by Gina LaManna
“I don’t know,” I said. “There was a murder last night, and he won’t give me an alibi.”
“Last night?” Jane frowned, as if thinking back. “What time?”
“I asked him for an alibi between seven and eleven p.m.,” I said. “He won’t tell me where he was, and I can’t figure out why. It’s only going to hurt him to keep quiet. I don’t understand what’s more important than clearing himself of murder.”
“He didn’t do it,” Jane said. “I know he didn’t.”
“That’s sweet of you to say,” I said. “Frankly, I don’t know how you have such belief in him after all this time, but I admire it.”
“No.” Jane shook her head. “You’re not understanding. I’m positive he didn’t commit whatever crime you’re talking about. Last night, seven to eleven, right?”
“Yes,” I said puzzled. “But how can you know that?”
“Because I am his alibi.”
The bomb sat there for a long moment. Completely untouched.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m his alibi,” Jane repeated. “I met dad for dinner last night.”
I blinked. “He’s trying to bring you into this, too?”
“No, of course not. I’ve been having monthly dinners with dad for the last couple of years.”
“What?” My nails dug into the bedding. “And you never told me?”
“I did! I tried to tell you in the very beginning. You didn’t want to hear anything about it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Come on, Kate. The first time I told you I wanted to get in touch with dad, you asked why I’d ever want to do that.”
“I was upset.”
“You still are upset!”
“He left our family. I think I have a right to be upset.”
“You do,” Jane said softly. “And I have the right to forgive him and try to mend a relationship with the only father I’ll ever have in this life.”
Silence took over the room. I fumed inside, upset at this new development. It felt like a betrayal of sorts. Not only had my father betrayed me all those years ago, but my sister had been secretly meeting him behind my back for years.
Still, another part of me knew that this wasn’t Jane’s fault. She was the only one in our family of three—me, my mom, and her—to ever mention my father in normal conversation. She’d reference times from the past with a fondness. She’d point out food or art or little pieces of nature that my father would love. My mother and I tended to ignore Jane during moments like that. I’d always been too upset, too hurt, to dive into that part of my history.
I glanced up at Jane and found her looking pensive. She shifted her legs closer under her body, tugged her robe tighter. Her chin was tilted up in defiance, but the way she was looking at me was brimming with uncertainty.
“How do you do it?” I asked finally. “How did you forgive him and move on? Carry on a relationship with him like he’s a regular old dad?”
“He is a regular old dad in many ways. Our regular old dad. Do you believe that people can change?”
I hesitated before responding. I thought of all the murderers I’d locked in prison and how, if or when they were released, many went on to repeat their crimes several times over—or until they were caught again. Repeat offenders were a real problem.
“I see too many people in my job who get stuck in the same routines,” I said. “The same destructive patterns. They hurt themselves and others over and over again.”
“Some, yes. Maybe even the majority. But certainly not all.”
I thought back to my evening with Russo. Something in me had shifted recently, something that had drawn me toward a relationship. Something that had changed in me, made me question everything—my need for independence, my love for the job. For years, I’d kept plenty fulfilled by simply piling my plate full of work. And yet now, I found myself longing for something more.
“I suppose,” I murmured. “I think people have the ability to change if they want to.”
“Dad made some mistakes. He was young back then, stupid even. He hung with the wrong crowd, slipped up. But it was never because he didn’t love us, and I suppose that’s why I can overlook it. My life hasn’t been a bright and shiny series of successes.” She shrugged. “I hope I’ve changed. Or, I hope I’m changing. I’m not perfect, so how could I judge dad? He wasn’t that much older than me when he went to prison.”
I rested my hand on Jane’s, squeezed. “You’ve always had good intentions, no matter what. And you are changing; I’m proud of you.”
“I guess, maybe that’s why I have empathy for dad. I know how life can sometimes take a turn for the worse. I never intended to lose my job, or date assholes, or get thrown in jail. And I didn’t do any of it maliciously.”
“We all know that.”
“I’m just saying, maybe I’m more like dad than you think.” Jane pulled her hand away from mine. “You’re more like mom. You both are strong, independent women. You don’t need men to get by, and you don’t get sucked into dating losers just to have company. Mom started her own business, raised two girls by herself. You put yourself in danger every day on the streets to make our world a better place. Me? I just hang in there and hope for the best most of the time. Sometimes I sling drinks at the bar.”
“That’s not true.”
“I just can’t bring myself to judge dad for his past.” Jane limply moved her shoulders up and down. “I don’t have it in me. I could see how it might happen to anyone. Maybe not you, and maybe not mom, but the rest of us. Those of us who aren’t as strong as you.”
My chest felt like it was crumbling. “I’m no stronger than you are, Jane.”
“I mean it like a compliment,” Jane said. “I always have looked up to you, wished I was more like you. Even when I try to emulate you, it just doesn’t work the same for me. I’m not built for it.”
I brought one of Jane’s pillows to my chest, clenched it tighter. “I’m so sorry you feel that way. I’m so far from perfect it’s not funny. Actually, I’ve always wished I was more like you.”
