The same question keeps repeating while I pour through pages and pages of testimony.
And the more I read, the more unsure I am of who the real villain is.
By the time an hour’s passed, I feel like throwing up.
It was one thing hearing everything second-hand from my father. But reading Sofia’s statement, seeing the report from the youth psychologist who visited her in the detention center, saying how devastated and confused Sofia was…
And the evidence. At eighteen years old, I wouldn’t have thought to doubt it. But as a man who runs a private security company, what I’m seeing doesn’t add up.
Like the pawn shop owner who claimed Sofia sold the stolen jewelry to him. He contacted the police with atipthe very same night she was arrested. Coincidence? Or was it all part of a bigger plan?
A quick internet search shows that the pawn shop is still open. Not just open, as in it still exists, but open until eleven o’clock tonight.
Snatching up my phone again, I fire off a text to Wraith, our best interrogator.
There’s a pawn shop over on Canal and Bowery. Can you go there? Find out if the owner’s still alive? And if he is, I need you to ask him about some stolen jewelry.
Then I send a photo of Sofia’s mugshot.
I want to know if she sold him anything. Or if he recognizes her at all. Make sure he tells you the truth. It’s important.
Less than thirty seconds later, Wraith’s reply comes in.
On my way.
There are more things I need to look into. More evidence to investigate.
But first, I need to talk to her. And this time, I need tolisten.
Pushing away from my desk, I stand and roll out my shoulders and neck, trying to release some of the tension. But it’s useless. My entire body feels like one big knot. My stomach won’t stop churning.
What if she was innocent?
What if I spent the last eighteen years believing she was a thief, and she wasn’t?
What if?—
Fuck.
Taking long, purposeful strides, I close the distance to her bedroom in seconds. Before I can second guess myself, I knock on the door and call loudly, “Sofia. Can we talk?”
There’s no answer.
“Sofia. I know you’re upset. But I want to hear what you have to say. I’ll listen this time.”
There’s still no response.
Worry pricks at me. What if the argument caused a setback? What if she fainted? Or fuck, what if there was a blood clot the doctors missed? What if the bump on her head from yesterday was more serious than we thought? What if she’s lying there, unconscious,dying…
“Sofia,”I repeat with more urgency. “Open the door.Please.”
And still, nothing.
“Okay,” I call through the door, “I’m coming in. Last chance to tell me to stop.”
But she doesn’t say anything.
And once I open the door, I realize why.
