Page 58 of Issued

Marge cocks her head to the side, her gaze sharpens and her smile dims around the edges. “How are you really doing with all of this?”

“Better, now that he called.”

Marge brightens at this bit of news. “He did? When?”

“Just before you came over. I can’t believe how great it was to hear his voice. Even if the call only lasted a few minutes... and I had to share him with freaking Tony.”

Marge rolls her eyes. “I’ve never known anyone who needs a wife to whip their ass into shape more than that idiot.”

“It’s still hard though. Harder than I thought it would be.”

Taking another sip of her tea, Marge sits back and stirs the amber liquid with her straw. “Jim has a good heart. Wants the best for those he cares about.”

“I know.” My pulse is pounding in my ears.

Placing her hand on my forearm, she squeezes lightly. “The trainings and deployments can be hard, so if you need anything, anything at all, I’m here. You don’t have to figure it out alone.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that. Maybe next time, he can tell me about it sooner.” My voice is weak, my hands twisting the material of my sweatshirt.

Marge shrugs matter-of-factly. “They can’t always tell us what goes on, where they go, or even when they’ll be back. It’s part of their lives we have to accept.”

I sigh. “Basically, you’re telling me to suck it up and quit being such a wimp.”

Over a sip of tea, Marge’s eyes twinkle. “Honey, cut yourself some slack. The first time is always tough, and you guys didn’t have the most conventional start, either.”

I should cut myself some slack. I mean, there’s no doubt in my mind that I can do this. I’m the daughter of a cop. I’ve dealt with some pretty harsh stuff.

It’s just nice to know I’m not alone in my struggle.

Marge’s phone vibrates and she glances at the screen. “Time to go pick up Leslie.”

We stand and I walk Marge over to the door. I’m thankful for her visit and her friendship. While I had some inkling of what to expect being married to someone in the military, there are aspects of it I wasn’t prepared for, at least not emotionally.

I steel my shoulders. I might not have been prepared, but I can learn. If Jim needs me to be a rock, then dammit, I’ll be the most solid, indestructible stone I know how to be. There’s just a little bit of a learning curve while I toughen up my soft spots.

As she pulls away and I head back up the driveway, my eyes catch sight of mail sitting in the bed of Jim’s truck. Odd. Though maybe in his haste, he put it down to get something from the cab and forgot to grab it afterward. Reaching in, I collect the myriad of envelopes and circulars, then go inside.

Flinging the mail onto the coffee table, I drop down onto the couch. My hands drag down my face, a frustrated whimper echoing through the room. I miss Jim and I hate not being able to talk to him—anotherlovelyaspect of his job. This sucks.

I rummage through the stack of mail, most of which is junk advertisements with the occasional bill for things that aren’t set up on autopay, like our landscaping account. I snort. Jim pays for the weekly service, yet gripes about what they do wrong every time they leave. The lines on the lawn aren’t straight. The guys moved one of the stones out of place. Blades of grass weren’t completely swept up from the walkway. My husband is definitely a person I would not want to have as a client.

A square manila envelope catches my eye and I pull it from the pile. The yellow is dirty and the paper wrinkled. How long has this been sitting in Jim’s truck? The name on the return address belongs to the ISP company. Finally!

My breath catches and my pulse races like a Formula One car.

Did Jim find this? Did he try to open it?

And while I worry about the answers to those questions, the information contained on the DVD is what I crave. So, I leap up off the couch, tearing into the envelope and head upstairs to my room. This is it. Please, oh please, let there be something to put Santoro behind bars. Let me be able to put this whole thing behind me once and for all. Surely if the criminal responsible for my dad’s death is in jail, my omission on the IPP form will no longer matter.

I drop down into the chair at the desk in my room, flip open my laptop and insert the disc into the external drive. Clicking on the folder, I draw back in horror at the images on the screen. I’ve been around death. I’ve seen violence. But this is different. It’s casual, cruel, and without rhyme or reason. I swallow bile and work my way through each file.

There are dozens of jpegs, some just as gruesome as the first. The others are of Santoro. I click onto another image. It’s a receipt, dated back to Christmas last year, for a motorcycle plastics kit. While I’d gotten Dad a new coat for the holidays, he’d bought me new plastics, even insisted on putting them on for me. But why would he save a digital copy of the receipt amongst files for his case?

The last jpeg is grainy and blurred, almost as if someone took a picture of a picture. In it, Santoro is standing between two men, arms thrown over their shoulders and a large smile on his face.

One of the other men has his hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket, his lips pressed into a tight line. My throat tightens as bile claws its way up my throat. Marco. There’s no denying he’s one of the other two men.

I check the date, only to realize it was taken the day before Dad’s death. I squint and try to make out the third man’s face and my heart nearly stops. My body tenses, my eyes unblinking.

---