Chapter 10 - The Man I Punished
I did not go to the marina.
I put on my coat, made it as far as the foyer, and stood there staring at the front door. Every nerve in my body insisted that staying behind was weakness. Sebastian had chosen a place from our childhood, a place where our father used to keep a small boat, and he knew exactly what that choice would do to me.
Then I heard Sophie upstairs asking Grace where I was going.
I took off the coat.
I sent the text to Reyes.
Then I sat in my kitchen and watched the hour pass.
It was the hardest thing I had done since Isabelle died.
At five fifteen, Sebastian sent nothing else.
At five twenty, Reyes called.
"He never showed."
"You had people there?"
"Of course."
"Did he see them?"
"Maybe. Or maybe the invitation was a test to see whether you'd come alone."
I looked at the clock.
"What now?"
"We keep working."
"I hate that phrase too."
"Get some sleep."
I almost hung up.
Then I said, "I need to tell you something about Frank Valenti."
The silence on her end changed.
Frank Valenti had been a midlevel operator attached to a Brooklyn crew that competed with mine for trucking contracts. Two weeks before Isabelle died, one of his men had threatened one of mine over a route dispute. After the murder, Sebastian reminded me of it.
Frank had also been seen in Nassau County that week.
That was enough for me.
Three days after Isabelle's funeral, I ordered Frank taken from a restaurant parking lot.
He was held for six hours in an empty warehouse.
I did not pull the trigger on him.
That was the story I had used to sleep.
I had ordered men to beat him until he gave me the name of whoever killed Isabelle.
He had no name.
By the time I believed him, he had a broken jaw, two fractured ribs, and permanent damage to one hand.
He left New York with his wife and daughter soon afterward.
"Why are you telling me?" Reyes asked.
"Because if Sebastian did this, Frank got hurt because I believed him."
"Frank got hurt because you ordered him hurt."
I closed my eyes.
"Yeah."
"Those are separate facts. Don't use your brother to clean up your part."
The words cut clean.
"Where is Frank now?"
"I don't know."
"I do."
Of course she did.
"His wife gave us a statement after they moved. He refused to cooperate."
"Can I contact him?"
"Not without his permission."
"Can you ask?"
"Why?"
I looked upstairs.
"Because I need to know what I did from somebody who isn't paid to tell me I'm right."
Reyes was quiet for a few seconds.
"I'll ask."
Frank agreed to a phone call that afternoon.
Not a meeting.
Not an apology in person.
Five minutes by phone.
I took the call in Isabelle's library.
"Romano," he said.
His voice was rougher than I remembered.
"Frank."
"Detective says you found religion."
"No."
"Good. I don't have time for miracles."
I looked at the window seat.
"I was wrong about you."
"I know."
"I hurt you because of it."
"You had other people hurt me."
"Yes."
"You want me to say I forgive you?"
"No."
A pause.
"What do you want?"
I had spent my life knowing what I wanted before I entered a room.
This time I did not.
"I think my brother killed Isabelle."
Frank laughed once.
"That's ugly."
"Yeah."
"And now you feel bad because you used me as a substitute."
I stared at Isabelle's photograph on the shelf.
"Yes."
"You should."
I let that sit.
"I can pay for your hand. Surgery, therapy, whatever—"
"Stop."
"Frank—"
"You still think money lets you choose the shape of the conversation."
I said nothing.
"My hand is my hand. My daughter remembers me coming home unable to hold a fork. My wife slept with a chair under the motel door for three months because we thought your people would finish it. You don't buy that back."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"I'm starting to."
He breathed out slowly.
"Then leave me alone after this."
"I will."
"And if cops ask what happened, I'm not lying for you."
"Don't."
That answer surprised him.
I could hear it.
"You serious?"
"Yes."
"Huh."
He hung up without saying goodbye.
I kept the phone in my hand after the line died. There was no relief in saying the right words after doing the wrong thing. Frank was not a moral lesson arranged for my improvement. He was a man who had gone home to his family hurt because I had wanted certainty faster than truth could provide it.
I called my attorney and told him Frank had permission to tell prosecutors anything he wanted about the warehouse. My attorney asked whether I understood what that could expose me to.
"Not completely," I said. "But I understand what lying would expose my daughters to."
He told me not to say anything else until we met.
I stayed in the library for another hour.
Around three, Sophie wandered in carrying a book upside down.
She climbed onto the window seat beside me.
I did not ask where Grace was.
I did not ask if she wanted to talk.
I opened the book.
It was Goodnight Moon.
"You're a little old for this," I said.
Sophie shrugged.
I started reading.
Halfway through, she leaned against my arm.
At the last page she whispered, "Mommy read it faster."
"Your mother did everything faster."
Sophie almost smiled.
Then she looked toward the doorway.
"Uncle Seb cried after."
I kept my eyes on the book.
"After what?"
"After Mommy. In the garage."
I waited.
"He washed his hands."
My mouth went dry.
Sophie traced the picture of the little mouse with one finger.
"He said it was our fault he had to fix it."
I did not move.
She turned the page.
"Can we read it again?"
May you like
I looked at my daughter.
"Yeah," I said. "As many times as you want."
