Chapter 32
SOFIA
Leaving my parents’ house, I’m not sure where to go. I don’t want to drive around listlessly for the rest of my life. I know I have to go back to my apartment and face the music. I’ve only been gone two days, but it feels like a significant amount of time.
I stop twice along the way, not having the same determination that I did on the journey to my parent’s house.
But there’s still plenty of daylight by the time I arrive at my apartment building.
I head inside, half expecting to find the place trashed.
It isn’t. Everything is the same as how I left it.
I leave the suitcase in my car just in case.
There’s no reason to undo all the work I did packing because I’m not sure if I can stay.
I decide to fortify my place a little bit.
I move some of the furniture around in the living room so that I can easily put a dresser against the door.
That way at least Frankie’s hitman will have to spend some time before crashing in on me.
Feeling slightly better, but tired from all the work, I decide to order myself a pizza. There’s no reason to worry about my diet at this point. I’ll be lucky if I live long enough to get fat.
The pizza comes and the doorbell startles me. I must remind myself that I’m the one who called for it. I thank the guy and hand over a twenty.
“Keep the change,” I say.
“Thanks,” the delivery driver says cheerfully.
It’s not dinner, and it’s not lunch, but something in between. I manage to polish off three slices before I’m stuffed. I put the rest of the box in the oven for later. Now I’m staring at my four walls, wondering what to do.
I told Mr. Harlan that I was leaving for an unspecified amount of time. But all I want to do is get back to my office and figure out if there’s some way I can salvage my research. I change my clothes and walk back to my car, checking in all directions just in case I’m ambushed.
No one interrupts me, and I make it to my car safely.
I drive back to work, careful to follow the speed limit.
I need to find a way to live with this uncertainty, or it’s going to drive me crazy.
Frankie’s threats ring loud in my ears as I ease into a parking spot across the street from the office.
I’m starting to feel like he just wanted to scare me.
He doesn’t have any big retribution planned.
Of course, I can’t count on that, but it does give me a little moral boost to consider the possibility that I wasn’t wrong about Frankie in the first place.
Maybe he is a good person who was just born into a bad family, but that doesn't mean his father won’t try anything.
I hurry down the stairs from the fourth floor of the parking garage and across the street.
I swipe my badge at the front desk, and everything seems normal.
In the elevator, I take a moment to center myself.
Here, among my colleagues, I need to act like I’m well put together.
I don’t want to let on that I’ve been riding the emotional roller coaster from hell all this time.
My desk is just the way I left it, minus the few things I picked up before. I sit down and enter my login information, encouraged to find that it still works. Mr. Harlan is giving me some leeway, and I’m determined to take it.
I check all my files again, with the same result. Most of what I’ve written is missing. But there’s an extra document that I keep notes on that I didn’t check before. If luck is with me, I’ve captured some evidence.
I click on the document, and it opens up. I’m relieved to see that it survived. It’s a running list of phone numbers and sources I wanted to check out. It’s not proof of anything, but at least it’s a map I can follow to recreate some of what I’ve lost.
“Sofia?” Mr. Harlan says from behind me.
“Mitch,” I exclaim, using my boss’s first name.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” he replies.
“Can I talk to you?” I ask.
“Sure,” he agrees, leading me back to his office.
I step inside, feeling relieved for the time being.
No one can hurt me in Mr. Harlan’s office.
He’s the editor of a newspaper, and no one would dare try anything with him around.
I feel comforted knowing that for now, I don’t have to worry about my safety.
But there are more critical issues running through my mind, things like Frankie and Danny.
I remember the conversation with my father, and how he asked me what story Danny was working on.
I have only the information that Danny shared with me before he passed away.
He said he was working on a story, but he didn’t give me any details.
He promised he would share everything the next time he met, but of course, that was impossible.
“Do you know what my brother was working on when he died?” I ask suddenly.
Mr. Harlan gives me a look as if he doesn’t understand why it’s relevant. “No,” he says.
“Because if I knew what he was working on, that might give me some clues about my own investigation,” I explain, addressing his unspoken question.
“I don’t think so,” he replies with much more conviction than I expect.
“Why not?” I demand.
“Just drop it,” he snaps.
I’m surprised. There’s a lot more acidity in his voice than I expected. “What’s wrong?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he responds, recovering. “I just don’t think that’s relevant.”
“Well, maybe I can decide whether it’s relevant,” I suggest.
“There’s nothing that he was working on that rises to the level you’re thinking,” he replies.
“My brother was killed—” I begin.
“Your brother killed himself,” Mr. Harlan cuts me off.
“No, he didn’t!” I shout. I’m getting flashbacks of the argument with my dad. That one didn’t go so well, and this one isn’t turning out any better. “If he was working on a story about the Corello family—”
“He wasn’t,” Mr. Harlan assures me gruffly.
