Page 11 of Shield

Alone, I sink back into my chair, her story replaying in my mind. I think about Emily—about what I know, about what I don’t. Her untouched belongings still clutter my living room floor, a constant reminder of my inaction. Her killers are out there, free, living their lives as if they didn’t snuff hers out.

If this woman can face her fears, face someone who hurt her while having a child who depends on her, how can I keep hiding behind my desk? It feels like a blanket has been lifted and the truth is painfully obvious: I have to get Emily the justice she deserves.

I’m terrified at the thought. I have no idea how to make this happen and keep myself safe from Matti and Aurelio. But it’s time to take action and try to find the evidence I need to put them both away for what they did to my sister. And if it wasn’t them, then find out who it was once and for all.

As I stand to lock up, something catches my eye—a man across the street, leaning casually against the building, an oasis of calm in the middle of the bustling crowd. His black hoodie obscures his face, but I feel like he’s looking directly at me despite the tinted windows.

He reminds me of Matti, but that’s nothing new. I think Isee Matti everywhere, everyday, all the time. Coming to work in the morning, leaving work at night, outside the restaurant that I go to with Blake and Amelia everyday for lunch. It feels like I’m haunted by his ghost, but when I try to catch a glimpse of his face, he disappears.

As if on cue, the man across the street pushes off the wall and blends into the crowd.

6

Siena

Isit on the couch with a glass of wine in my hand, staring at the pile of Emily’s stuff. The bottle of wine on the coffee table is almost empty, but I don’t feel it at all. I’ve been sitting here drinking slowly and thinking in silence for hours since I got home from helping the girl at the Victim Advocacy Center.

Setting the glass down, I let out a deep sigh. All the fire I felt at the office is waning, and in its place a cold, creeping dread has settled and grows deeper with every passing second. Still, I know this is something I have to do.

I walk over and sink to my knees in front of Emily’s stuff. Each of the plastic bags is stuffed and overflowing. I take one and dump it out, dragging my fingertips over the things spread out across the floor.

Some of it didn’t belong to her. There’s a charred t-shirt that wasn’t hers, the back half of a waterlogged paperback book that she would never read, part of a man’s watch.

Through the mess, I spot her phone in one of the clear bags. My stomach twists. I snatch the bag and dump it out, grabbingthe phone. My thumb moves instinctively, tapping the screen, then pressing the side button over and over. It doesn’t light up. Of course it doesn’t. The last time I heard her voice, she was talking to me on this phone, right before—

I hurl it across the room, the crack of plastic against the wall hollow. Crumpling to the floor, all the tension bleeds out of me until I feel boneless, weightless. Empty.

My sister. Without her, I feel so completely alone. I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’ll never talk to her again, never get to hug her, or hear her laugh. The finality is unbearable.

The uncertainty gnaws at me, too. Did they find her body? Was there a funeral? If so, where was she buried?

These are all questions that I could call my mother and ask, but not knowing is better than finding out that she simply had Emily cremated and moved on. Given that she hasn’t reached out to me at all since Emily’s death, it feels like I’m dead to her as well.

It’s a thought that doesn’t bother me as much as it should. Emily and Franco are both older than I am, and Emily was more of a parent to me than anyone else after our father died, while Franco held our mother’s attention. Moving on without them is very similar to pretending that they are actually a part of my life but without the stress.

Emily’s scarf peeks out of the pile, its fabric faded but familiar. I reach for it, dislodging a cascade of plastic bags that tumble down around me. Without thinking, I lay down in the midst of the mess, curling up with the scarf pressed against my chest.

It doesn’t smell like her anymore. It reeks of diesel and stagnant water. But I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend. Ipretend she’s still here, hugging me, and let the wine and the memories lull me to sleep.

**

I wake a few hours later, my back aching from laying on the unforgiving floor, and I wince as I sit up. Emily’s scarf is still clutched in my hand, and I lift it to my lips.

“She’d kill me if she knew I was touching it when it’s like this,” I mutter to myself, almost laughing as I picture her watching me with a horrified expression. Setting it aside, I make a mental note to wash it later.

The toppled pile of her belongings stares back at me, and I force myself to move, sorting through each item methodically. One pile for the unrecognizable wreckage. Another for things that clearly belonged to someone else. A third pile for Emily’s belongings—things to clean, fix, or share with my cousin, Sophie.

It’s not long before the mess is organized into neat stacks and bagged piles, but as I begin to push each one back toward the wall so that I can deal with it when it’s not 3 o’clock in the morning, something shiny catches my eye.

It’s the piece of a man’s watch.

I pick it up gingerly, examining the broken band and shattered face. The hands on the clock face are missing, the clasp is broken, and the other half of the band is gone. Absentmindedly, I trace the jagged edges, wondering who was wearing this when the plane went down.

Turning it over, my breath catches in my throat.

An engraving of a cypress tree climbs the watch band, its leaves curling and twisting to form the letter “B.”

Our Bellamorte family crest.

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