Page 64 of Quiet Protector
26
Melody
As I stare at my family portrait for the umpteenth time the past three days, unease melds through my veins. I don’t know how I missed it. Even with him being a mob boss, Henry’s face is well known to all levels of society. I’ve perused it many times the past ten years—in papers, on reports, during depositions. I’ve seen him a hundred times, if not more, yet, I failed to notice how his nose is the exact shape my dad’s was. How his top lip is slightly bigger than his bottom one, and that his eyes can share a lifetime of secrets without his mouth opening.
I’m shocked, but in all honesty, my dad’s overbearing parenting style now makes sense. He left that lifestyle for my mom, he did everything to protect her from being hurt by it. However, it didn’t work. She was still brutalized by his family’s enemies.
Although my adult nightmare slowly overtook the one from my childhood, I still recall how my mom’s nails dragged across the floorboards when she was pulled away from me and the vibrations of her screams hitting my chest.
I also remember how the pleas in my dad’s eyes shifted to anarchy when they refused his numerous requests for clemency. It was the same look Brandon’s eyes held when he played the video on the USB stick Henry gave him.
Joey didn’t kill himself. He was murdered. Brandon’s CIA friend, Phillipa, identified two of the men in the footage. The third is still under investigation. They’re hoping he’s one of the men killed during the Castro raid last week, but until their faces are digitally reconstructed, we won’t know for sure. A shotgun wound to the face makes identification a little hard.
We could have asked Castro, but that avenue was lost when Henry finished tying up the loose ends as he mentioned earlier this week. Castro was found hanging in his cell the same way Crombie was. Neither Phillipa nor Brandon believe it was suicide.
Those who didn’t know Brandon would believe his quietness the past few days is because he’s determined to get justice for his brother. I know that isn’t the case. He’s angry at himself, confident he is to blame for Joey’s death… and perhaps my assault.
There’s no truth behind either of his theories.
The footage Henry gave Brandon clearly shows Joey knew the men were trouble the instant his eyes landed on them. When they asked him if he was Brandon, he simply replied, “If I am, who’s asking?”
His cocky attitude usually worked in his favor.
That night, it didn’t.
Mercifully, the footage stopped before we reached the outcome of their exchange. It was for the best. We all know how things ended that night, we didn’t need to witness it again.
Both good and bad came from learning the real cause of Joey’s death. I can one hundred percent testify that he died as an honorable man. He was kind and sweet and put himself in danger to ensure his baby brother was safe.
But it also bombarded me with additional guilt.
I knew the type of man Joey was, so why didn’t I look deeper into the doubts festering in my gut the past seven years? Why didn’t I give my intuition the chance to speak? If I hadn’t run, I could have stopped Madden from hurting the woman Nichole discussed during my statement.
Unfortunately, Gemma Calderon-Levesque’s rape can’t be mentioned during my hearing. Because her charges were dismissed and she filed a civil suit against Madden, my case will be tried as if hers never occurred.
That makes me angry. If Madden used his trust fund to pay off Gemma, doesn’t that show culpability? The non-lawyer side of my head wants to say yes. Alas, not even ADAs can alter the law to suit themselves.
I’m drawn from my thoughts when soft voices project from the laptop Brandon is seated behind. After placing down my nighttime mug of hot chocolate, I float to his side of the living room. Instead of going back to the hotel three days ago, we stayed at the ranch. Only last week, it felt odd being here. With Brandon, it feels normal. I can almost forget the past seven years has happened.
Brandon’s eyes lift to mine when I ask, “What are you watching?”
For the first time in days, his voice sounds happy when he answers, “Grayson asked for an extra set of eyes on a case before he went back undercover. With everything going on, I put it on the backburner.” My heart does a weird flutter when he signs. “It is not a case. It is us.”
“Us?”
His smile when he nods—Kill. Me.Now.My engagement was only dissolved seven days ago, yet here I am getting flutters in a damp place several inches lower than my heart over a smile. It’s not even a straight smile, but it is damn near perfect.
“Look.” When Brandon swivels his laptop around to face me, my cheeks groan in protest about how fast they incline into a smile. “How old were we there? Around eight or nine.”
“Seven.” I point to the tiniest little slither of red across Brandon’s forehead in the footage of us playing a board game on the floor of my childhood bedroom. “Remember when I pushed Tania Rich off the swing, and her seat accidentally smacked you in the head?”
Brandon laughs. “I do recall that. I was certain you were seconds from kissing the bump better—”
“But before I could, Mrs. Foster arrived out of nowhere to take care of your boo-boo.” I’m laughing so hard recalling how Brandon’s head got lost between Mrs. Foster’s gigantic bosoms when she carried him to the nurse’s office. My words are barely understandable, so I switch to signing instead. “I was certain you would never be a breast man.”
He keeps his hands low, however, I don’t miss his reply, “If yours didn’t blossom as they did, I wouldn’t have been.” The heat bristling between us turns roasting when he playfully growls. I’ve felt his growls before, but this is the first time I’ve heard them.
“BJ…” There’s a need in my voice I can’t explain. It hasn’t been there in years, and in all honesty, I didn’t think it would ever come back.