“Then you know what he was working on,” I accuse. Danny held my same position in the years before he died. He was working for the same paper, under the same editor. I’m not sure why it didn’t occur to me until just now, but Mr. Harlan must know something.
“It was a fluff piece on geese,” he replies.
“Bullshit,” I snap.
“Watch your tone,” he warns me.
“Mr. Harlan,” I try again. “Mitch. Things just don’t add up. Danny was killed for something he was investigating, I’m sure of it.”
“And I’m telling you he wasn’t,” Mr. Harlan insists.
“Well, can you show me his notes, and I can judge for myself?” I ask.
“I threw it all away,” Mr. Harlan replies.
I narrow my eyes. This is getting too weird for my tastes. Here I thought my boss was one of the good guys, but the way he’s acting now makes me reconsider. What if he’s working with Corello? What if he’s known all along that I was narrowing in on the family?
The past month comes back to me in concussive flashes.
I see myself running into Frankie in the library, then telling Harlan all about it.
I watch myself sitting in the truck with Mario, taking pictures outside the restaurant.
What did I do afterward but run right back to my boss to fill him in on my progress.
Every step of the way, Harlan has been there, listening to my reports.
If he is undermining my research and has been doing so since the very beginning, I’m lucky not to have been killed already.
“I’d like to put in my resignation,” I say abruptly.
“What?” he demands.
“It’s obvious we don’t share the same perspective,” I explain.
“Just because I don’t believe your brother was murdered doesn’t mean I’m unsympathetic,” Mr. Harlan assures me.
“I appreciate your sympathy,” I say with regret.
“Think about it,” Harlan demands. “You said you were going to take some time. Take it. Come back in a week with a fresh perspective.”
I nod silently, letting myself out of his office before I can say anything I regret.
I hate that I have to defend my brother’s honor when it should be obvious that he would never do something like that.
It seems like all the people who knew him believe that he could take his own life.
Not only do I think that’s a lie, but my knowledge of Danny won’t let me even consider the possibility I might be wrong.
“Geese,” I mutter beneath my breath.
I sit down at my computer and email myself the file with all the source names.
I look around the bullpen one last time.
All these reporters think they’re championing the cause of justice.
They imagine that they’re delivering the truth and keeping the population informed of important matters.
But if I’m right about Harlan, then we’re all working for the mob.
The more I consider the ramifications of my boss’s actions, the more disturbed I become. Harlan could be manipulating the press, only allowing good stories to come out about Francisco Corello and his friends. They have the police in their pocket, why not the media?
I send a note to HR telling them that I quit.
I write a nice little paragraph about how valuable my time spent at the paper was.
I finish by telling them that I appreciate the opportunity to work for them, and I’m sorry I must leave.
Nowhere do I write any of my suspicions about my boss or his friends.
I wish I still had all the data I collected.
I might even be able to publish something on my own or sell my story to a rival paper.
I’m leaving with nothing, and I’m feeling more lost than ever before.
I don’t even bother to check for hitmen on my way back to the parking garage.
If someone attacks me, that will be the least of my concerns.
I’ve failed.
I failed my brother and my parents. I failed in my job and at home. All I have to show for my life now is that one month’s rent I paid in advance. That seems like a small consolation considering everything mounted against me.
Returning home, I dig the cold pizza out of the oven. I’m too depressed to microwave it, so I just eat it cold. It’s rubbery, and yet somehow still oily. I choke it down, sitting on my couch to watch TV.
My mind is running a mile a minute. I can’t focus on the game show that’s currently on. I keep replaying my discovery of Danny’s body, as if there’s some stone I haven’t yet unturned.
When my mom and I were cleaning out Danny’s apartment, we didn’t discover anything incriminating among his things.
But there was something that I received about a week later.
It was a cardboard box full of Danny’s things from the office.
I looked in it once before and thought it was just office junk. Now I’m not so sure.
I get up and go to my closet to find where I stashed the box. It’s underneath a few pairs of shoes and an old winter coat. I pull it out and rummage through, disappointed when I discover I was right the first time.
There are some yellow legal pads with nothing on them, a few pens, and a stapler. One of those black plastic desk organizers holds a few push pins and a photo of me. I take the photo out and stare at it, feeling an overwhelming sense of loss.
Screaming out my frustrations, I hurl the box at the wall.
The cardboard mostly protects the contents, but a few miscellaneous items scatter across the room.
I’m about to return to my spot on the couch when I notice a small flash drive under the kitchen table.
How did I miss it? Was it hidden between some papers?
I get down on my hands and knees to retrieve it, my heart pounding in my ears.
This is it. This could be the key to everything I’ve been working on for the past two years.
I’m sure that Danny has left a trail for me to follow.
Whoever packed this box from the office clearly didn’t realize what was in it.
I race to my car to dig the laptop out of my bag.
Holding it triumphantly, I return to my apartment to see what my brother has to say from beyond the grave.