Chapter 8 #3
“It just got me thinking.” I lean forward and drum my fingers on the desk. “About everything that happened back then. Is it possible she didn’t do it?”
“Of course she did it. Did she tell you she didn’t? If she did, she’s lying. Women like that, they’ll lie about anything. Don’t listen to a word she said. She’s an opportunist. A liar. A criminal. And you’re better off without her.”
But I don’t think Sofia is an opportunist. If she was, she’d be living a much more extravagant life than she is now. And she hasn’t asked for anything from me.
She didn’t look like she was lying, either.
She looked upset. Hurt. Angry. But intentionally lying for some opportunistic reason? No.
I’m not going to get anything from my father, I decide. Not now.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t do some research on my own. It doesn’t mean I can’t look into evidence I never had reason to doubt before.
“She didn’t say anything about it,” I reply. “And she didn’t ask for money. Or offer up any business deals. I just said hi to her. That’s all. Seeing her just got me thinking.”
“Well, don’t think about her. She’s no good.” He stops. “Now. If that’s resolved, I’m going to finish dinner. Unless there was something else?”
“No.” I release a frustrated sigh. “Nothing else.”
But as soon as I end the call, I jump on my computer.
And the first thing I do is hack into Sofia’s old records.
They’re sealed, since she was only seventeen at the time, but that’s not a challenge for me.
In under a minute, I’m looking at the arrest report, witness testimonies, and even Sofia’s old mug shot.
My gut twists at how scared she looked. Almost shell-shocked, like she couldn’t believe what was happening.
Could it have been a lie?
Not her lie, but my father’s?
Fuck.
What if Sofia was innocent all along?
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 a tip the 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 to listen.
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.
She’s gone.
The suitcase I had Knight fill with some of Sofia’s things from her apartment is missing.
The burner phone I gave her is sitting on a freshly made bed.
And beside it, a note.
Thanks for letting me stay here. But it’s not working. I’ll figure things out on my own. Take care.
The paper crumples in my hand.
She left.
Shit, she left.
Anger surges, but fear knocks it out of the way.
She left. When there are still people out there trying to kill her.
Fuck.
I spin around and race out of the room, my heart pounding madly.
She left. Shit, she left. Because of me.
I grab my keys and my Sig, then sprint for the front door.
As I burst into the hallway, all I can think is, Please, don’t let her get hurt again.