Nicholas is a Lombardi. That means… Nonno and Nonna brought these questionable traditions over from their home country. My father became a part of this family as a baby, back when my grandparents adopted him. So… was my initial analysis wrong? Was Nicholas the one who ran the Mafia all along? Are my parents aware of this? For the past three years, he’s been the only family I’ve relied on. Leaning heavily on him when I felt as though my parents wouldn’t listen to me. I used to look forward to our monthly breakfast. He let me vent, never interrupted me when I talked about my brother. I can’t say the same about my parents. Always switching subjects as soon as I uttered his name. How could he just sit there and say nothing? Month after month, year after year, impassively listening to me pour my heart out. What was the point? Why bother?
Unless… I think the copious amount of candy just hit me. He was monitoring me.
Theo went to school to be an investigative journalist. All of this can’t just be by coincidence. One time, he told me that journalists follow a code, sticking to the truth, reporting accuracy, offering fairness, and being completely transparent. I can’t accept that anything my brother logged is fabrication. Infact, now I’m suspecting he went into this field on purpose. Did he have a hunch about Nicholas, even before the log was started? There’s no real way of telling. He’s not here. I’ve laid over his grave crying enough times to know, the dead don't talk. I knew my brother well. Clearly not everything, but he was never unhappy. He loved music, was within reach of his dream job, and had a committed partner... Theo did not take his own life. This I know to be true, with every bone in my body.
At the end of my rope here… licorice that is, I switch to picking at the edges of my nails. When my thumb slips off the nail bed and skims my ring finger, I feel the tiny scar from childhood. One of the few parts of me I adore, because it reminds me how we only grow through pain. Theo taught me that. Glancing through the log again. I review each entry with more consideration.
November 15th: Person of interest visits business just past Flaherty Way.
“Flaherty Way?” I feel like I’ve been down that street recently. Opening the web browser, I type in the road name. Dropping down to street-view, I stroll down virtually. Townhomes, a few restaurants, and a mail store.Mail Haven. I went there to drop off the embroidery hoops, after some lady bought all of them. I never expected to sell anything on the way home from the Craft Bazaar, but then she handed me an envelope full of money and the address, which led me there.
Holy crap… it’s like the waterlogged, symbolic puzzle has inevitably dried up and the pieces are fitting together!
This time when I rewatching the video, I have a notepad, ready to record every word I can make out from my uncle and his accomplice.
Next thing I know, daylight is pouring into my bedroom and the alarm is vibrating next to my bedside. I must have fallen asleep at some point. My face feels sticky and damp. Fingers glide across the sides of my head, finding hearing aids still in place, “OWWW.”
Rising from the puddle of drool on my pillow, I noticed my laptop screen is dark. A notepad lies next to it… everything rushes back. Dragging my sore, languid body from bed, I stumbled into the kitchen to find Andrea. I had so much to share; I didn’t know where to begin. Without coffee or even visiting the bathroom, I unloaded it on her. This burden was too heavy to carry alone. I needed my friend, even though she hadn't explained herself. After I brought her up to speed on the microSD card, the evidence, and even the old photo I found, she seemed… off.
No rebuttals. No lectures about ‘going to work’ when she insisted I stayed in. Nothing. Did I break it? The only indicator she was still with me was the periodic chewing on her bottom lip.
Like a wind-up toy had finally been released, she stood from the table we both sat at. “I need to go.”
My mouth hangs open, unable to form words.
“Stay home,” she insists.
What? No… “We need to talk about how you know so?—”
The door closes to our apartment, with my complicated roommate on the other side.
“Rude!” I call out, hoping she can hear me through the walls. Sure, I’ll just put a pin in the fact that my ‘con artist’ of an uncle may have been the driving force behind my brother’s death.
In line with me pulling my phone from the oversized hoodie pocket, a call comes in. “Take a Deep Breath,”fills the screen and for once I don’t ignore the call. I press the green button.
“Cindel dear, are you alright?!” my mother cries.
“Yeah…? I’m fine. What would make you?—”
She interrupts, “your uncle called. We’re worried about you. He said you’re showing the same signs as Theo. Are you home? Is Andrea there with you? She didn’t answer…”
What? She called Andrea first, even though she’s worried about me?
“Oh god, this is all our fault! We should have never let you stay in that awful city. Your father and I are coming to you. Pack a bag, you’ll be returning to New York with us.”
I didn’t know if I wanted to scream or throw the phone across the room. Now? Of all the times I’ve expressed to my uncle how much I miss Theo. How I wish it was me and not him that died… this very week is when he contacts my parents with concerns about my safety, right as I’m making progress? Right as I’m sure?—
“Mom,” I rush out.
She continues ranting, all the while barking orders at my father in the background. “Mom!”
She finally recognizes that I’m, in fact, still on the phone.
“I’m fine,” I insist. “What did Uncle Nicholas say, exactly?” I can just make out heavy breaths on the other side of the phone. I’m apparently not the only one who needs to practice soothing techniques.
After long moments, she continues. “Well… he said you were acting odd. He’s very concerned. He… ummm.” The phone goes quiet.
“MOM,” I bark.
