Page 17 of Fractured Fear

Then there was the judge who would give lesser sentences to criminals if they paid the right price. He accepted payment in all forms: drugs, sex, money. Come to find out, the sex wasn’t always consensual and was sometimes with girls a fraction of his age. A very small, very young fraction. He was close to retirement and wanted to “enjoy the perks of life.” Only predators enjoy young girls and consider their tears a joy, and predators like that don’t get to continue in life. They find themselves dismembered and six feet under, which is where he ended up after his boat capsized in a storm. Before the judge died in a mysterious and sudden "boating accident," in which his body was never found, his retirement was distributed to women's shelters across the five boroughs. His offshore accounts filled with bribe money may have been drainedovernight and the cash given to the women and children he hurt without a second thought.

I now have my own practice that I run out of our home. I still make sure those who deserve justice are granted it, and when all else fails, that’s when Ash, Z and I step in. Just like we did with the so-called prosecutor and judge. Fuck them.

“Yeah, that’s five for him. He’s clearly not slowing down and thinking about retirement anytime soon.”

“Fuck. Okay. We’ll wait for word from Ash. I’m on my way to meet with Mrs. Romero.”

“Her nephew still giving her shit?”

“Yeah, he broke into her home, but this time stole some valuables. I’m going to make sure no one fucks up her case. She’s been reaching out to the police at the 41st for weeks now and they haven’t taken her seriously. Even after we filed that restraining order.”

“Fucking idiots. Maybe it’s time to look into that precinct.”

“A Devil’s Henchmen’s work is never done.” I smile at my own joke.

“Oh my God. Stop. Just stop. I’m begging you.”

“Not a chance.” My smile widens further.

“I’ll buy you a meat lovers from Sal’s if you stop. Please. I’ll throw in his tiramisu too.”

“Make it two slices of tiramisu and I’ll think about it.” We both know I won’t stop. It’s our thing.

“Only if you promise.”

“Sure, sure.” I placate him half-heartedly.

“Fuck. Fine. I’ll pick it up on my way home tonight.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye, but I know he still loves me. That’s just how we are.

After my meetingwith Mrs. Romero, I head home to our brownstone in the Bronx. It’s shitty, but overall, not bad. It screams bachelor pad. The front door is up six concrete steps and you have to do a little trick to get it open. The key has to be halfway in the lock, then you hit the top right corner of the door to get that unstuck, and finally shove with your shoulder in the center. It’s like tackling a linebacker every day.

When you walk in it’s a simple layout. Straight ahead are the stairs that lead up to three bedrooms. To the right there is a black leather sectional in front of a TV. Beyond that is the small kitchen we only use when Asher is in town because he’s the only one who cooks. Z and I can’t cook to save our lives. If takeout wasn’t an option, we would starve to death. Which is a fact Ash likes to remind us of often, but we know he loves to cook for us.

Behind the stairs is a door that leads to the “backyard.” It's a six-by-six patch of brown grass. It’s rickety and quirky, but it’s comfortable and houses some of the people I care about most. It's our home.

We all moved in after college. My mom didn’t want us too far from her. I grew up just ten minutes from here. My family still lives in my childhood home, a fact I both love and hate. I’m happy to have them nearby. My mom brings Z and I food when Ash is gone and most Sundays our asses are parked at her table, but that home also holds deep heartache. I never want to forget Isabella, but sometimes her memory is too painful. Too close.

I toss my shoes by the front door and drop myself on the couch with a Corona. I get to work typing up documents and keeping track of financials. Being your own boss is great, butthat also means you have to be the accountant, customer service rep, and so on.

Just as I finish drafting a contract for a client, I hear someone at the door. I’m not alarmed because clearly they know the secret password, meaning it’s Z. Looking up from my screen, I realize the sun has begun to set. I’ve been sitting here longer than I thought. I stretch my neck side to side and reach my arms above my head to relieve some of the pressure in my back. I need to get to the gym. I’m too old to be sitting like this all day.

When Zane enters, I smell the sweet aroma of marinara.

“You really got Sal’s?”

“Of course I did. I said I would.”

I get up to take the pizza from him and head to the bar stools. We usually sit in front of the TV for dinner, but we need to talk about what’s got him all cagey today.

“Want to watch the Knicks tonight?”

“They’re not on for another thirty. Let’s sit here and eat.” I know he’s on to me, but I’m not letting him off the hook.

He grabs two beers from our practically-empty-fridge and sits next to me. We eat in silence for a few minutes, but patience has never been my strong suit.

“Why are you acting so weird?”

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