Rosary girls

81

Her Mother sat on the swing, her favorite yellow sundress accentuating the deep violet flecks in her eyes. Her lips were claret, her hair a lush mahogany in the summer sun.

The aroma of just-lit charcoal briquettes filled the air, carrying with it the sound of a Phillies game. Beneath it all-the giggles of her cousins, the scent of Parodi cigars, the aroma of vino di tavola.

Softly came forth the scratchy voice of Dean Martin crooning "Come Back to Sorrento" on vinyl. Always on vinyl. The technology of CDs had not yet moved into the mansion of her memories.

"Mom?" Jessica said.

"No, honey," Peter Giovanni said. Her father's voice was different. Older somehow.

"Dad?"

"I'm here, baby."

A wave of relief washed over her. Her father was there, and everything was going to be fine. Wasn't it? He's a police officer, you know. She opened her eyes. She felt weak, fully spent. She was in a hospital room but, as far as she could tell, she was not hooked to machines, nor an IV drip. Memory plodded back. She remembered the roar of the gunfire in the confines of her basement. It did not appear that she had been shot.

Her father stood at the foot of the bed. Behind him stood her cousin Angela. She turned her head to the right to see John Shepherd and Nick Palladino.

"Sophie," Jessica said.

The silence that followed exploded her heart into a million pieces, each one a burning comet of fear. She looked from face to face, slowly, dizzyingly. Eyes. She needed to see their eyes. In hospitals, people say things all the time; usually the things that people wanted to hear.

There's a good chance that…

With proper therapy and medication…

He's the best in his field…

If she could just see her father's eyes, she would know.

"Sophie's fine," her father said.

His eyes did not lie.

"Vincent's down in the cafeteria with her."

She closed her eyes, the tears now flowing freely. She could survive whatever news came her way. Bring it on.

Her throat was raw and dry. "Chase," she managed.

The two detectives looked at her, at each other.

"What happened… to Chase?" she repeated.

"He's here. In ICU. In custody," Shepherd said. "He was in surgery for four hours. The bad news is, he's going to make it. The good news is, he's going to stand trial, and we have all the evidence we need. His house was a petri dish."

Jessica closed her eyes for a moment, absorbing the news. Were Andrew Chase's eyes really burgundy? She had a feeling they would be in her nightmares.

"Your friend Patrick didn't make it, though," Shepherd said. "I'm sorry."

The insanity of that night seeped into her consciousness slowly. She had actually suspected Patrick of these crimes. Maybe, if she had believed him, he wouldn't have come to her house that night. And that meant he would still be alive.

An overwhelming sorrow ignited deep within her.

Angela picked up the plastic tumbler of ice water, brought the straw to Jessica's lips. Angie's eyes were red and puffy. She smoothed Jessica's hair, kissed her on the forehead.

"How did I get here?" Jessica asked.

"Your friend Paula," Angela said. "She came over to see if your power had come back on. The back door was wide open. She went downstairs and she… she saw everything."Angela teared up.

And then Jessica remembered. She almost could not bring herself to say the name. The very real possibility that he had traded his life for hers tore at her from the inside, a hungry beast fighting to get out. And, in this big, sterile building, there would be neither pill nor procedure that could ever heal that wound.

"What about Kevin?" she asked.

Shepherd looked at the floor, then at Nick Palladino.

When they looked back at Jessica, their eyes were grim.