there's anything y
ou want."

  She hesitates. "I, uh… I don't know."

  "Look, it's been a rough couple days. It's never easy finding out someone's ratting you out to the police. So I need to do this. I need to… make what happened worth it. I don't want any of this to go to waste."

  "Okay." She still sounds hesitant, but it's not a denial, so I'll take it. "I guess I'll… I'll see you soon."

  "Great."

  I hang up, staring at the screen for a moment before setting it down on the desk. Reaching into the bottom desk drawer, I pull out a pair of black leather gloves and slip them on my hands.

  Then I wait.

  I wait a half hour, then forty-five minutes. An hour passes, and another, before I hear a car pull up in front of my house. I step outside, not at all surprised to find Kelvin behind the wheel, with Brandy climbing out of the passenger side.

  Hands in my pockets, so not to alarm the man, I stroll toward the car, plastering a smile to my face. It unnerves him. I see it in his eyes.

  "Go on inside," I tell Brandy. "Bedroom is upstairs to the right. I'm going to catch up with Kelvin."

  Brandy heads right in. She wouldn't dare pass up an opportunity to snoop. No rat would.

  I wait until she's gone before focusing on Kelvin.

  "Go ahead home," I say. "I'll take her back later."

  "But—"

  "Leave," I tell him. "Brandy and I have some business to attend to, if you know what I mean."

  "Oh, uh, sure," he says, nodding. "I get it."

  He thinks he gets it, but he doesn't.

  "And I'd appreciate your discretion," I say as he starts the car up. "I know Ray signs your paycheck, but I'm not one you want to cross. Got me?"

  "Yeah, I got you," he grumbles, avoiding my eyes. "Have a good night, sir."

  "Oh, I will," I say. "The best I've had in a while."

  He speeds away, squealing tires, and I laugh to myself as I head inside. I shut the door behind me quietly, listening intently.

  I hear the noise upstairs in the bedroom.

  I creep up the stairs slowly, not making a sound as I head down the hall, pausing in the open doorway. I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest, and watch as Brandy digs through the closet.

  My closet.

  She shifts through my clothes before focusing on the top shelf, zeroing in on the metal shoebox-sized container. She grabs it, and I cringe as she pulls it down, nearly dropping it, the contents clanking. She sets it on the bed, trying to pull the top off.