Sempre: Redemption

34

Intuition.

It was something Haven relied on since she was a child, living on the isolated ranch in the long-forgotten town of Blackburn. It had kept her out of trouble, warning her when something was not quite right. It was a sensation along her skin, a twisting in her gut that set her on edge. Whether it was coyotes prowling in the night or monsters lurking in the shadows, she had always sensed when something—or someone—was there who shouldn’t be.

She could remember only a handful of times when her intuition failed her. The afternoon in Dr. DeMarco’s bedroom had been once, when he had cornered her after she touched his gun. The warning signs had gone up too late. He had caught her red-handed, vulnerable and alone.

It had happened another time, too, years earlier when she had been a small girl. Trudging along after her mama in the greenhouse along the side of the property, boredom nagged at her as Miranda was busy at work. She was at that age where she still didn’t understand the reality of her existence, the dreamer inside of her still alive, naïve and innocent.

“Can I go see Chloe?” she had asked, tugging on the back of her mama’s shirt to get her attention. The cool air from an air conditioner blew on them from behind, stirring her filthy white summer dress.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” her mama said, not taking her eyes off the rows of plants. “You should stay with me.”

“I don’t like it in here,” she said, scrunching up her nose. “It smells funny.”

“It doesn’t smell funny.”

“Yes, it does. It’s cold, too. See!” She held out her arm to show her the chill bumps covering her tanned skin, even though her mama wasn’t looking. “And it’s too bright. My eyes hurt.”

“You’re just full of complaints today.”

“But it’s all true!” Haven said. “Can I go? I promise I’ll be good!”

“I know you’ll be good. I just . . . I don’t know.”

“Please? Chloe’s my best friend!”

She frowned. “Fine.”

Haven ran from the greenhouse, hearing her mama call after her to be careful, but she was too excited to respond. She hadn’t seen Chloe in more than five sunsets and missed her, but her mama said it was too dangerous for them to visit a lot.

Haven looked around when she got outside, making sure no one was there, before running across the yard as fast as her legs would go. She slowed when she got to the building on the other side of the house, right beside the stables that she and her mama stayed in. The building was gray, like a big metal house, and she quietly tiptoed to the back, where a bunch of cages were lined up against it.

“Chloe!” she called, seeing her right away in the first cage. She jumped up as soon as Haven said her name, looking as excited as she felt inside. “I missed you!”

She started crying out and Haven ran over to her, shushing her. “You have to be quiet before they hear!”

Haven got down on her knees, reaching her hand through the links in the cage. “Mama’s working in the greenhouse again,” she told her. “Master’s crop is sick and he told Mama she better fix it, but I don’t think she knows how. She asked me if it looked like she had a green thumb, but when I tried to look at her thumb she told me I was being silly. So I don’t know if she does.”

Chloe just stared at her. Haven guessed she didn’t know, either.

“Oh and someone came here yesterday! I don’t know who, because Mama made me stay away. She said it was for my own good, but what if it was my friend?”

Chloe yelped. “My other friend,” Haven said quickly. “You’re still my bestest friend, but I have another friend that lives out in the world. Mama says the world is big. Did you know that? She says there are bunches and bunches of people out there, and there are so many houses! Like, bajillions of them!”

She held her arms out wide to show her how many. Chloe got excited, jumping up and down and making noise. She quickly dropped her arms, putting her finger against her lips. “Shhhh, quiet! If someone hears you . . .”

“Too late.”

It felt like all the blood in Haven’s body froze. She jumped up and turned around, wanting to hide, but Frankie was there. He had her cornered.

She stood like a statue, stubbornly, childishly hoping she would disappear and he wouldn’t see her anymore. He would go away and forget she existed again. She tried to count in her head, like her mama taught her to do when she was scared, but she got stuck after six, and he was looking at her too hard.

Haven took a big step to the side, thinking she could escape, but it didn’t work. His eyes widened as he shook his head. “Don’t run, girl.”

She didn’t run. She stood like a statue again.

He walked over and bent down, reaching his hand in the cage, snapping his finger. Chloe came right to him, whining for attention as he rubbed her head.

“Do you like my beagle?” he asked, looking at Haven.

She didn’t know what a beagle was but she nodded.

“She’s a good girl, makes a good hunting dog.” He patted Chloe on top of the head once more before standing back up. “Do you have a name for her?”

She nodded again.

“Will you tell me it?”

Another nod. She didn’t know what else to do.

He laughed at her muteness, and Haven squeezed her eyes shut tight when his hand came toward her. She braced herself for the hit, for the fingers digging in her flesh, the scratches and bruises, but none of it came. Instead, he patted her on the head like he had done Chloe. His hand was heavy, but it didn’t hurt.

