Chapter 9 - THE NIGHT MY PARENTS WERE MURDERED
Isabella handed me a folder.
Inside were copies of police reports.
Photographs.
And a newspaper clipping from 2012.
The headline read:
THREE DEAD IN DAN RYAN EXPRESSWAY PILEUP.
I recognized the photograph.
My parents' car.
Crushed between two trucks.
I had been nine.
Isabella pointed to a second document.
A private investigator's report.
It suggested the crash had been deliberately caused.
I stared.
"Why?"
Isabella looked toward Dante.
"Because your father knew something about Salvatore's business."
Dante's expression hardened.
"What?"
Isabella shook her head.
"I don't know."
I remembered my father.
He worked in freight logistics.
He was quiet.
Patient.
Always home late.
My mother taught elementary school.
They were ordinary people.
Or so I'd believed.
Dante looked at the report.
"My father?"
Isabella hesitated.
"Possibly."
He stood.
"No."
I looked at him.
He closed his eyes.
"I mean—"
He sat again.
"I don't want to believe it."
I understood.
I didn't want to believe it either.
We took the documents to an attorney.
She advised us to preserve everything and contact the appropriate investigators.
That evening, I sat alone in my hotel room.
I looked at my parents' photograph.
For thirteen years, I'd believed their deaths were an accident.
Now I wasn't sure.
A knock came at the door.
Dante.
I opened it.
He stood holding two cups of tea.
"I thought you might want company."
I hesitated.
Then stepped aside.
He entered.
We sat by the window.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then I whispered:
"I don't know who to trust."
Dante looked at me.
"I know."
I turned.
"Do you?"
He nodded.
"My father has lied to me my entire life."
I looked down.
He continued.
"But I won't lie to you."
May you like
I wanted to believe him.
For the first time, I almost did.