“How is that at all possible?”
“You’re so loving and caring, and so nonjudgmental. People flock to you. They love you from the moment you say hello. I’m—well, I’m cold and shut off from people. Even my friends know that. The reason I have any friends at all is because they’re forced to spend so much time with me at work that they can’t help but be pleasant to me.”
“That’s not at all true. Your friends love you because you’re fierce and loyal.”
“I can’t seem to make any sort of relationship work,” I said. “Sure, you’ve dated a few doozies over the years, but you keep getting back on your feet. You put yourself out there, which is far braver than what I’ve been doing all these years, hiding behind a badge.”
Jane barked a low laugh. “I guess the grass is always greener, huh?”
I returned her smile. “I guess so.”
“You know, you can come with me sometime if you want,” Jane said. “To dinner, I mean. I know dad would love to see you. Away from work.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s not too late. He talks about you all the time. Asks about you. He knows what cases you’re working and who you report to and what your title is. He knows more about you than I do, it feels like.”
“How is that possible?”
“You’re his daughter, and he loves you. He follows your career. Did you know he came to your high school and college graduation? And that thingy where they swore you in as a police officer?”
My mouth parted in shock. “No, I did not. Are you sure?”
“Positive. He sat in the crowd, in the back. He’s very proud of you, you know. There’s a part of him, I think, that knows you are the cop he always wished he could’ve been.”
My stomach clinched. I’d never known. Never had the slightest suspicion that my dad had tried to remain involved—albeit from a distance—in my life
.
“He should have tried harder.”
“Maybe he should have,” Jane said. “But the past is done and gone. The question is what you want to make of the future. What is it you want from him, Kate?”
The question felt so loaded I couldn’t possibly give her a response. “I don’t know.”
“Well, think about it,” Jane said. “Whatever you decide is your choice. To keep in contact with him or not.”
“Are you glad you did it?” I asked. “I mean, got in touch with dad?”
She looked surprised. “Of course. He’s not a monster, Kate. He’s a regular guy, and he loves us. He’s my dad. And someday, if I ever have kids—” she cringed—“I’d like them to know their grandfather. We only get one chance at life, and I’d hate to lose him and regret not knowing the real Angelo Rosetti—beyond what the newspapers reported. That might sound morbid, but it’s the truth.”
It was a lot to take in. I sat back, the pillow in my arms squished into a tiny ball. After soaking in the information for a few moments, I released my vice-like grip and returned my gaze to Jane.
“Does mom know?”
“About my dinners with dad? No.”
“You never told her?”
“No,” she said. “For the same reason that I didn’t talk about it with you. I know you guys think I don’t notice that you shy away every time I mention dad. Just a few weeks ago I mentioned he’d like the pancakes at that one diner, and you both went mute. I’m not stupid. I felt you guys out, and you weren’t interested. Neither me nor dad is trying to force anyone into mending ties.”
“You’re far more intuitive than anyone gives you credit for.”
“I know,” Jane said with a grin. “I prefer to be underestimated.”
I laughed, finding that despite the tricky nature of the conversation, I was enjoying my time with Jane. We hadn’t had a sister-sister bonding moment in a long while. To be sitting, chatting about our parents, felt so normal. A blip of normalcy in a crazy world. It was a breath of fresh air.
“Well, there’s one more piece of the puzzle,” I said. “I actually got mom to talk about dad.”
“And?”
“And I think she still loves him.”
Jane pursed her lips, thought about it for a moment. “I’m not surprised.”
“You’re not?”
“No, not really. I mean, she never talks badly about him. She’s never once put him down. I have to think that the reason she’s so closed off to any mention about him is because it hurts too much to remember him. And the reason for the hurt, really, is love. If she just didn’t care... well, she wouldn’t mind so much.”
“Okay, fine. You’re smarter than me.” I threw my hands up. “I admit it.”
She laughed. “It probably helps that I have dad’s perspective, too. He’s head over heels in love with mom.”
My mouth gaped open. “You knew this?”
“It’s pretty obvious.” She watched my expression. “No offense, but if you figured it out in the short time you’ve been talking to him about this case...”
“Touché. So, what are we going to do about it?”
“About what?” She digested the intentions in my eyes, then shook her head. “Oh, no. No, no, no, Kate Rosetti. We are not interfering.”
“Mom’s got a date tomorrow—later today,” I corrected, looking at my watch. “She’s going out with some guy after all these years because she doesn’t know that dad is pining over her. Or that we’re okay with them getting back together.”
“Good for her.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“What else is there to say? I’m not interfering. You’re not interfering. We’re not interfering. Do you understand? They’re both adults.” Jane gave me her sternest look. “Dad tried to contact mom after he got out. She didn’t take the bait.”
“But mom still loves him. Maybe she needs a bigger push.”
“She’s not a child on a swing set. She doesn’t need a push. She needs to figure out how to pump her own legs and get going. Maybe this guy, this date, will be a good thing for her.”