“You ought to be more careful, kid,” he said, still laughing to himself. “It’s never good when the likes of me can sneak up on somebody like you.”

It was then, as Frankie sauntered away, that Haven felt the telltale signs of her intuition striking, warning her when it was already too late.

And years later, as she sat in a booth in the back of a small diner, sipping a cup of black coffee as Kelsey stabbed at a plate of scrambled eggs, she felt it stirring yet again. It started with a prickle, a tickle across her taut skin, before the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck stood on end. She ignored it at first, trying to pay attention to Kelsey, but the sensation just grew stronger and stronger.

“Are you even listening to me?” Kelsey asked, pointing her fork at Haven.

“Sure,” Haven said, absently rubbing her neck. “What did you say again?”

“Let’s take a road trip.”

Brow furrowed, Haven stared at her friend. “What?”

“Let’s take a road trip,” Kelsey repeated for what was likely the third time. “We don’t have anything else to do this summer, right?”

“Uh, well . . .” Haven hesitated. Road trip? “I kind of thought I’d just stay around here this summer and take a few extra classes. You know, get ahead.”

Kelsey dramatically rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. School will be here when we get back. It’s been a long year, and we deserve a break.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Well, think about it.” Kelsey threw her fork down and stood up, tossing some cash down on the table. “We can leave after the Novak Gala.”

“Okay,” Haven said, drinking the rest of her coffee before setting the cup aside. “I’ll think about it.”

She had no intention of thinking about it, no intention of leaving New York.

The two of them left the diner, Kelsey once again babbling as they walked side by side toward the school. Haven was tense, her eyes darting around as they passed through crowds, surveying faces, analyzing looks. She kept peering over her shoulder, but she wasn’t sure why.

What she was sure of, though, was the twisting in her gut, her intuition telling her that someone—or something—was there that shouldn’t be.

“Explain it to me again.”

Haven ignored Kelsey, acting as if her friend hadn’t spoken as she studied the canvas in front of her. The fresh paint glistened under the fluorescent lights of the art studio, the vast array of colors weaving together like a tangled rainbow.

Abstract art—Haven was still trying to get the hang of it.

“Does this look okay?” she asked anxiously.

“It looks fine,” Kelsey said. “Now explain it to me again.”

Haven sighed. “We went out, it was nice, but it didn’t work.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” Haven confirmed, still staring at the canvas. “Are you sure this is okay? Does it make sense?”

“It’s abstract. It’s not supposed to make sense.” Kelsey snorted. “I don’t get why you and Gavin can’t be friends. So there’s no spark, but you were totally friends before, right? What changed?”

Haven sighed. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore. They had been talking about it for weeks. “I guess it was all or nothing with him.”

“Nonsense,” Kelsey argued. “He’s not that kind of man.”

Haven rolled her eyes. “You hardly knew him.”

“But you did.”

Silence permeated the studio. Did she know him? He worked at the construction site. Family business, he had said, but Haven knew nothing about his family. In fact, she knew little more than his name: Gavin something-or-other. She had heard his last name before, but she couldn’t recall it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Haven said finally. “It wasn’t meant to happen. People come into our lives for a reason, so I have to believe there was a point to it somewhere, but it wasn’t for us to be friends, I guess.”

Setting down her paintbrush, Haven stepped back from the canvas. The spring Novak Gala was fast approaching, their submissions due by the end of the week, and Haven was struggling to create something she felt worthy of turning in.

“I’m going to miss seeing his face around,” Kelsey said. “Talk about good looking!”

Haven laughed. “If you like him so much, go ask him out.”

Eyes wide, Kelsey fervently shook her head. “No way. I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because of you, duh,” she said. “It’s breaking the friendship code.”

“Don’t be silly. He’s a really great guy. Funny. Nice. You could definitely do worse. Actually, you have done worse.”

“You really liked him.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“Then why? Really?”

Haven half shrugged, half shook her head. “There was nothing there.”

Kelsey’s expression softened. “Your ex.”

Carmine. “What about him?”

“That’s why you felt no spark with Gavin. You had it with someone else.”

Haven thought that over, remembering the chemistry she had felt with Carmine. There had been electricity, so much he made her glow. The thought of never having that again, having to live her life with nothing but the memory of the way she had felt, troubled her. “Do you think it’s possible to feel it more than once?”

“Absolutely,” Kelsey said. “I feel it every time a guy so much as looks at me these days.”

Haven laughed.

“Or . . .” Kelsey took a few steps toward her, scanning the colorful painting. “Or maybe I’ve never really felt it at all, and you’re just one of the lucky ones.”

