Chapter Fifty-Six

Margo Angelhart

We left Jennifer alone in the conference room with her father and brother. My mom had tears in her eyes and went to her office, closed the door. I stood awkwardly with Jack and Tess.

"Well," I said. What else was there to say?

"You believe him?" Jack asked with a nod toward the closed door.

"You don't?"

"I believe that he believes what he's saying now, but old dogs, new tricks?" He shook his head. "Let's just say I'm skeptical."

Tess said, "Mom believes him. She's been on the phone all day with lawyers and doctors, and she says he's really dying."

"What about the US attorney she reached out to?" I asked. "Jennifer was going to talk to him, tell him everything."

"Divine intervention," Tess said. "He's in court all day, said he'd call back tonight. Mom can avoid his call for a day or two."

"But the guy is still a criminal. He had people killed," Jack said. "I don't know about just letting him walk away."

I had mixed feelings, too, but I said, "How long would it take the federal government to build a case against him? Against his associates? Years. Especially if there isn't an FBI investigation already open. He'll be dead, and Jennifer and her brother can't speak to the facts, only hearsay. What would be the point? I don't think he should get away with murder, but he's going to be dead before any trial." I shrugged. "I don't have the answers. Really, it's up to Jennifer at this point."

The system sometimes worked...and sometimes it didn't. Bonetti should pay for his crimes, but he wouldn't because he was dying. I didn't know what I would do in the same situation.

"It's about justice," Jack said. "This isn't justice."

I couldn't argue with him.

"He's dying," Tess said. "Like Margo said, by the time the government puts a case against him, he'll be gone. Thomas and Jennifer will be dragged through the public eye and asked questions they can't answer. Their lives would be, essentially, over."

The children of a killer. We all knew how that felt.

"Maybe," I said, "we push him a little. Get him on record, solve some cold cases."

"What would that accomplish?" Tess asked.

"Closure for families who might not know why their loved ones are dead or who killed them. Maybe he knows where bodies are buried. It doesn't hurt to ask him to do the right thing."

"He's not going to turn himself in," Jack said, "especially if there is no evidence of crimes he's committed."

"I don't expect him to. But maybe he agrees to put everything down and we release it upon his death? Like a death-bed confession? Mom would know how to put it together."

"If she has specific knowledge of a crime that has been committed, she has to go to the court," Tess said.

"Then he makes the video without her in the room," I said. "Look, they're leaving tomorrow. What are we supposed to do? Call the cops and have him arrested? For what?"

Mom came into the room and surprised me by saying, "I agree with Margo."

We all looked at her.

"I just got off the phone with the AUSA in Florida. There is no open investigation into Vincent Bonetti. My friend didn't know the name. He knew about the Leone crime family, but said they disbanded after the patriarch died a few years ago. They had never been able to build a solid case against any of them, and shelved the investigation when Bonetti's father-in-law died."

"Jennifer said her father was responsible for a nightclub bombing," Jack said. "I looked it up. Eight people were killed. Eight. Only three of those eight were known to be criminals, the others were innocent bystanders. And even if they were all criminals, that's vigilante justice."

"We have no evidence," Mom said, "and neither does Jennifer. If the FBI opens an investigation into Bonetti, we'll cooperate. But ultimately, it's only Jennifer's statement that her father was behind the bombing, and she doesn't have firsthand knowledge."

Sometimes the system worked.

And sometimes it didn't.

Thirty minutes later, Thomas and Vincent walked out of the conference room. I glanced through the open door to make sure Jennifer was still in there and in good health. She sat at the table, head in her hands, her face splotchy from tears that no longer ran.

Vincent took first Mom's hand, then Jack's, then mine. "Thank you."

"And?" I asked.

"Virginia has asked for tonight. I recognize it's a lot to ask of her, but I must be in Wyoming for a doctor's appointment tomorrow afternoon. I have a private plane and we're leaving at eight in the morning. I gave Virginia the details. Whatever decision she makes, I'll respect."

Thomas didn't look like he felt the same. "Dad, you need to go back to the hotel and rest. It's been a long day." He nodded to us, then steered his father out the door.

My mom watched them leave, then went into the conference room to check on Jennifer. I followed; Jack and Tess didn't. I guess I was always the nosy kid of the family.

Mom sat next to Jennifer and immediately the girl turned to hug her. "I don't know what to do," she said.

"What did your father say?"

"He has about six months to live. Stage four pancreatic cancer, like you said. He went through chemo already, doesn't want to do it again. Tommy showed me pictures of the ranch. It's beautiful. Sheep, horses, a heated chicken pen. Tommy's going to stay, even after dad d-d-dies." She took a deep breath. "He wants to work with his hands, and he loves animals. I didn't know—he wanted to be a veterinarian. Went to school for it, but when dad got sick, he quit, to take care of him. They planned to move to Wyoming because dad pulled out of the business and there were people trying to get him back in. And then they found out I was alive."

She took a deep breath, the conflict in her expression real.

"He wants me to forgive him so he can die in peace. I do—but—I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. Everything I believed is true—his business, what happened to my mother, my best friend, everything. For the first time, he told me the truth, and it hurts. But I love him. And I hate him. And I don't know."

"You don't hate him," Mom said quietly. "He is your father, and he treated you with love even though he's done some horrific things. But he loves you and your brother and I believe he wants to make up for raising you in a violent life. For your mother, for your friend. I don't know if I could forgive him if I were in your shoes, but I would definitely try. Because forgiveness is for your soul, not his."

When Jennifer didn't say anything, Mom said, "Do you believe he will hurt you? Physically hurt you?"