“Don’t you think she’d at least want to know about dad’s feelings for her before she decides to go out with a guy named Gregory?”
“Life has a funny way of working out,” Jane said. “Maybe this Gregory will turn out to be the second love of her life. Or maybe, she’ll go out with him only to realize that he’s hairy and smelly. Maybe then she’ll decide that the real love of her life is dad, and they’ll get back together. You never know.”
“I hate it when you’re right. I just can’t help but feel like there’s something I should do.”
“You always want to help people, Kate. But sometimes people need to help themselves.” Jane paused, glanced down at her nails. “You know, if I could just follow my own advice, I’d be in great shape. I should consider a career as a psychologist.”
I grinned again and gave her slippers a firm pat. “You are in great shape. And I’m glad we talked.”
“Me too,” Jane said. “Now can you please dish a little more about your date tonight? How did it turn into a stakeout? And did you at least kiss the poor man?”
Somehow, Jane and I managed to talk for another hour. We talked about our parents, about Russo, about Jane’s current love life with Wes Remington. We hadn’t had a night like it in years, and when I finally climbed into bed in the early hours of the morning, I felt rejuvenated.
Before I tucked in for sleep, however, my thoughts turned back to the case. I ran through a list of things I needed to accomplish the next day and paused when I remembered the security footage we’d need to successfully place Angel and Joe Ricci at her apartment during the time they’d claimed to be there.
A warrant would take some time to get. I had a better idea.
It was far too late to call, so I sent Gem a quick text asking if he’d be able to send Asha the security footage the next day. I included the exact date and time that we’d need to see. Before I plugged my phone in the charger, it beeped with a response.
Gem: You can come by my office sometime tomorrow, and I’ll show you the footage. If you’d like it sent to your office, I’ll need a warrant.
I decided not to respond. Namely because I wasn’t sure how to react. The tone of the message was incredibly formal for Gem, and while I was relieved to see he wasn’t still trying to get in touch with me, it made me wonder if I’d been too harsh in pushing him away completely.
All he’d ever really done was try to help me. All I’d done in return was take advantage of his services and then push him away. Just because I wasn’t interested in him romantically didn’t mean I couldn’t be nice enough to him. Friendly.
Moreover, if I wanted to see the tapes, I had to play by his rules. The ball was in my court. He had the tapes, and I needed a warrant. Or, I needed to play nice. I messaged him back.
Kate: Thank you. I’ll be in touch tomorrow with a time that works.
I silenced my phone before I could get sucked into any more messages, any more emails, any more work, and climbed into bed. My thoughts turned to Russo, wondering if he’d still be up. If he had been thinking of me. If he’d had a decent time during our date, or if I’d ruined everything.
A moment of panic washed over me. My fingers trembled as I suddenly wondered if I’d ruined everything. Jane’s words—have you kissed the poor man yet?—skittered through my head. What sort of man was okay with being dragged on a stakeout with a piece of cake instead of a bottle of champagne and a romantic night in?
I flew out of bed, reached for my phone, and opened up my messaging app.
Kate: Just thinking about you. I hope you had a great time tonight. I know I did.
I hung onto the phone for a second, waiting for a response. Then I remembered that it was the wee hours of the morning. I’d showered, chatted up my sister for a while, and perused my work emails. Russo was probably long since asleep.
I was just crawling int
o bed again, resigned to wait for his response until morning, when my screen lit up.
Russo: I had a fantastic time. Thinking about you and looking forward to tomorrow. Sweet dreams, Rosetti.
Chapter 15
I couldn’t say I’d had particularly sweet dreams. In fact, I’d slept so deeply that I hadn’t dreamed at all. However, when I woke the next morning, I had an extra bounce in my step, and I shyly attributed it to the fact that Russo had sent me a wake-up text that had put an instant smile on my face. We’d agreed to meet for lunch, and I was already looking forward to it.
I planned to maximize my time before lunch. If I was lucky, I could get a good start in the morning and take off for the afternoon. There’d been no real break on the case overnight, and there appeared to be no imminent threats to anyone’s safety. Following up on cold leads could wait until Monday.
What couldn’t wait until Monday was a visit to the precinct to talk to Asha. On the way, I swung by my mother’s café. I’d dragged Asha into the office two weekend days in the row, so the least I could do was bring her a pastry for her troubles.
I was instantly thrown back into reality when I saw my mother. She stood behind the counter, but that was the only normal thing about the situation. Where she usually wore black yoga pants or jeans and a cute top, today she had on a dress underneath her apron.
Her eyelids had been darkened with eyeshadow and her lashes streaked with mascara. Her lips were cherry red, and her cheeks were tinted pink. In her ears, she’d secured two large hoops, and her hair had been curled into loose waves that made her look ten years younger.
“Mother,” I said slowly, approaching the counter. “Is that you?”
She tsked, then lowered her gaze from mine and stared at the floor. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You look great,” I said. “I take it you’re getting ready for your date?”
She glanced up, clasped her hands together and gave me a pleading stare. “Please don’t make me go.”