“Corrado Moretti is notorious. They call him the Kevlar Killer on the streets, insinuating he’s bulletproof, untouchable, and maybe out there he is, but not in here. Here we seek the truth. Here we get justice. And justice, today, would be a guilty verdict. The defendant is a murderer, a liar, and a thief. Nobody is safe with him roaming free. We have proven he belongs to an organization that prides itself on killing, an organization that advances people for hurting others. What kind of organization does that? An immoral one. An illegal one. A dangerous one.”

The prosecutor babbled on and on as Corrado sat still in the hard chair, waiting. The eight-week trial was finally coming to an end with closing statements. It would soon be over and time to move on.

Or so he hoped.

When it was their turn, Mr. Borza stood and let out a bitter laugh. “The Kevlar Killer. It should be noted the media invented that nickname to sell papers. Sensationalized, to make money off an innocent man. The only reputation my client really has is for being a savvy businessman, a family man. His criminal record is clean. The government spent millions of dollars and thousands of man hours digging into every aspect of his life for years, trying to find something big, something scandalous, and the most they got was a bunch of heresy from convicted criminals looking for a way out of jail and a potentially unpaid tax bill, for which—if it makes them feel better—Mr. Moretti will write a check today. That’s it.”

Corrado tuned his lawyer out as he glanced around the courtroom, still banking on juror number six to come through for him. Mr. Borza kept it short and sweet, and the judge instructed the jury, sending them to the back to deliberate.

“How long do you expect it to take?” Corrado asked after court was in recess.

“There’s no way to tell,” he replied. “If they come back today, I’d say it’s good news. But honestly, Mr. Moretti? If they’re out more than forty-eight hours, I’d start praying for a hung jury.”

Forty-eight hours came and went with nothing. Three days passed, then four. Corrado remained locked away at MCC, outfitted once again in an oversize orange jumpsuit. Warm weather had somehow crept up on them, the prison sweltering as the faulty air conditioner kept breaking down. The stench of stale sweat hung in the sticky air, clinging to everything its vileness could touch.

Corrado’s patience dwindled. Every time footsteps approached his tiny cell, he stood at attention, waiting for them to deliver some news.

None came.

After a week, the jury sent a note claiming they were deadlocked and couldn’t agree, but the judge sent them back to deliberations, ordering them to give it a few more days. While a hung jury was certainly better than a guilty verdict, he wasn’t as excited at the prospect as his lawyer. A mistrial meant another trial. Another jury. More time away from his life . . . his wife.

Twenty-four hours later, Corrado was lying on the bunk in his cell when heavy footsteps slowly approached the door. He got up and eyed the door, hoping against hope it was finally over.

“Mail call,” the guy hollered, opening the slot in the door and dropping in an envelope. Corrado snatched it off the floor. Another false alarm.

Sighing, he eyed the ripped open envelope with the sketchy address, surprised yet again that it passed security. He pulled out the greeting card, eyeing the photo on the front. Corrado knew little to nothing about art, but even he could recognize the painting The Scream.

Hope your day is a scream the card read, sloppy handwriting under the typed message: I scream, you scream, we all scream . . . until somebody hears.

Corrado stared at the message, reading it again and again. He was so busy deciphering the short message that someone managed to sneak up on him.

“Moretti.”

Corrado looked over, eyeing the correctional officer. “What?”

“Show time.” He smirked. “The jury came back with a verdict.”

Haven darted across the busy New York street, long wavy hair flowing behind her as her feet zealously carried her down the block. Despite her best effort, she repeatedly knocked into others, elbows jabbing and shoulders bumping as she flew past.

“Sorry,” she muttered, breathing heavily as she ran along the sidewalk, heading straight for her brownstone apartment. The white envelope crumpled in her hand as she fisted it, making sure not to lose her grip.

Once she made it home, she bolted inside, no hesitation in her steps as she bypassed her door. She frantically took the stairs two at a time, heading straight for Kelsey’s apartment on the second floor.

She didn’t bother to knock in her haste. Grabbing the knob, she shoved open Kelsey’s front door. “Kelsey, you won’t belie—Oh, God!”

Startled yelps echoed through the living room. Haven shielded her eyes and quickly swung around as Kelsey and a male friend fumbled for their clothes.

“I’m so sorry!” Haven’s cheeks turned scarlet and warm from embarrassment. “I didn’t realize, well, you know . . .”

“It’s okay,” Kelsey said. “We’re dressed now.”

Slowly, Haven turned back around, tentatively peeking through her hands at them. “I should’ve knocked.”

“You think?” Kelsey stood as she motioned toward the guy. “You remember Fred, right? The architect?”

Haven eyed the tall man peculiarly, taking in his short blond hair and blue eyes. She didn’t remember him at all, but Haven politely smiled and nodded anyway. “Sure. It’s nice to see you again, Fred.”

“You, too,” he said. “Well, I should be going.”