She shook her head. "No. He never did before. I was scared because of the people around him, what happens to people he loves."

"Very understandable. Do you believe that he told you the truth tonight?"

She didn't respond at first, tears in her eyes. "Yes," she finally said. "I do. Do you think Tommy can forgive me? For making him believe I was dead?"

"Sweetheart, he already has."

How my mom knew that, I didn't know. But when she said it, I knew she was right.

"I don't know what to do," Jennifer said, clearly miserable. "He should pay for his crimes, but he's dying. I want to forgive him, but..." She started crying and Mom reached out and pulled the young women to her again.

I watched my mom, saw flashes of my past. The advice my mom gave to us as kids. She never pushed, never told me what to do, but simply gave her counsel—from when I was six and so angry I hit Eric Garcia because he pulled up my skirt on the playground to when I was contemplating reenlisting eight years ago. The first time she said she couldn't fault me for hitting Eric, but every decision had consequences. Then she took me to a movie—a rare treat when we were little—the day I was suspended from school. Eric was suspended for two days, so I felt that was fair. School rules. Sometimes they could be broken, but you had to face the consequences, even when you were right.

And then when I was going back and forth about reenlisting. Some shit happened on base and I was angry—but I hadn't lashed out like I had when I hit Eric. I stored everything inside until it nearly killed me. I considered the Army not only my duty, but my second family. Yet... I felt betrayed by that family.

My mom is the one who gave me the idea to serve in the Reserves. To come home and find my true calling. "You needed the structure of the Army," she had said, "and the sense of belonging, accomplishment, duty, and honor. And I think you wanted to prove to yourself that you could be someone without the family name. It's hard to live up to expectations all the time."

At the time, I had never once thought I wanted to get away from my family. I loved my family, my brothers and sisters and parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and dozens of cousins. The Angelhart/Morales clan was huge. Family was everything to me, and I was proud to be an Angelhart, proud of my parents. But when she said it, there was some truth. Who was I without the family? Was I special? Could I succeed without the name? Because no one in the Army cared if you were an Angelhart. My mother saw a truth I hadn't even acknowledged.

"Everything your father loved about the Army, you love about the Army," she had told me. "But both of you are independent—too independent to always follow rules. This can be a good thing, but it doesn't always conform to the structure of a bureaucracy. You have the discipline now that you didn't have at eighteen. Go to school, learn a trade, or find a calling. If you choose to reenlist, I will support you. But if you choose a different path, I will also support that decision."

So I didn't reenlist, opted for the Reserves, and while it took a while to get my PI business off the ground, I found that it was my calling. Working for myself was exactly what I needed, warts and all. Helping people like Annie Carillo and Logan Monroe. Two people couldn't be more different than the young abused mother and the wealthy entrepreneur, but they both needed my expertise. And when I helped them, I felt complete.

Maybe my mother understood me better than I thought.

Now Mom held Jennifer, patting her back as she would if Jennifer were her own daughter. As if Jennifer were me. Offering advice without pressure, with the foundation of nearly six decades of life experience.

I missed my mom. I missed what we had before my dad confessed to a murder he didn't commit. I missed our arguments, our laughter, our family dinners.

I didn't know how to forgive her, but I needed to find a way.

Jennifer's sobs turned to sniffles, then she pulled back, frowned at my mom's wet shirt. "I ruined your blouse," she said.

"You certainly did not," Mom said, wiping Jennifer's face.

"Can I—I don't want to impose, but can I stay at your house tonight? Just to get my head on straight and figure out what I want to do?"

"Of course."

Because that was also my mom. She could be a hard-ass in court, she was the disciplinarian in the house when we were growing up, and she had high expectations for all of us. But she would help anyone who asked.

"If you decide to go with your father, Jack will take you to the airport, make sure that everything is kosher, okay? You're not alone anymore, Jennifer. Or do you now want to be called Virginia?"

She looked surprised. "I honestly don't know."

"Then you will sleep on it. In the morning, you will know what is right."

My mom had been my role model my entire life, until three years ago when everything fell apart. Had she changed...or had I? Could I forgive my mom for—for what? For accepting a decision my father made to confess to murder? For not fighting for him? Not searching for answers? For the truth?

Jennifer hadn't known everything about her father and the reasons he made the decisions he made. There weren't a lot of comparisons between the Bonetti family and my own. The Bonettis were criminals. The Angelharts fought criminals. Yet...they were family, and decisions were made because of family. Vincent Bonetti was asking for forgiveness, even though he didn't believe he deserved it. He understood his daughter's grief—over the loss of her mother and her best friend. Their pain was tangible, the circumstances complex, but not the love. The love was simple, straightforward, real.

My mother caught my eye for a split second, and I thought for certain she could read my mind—like I believed when I was little and she always seemed to know when I snuck cookies to Jack when he was grounded, or when Tess and I found a lost dog and decided to keep him in the shed thinking no one would know, or when I hid Luisa's favorite stuffed animal because she ratted on me for breaking curfew.

I loved her. I missed her. I missed my family. Because even though I had relationships with everyone individually, the weight of my father's incarceration had suffocated me, strained the bond that had united us for so long. Because of me. Because I had walked away. Because I said I couldn't live with her decision to let it be.

I didn't know if I could abide by her dictum, but I knew that even if we were on different sides of the line, I wanted my family whole again.

We locked up the office and left. Thomas Bonetti was waiting outside, without his father, and Jennifer excused herself and walked over to him. He said something to her and she started crying again, then hugged him. My phone vibrated and I read the message. It was from Theo.

Your guy is here.