He kissed Kelsey’s cheek before strolling past and disappearing downstairs. Haven stood there for a moment, watching her friend as she stared at the now empty doorway. “He’s hot, right?” Kelsey asked. “I think he might actually be the one.”

Haven’s eyes widened. “Did you feel it? The spark?”

“Oh, I felt it all right.” Kelsey laughed, turning her attention to Haven. “Anyway, what’s up? Why the speedy entrance?”

All thoughts of the awkward incident evaporated as Haven’s face lit up with excitement. She held up the crinkled white envelope, waving it frantically at her friend. “I did it! I got in!”

Kelsey’s brow furrowed. “Got in where?”

“The Novak Gala,” Haven declared. “Miss Michaels pulled me aside in the hallway. I came in thirteenth! They’re going to display my painting!”

Kelsey let out a sudden shriek. “No way! That’s amazing!”

The two of them jumped around and squealed, hugging as they celebrated the news. Tears sprung to Haven’s eyes, overwhelming elation running through her veins. She had done it. Out of three thousand entries, she had made the cut.

“This is so crazy,” Kelsey said, pulling away. “We have so much to do now! We need to get you a dress and shoes. You’ll need hair and makeup.”

She blanched. A dress? High heels? A makeover?

“Oh, oh oh! And a date! We have to get you a date!”

Haven blinked rapidly. “A date?”

“Yes! You get to bring guests, right? You can’t go alone!”

Reaching into the envelope, Haven pulled out the letter and unfolded it, eyeing the three wrinkly tickets tucked inside. She put hers back into the envelope and held the other two out to her friend. “I want you to come with me.”

“Me? But—”

“Take them,” Haven insisted. “You’ve been so great to me. You took me home on Christmas and introduced me to your family.”

“I should be making that up to you, not the other way around.”

Haven laughed. “Come with me. And if Fred’s the one, bring him, too.”

Kelsey hesitated before taking the two tickets. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” Smiling, Haven took a step back toward the door. “Invite whoever you want. My thanks to you for being such a great friend.”

Haven started out of the apartment, hearing Kelsey yell after her as she descended the stairs. “Fine, but you’re still getting a dress! Don’t think you’re getting out of that one!”

“As to count one, participating in the conduct of the affairs of an enterprise through a pattern of racketeering activity, we the jury find the defendant, Corrado Alphonse Moretti . . .” There was a pause, one that seemed to stretch for eternity, before the fateful words were read. “. . . Not guilty.”

The packed courtroom erupted in noise, a few elated cheers mixing with the horrified shouts of disbelief from onlookers. Cameras flashed from the media, recording the moment, as the judge feverishly banged his gavel for silence.

Count after count was read, all of them with the same result: not guilty, not guilty, not guilty. Corrado remained still as he stood at the defendant’s table, the only one in the room not reacting emotionally. He felt it, though, churning in the pit of his heavy stomach, evident in the cold sweat formed along his back. It was the only time he had ever been unsure of a verdict before it was read. For the first time in his life, he had had a moment where he actually wondered if it could be the end for him.

And that moment to Corrado, as he contemplated his uncertain future, was worse than facing death. Death he could accept . . . being a caged animal he couldn’t. He would never let it show, though. He exuded nothing but total confidence, bordering on callous conceit.

When the jury finished, the judge ruled for Corrado’s immediate release. Corrado stood after the final bang of the gavel, ignoring the incessant shouting and name-calling from the gallery as he shook Mr. Borza’s hand. He turned then, seeking out his wife in the crowd, and found her in the back, standing all alone and smiling.

Corrado’s chest swelled. It felt like forever since he had seen her look happy.

“Congratulations,” Mr. Markson said, his voice laced with bitterness. “I’m curious how you did it this time. Intimidation? Extortion? Plain ole bribery?”

Corrado shook his head. “I did none of those things.”

“Murder, then?” The prosecutor raised his eyebrow in challenge. “Did you kill your own family, Mr. Moretti? Is that what happened to Vincent DeMarco?”

Corrado stared at the man, keeping his expression blank. If he only knew the depth of that question . . .

“The jury just saw through you,” he responded coolly. “You had no case. You should work on that, you know. You don’t seem to be very good at your job.”

The prosecutor’s posture stiffened. “I am good at my job. The problem is people like you have absolutely no respect for it. You have no respect for the law. But you’ll get what’s coming to you someday.”

“I look forward to it.”

The prosecutor stormed away as Corrado addressed his lawyer. “Juror number six . . . I want you to find out who she is.”

Mr. Borza blanched. “Why?”

“I think I owe my freedom to her.”

Corrado turned to the crowd of spectators, watching his wife make her way toward him. He opened his arms, pulling her to him in a tight embrace. Her body shook with happy cries as he kissed the top of her head.

“Six months away from you was far too long, bellissima,” he whispered. “I promise it’ll never happen again.”