Page 11 of Curse

“They’re working on it?” I ask.

“I believe so. Someone is going through the personal items we pulled from the wreckage now so that we can make identification, contact loved ones, and start the investigation.”

Another officer on the dock barely looks like he’s over 18.He’s got a baseball cap on backwards and one of the clear ponchos, but underneath is a police t-shirt and jeans, no uniform. He’s kneeling, bagging up the remaining items on the dock. He points in the direction of where the cars are parked.

“I think they found an ID up there, and I have three passports here. They were all in the same pouch.”

Fucking kidding me. If one of these belongs to Mikey, I’m golden. I can’t wait to get the hell out of here.

I walk over to where he is gesturing and squat down to inspect the passports. One is a female. The passport says she’s 35, and she looks a lot like Siena and Franco, but with lighter brown hair that is shoulder length. The name doesn’t say Emily Bellamorte Briarone, though. It says Rebecca Finch.

I look at the other passport and the name on this one says Christopher Finch, but Mikey Briarone stares back at me from the picture. That makes Mrs. Rebecca Finch none other than Emily, for sure.

The other passport belongs to a Sean Lodge. He looks familiar, probably the person they hired to charter the plane, but I don’t remember his real name. He’s from the MacCuinn Clan, an Irish mafia group that was sometimes competitive with us, sometimes friendly.

The question is, were they friend or foe when Sean Lodge got on the plane? And will the MacCuinn Clan be friend or foe now that he’s dead?

That’s a problem for another day, though. Right now, the three passports together are the proof I need that Mikey was on that plane when it went down. Now I just need to find what Aurelio wants so I can get the hell out of here and get backhome.

Clifton is watching me closely, as I don’t move to return the passports. I jut my chin in the direction of the trucks full of items from the wreckage. “I’ll get these where they need to go.”

Officer Clifton glances at the kid in the backwards hat then back at me, clearing his throat nervously. “Uh, maybe we should keep it all together and bag and tag it….”

His voice trails off as I lock eyes with him in a hard stare.

I don’t say anything to him and continue walking up the dock. Behind me, I can hear the kid ask, “Who is that guy?”

Officer Clifton responds, “I don’t know. Maybe FBI?”

I let them think what they want, and when they’re no longer watching me, I go back to working my way through the bagged wreckage searching for what I need.

7

Siena

Signs for New Jersey and New York begin to dot the highway, the skyline tightening its grip as buildings draw closer and traffic thickens into the familiar chaos of home. The city looms ahead, but the closer I get, the more untethered I feel.

Home should be a place of comfort, but the idea of stepping back into my life—back home to Jersey and back to my job at the Victim Advocacy Center in Tribeca—is like walking into the wrong story.

How can I help victims when I am one? When Emily was one? When her killer is still out there, faceless and nameless? I tell myself I have time to figure it out, but the uncertainty gnaws at me.

Usually, when life throws too much at me, I call Emily. She always knew what to say, even if I didn’t want to hear it. But the ache of her absence presses harder now, the silence on the other end of the line permanent.

My mother and Franco? Their voices were cold, distant when I called them with the news—familiar but far fromcomforting.

But I do have Sophie.

Sophie’s in the city, my cousin, my ally, the one person who is almost as close as Emily was, who feels like home. The daughter of our father’s brother, Sophie, has always been more like a sister to us.

At 34, she’s two years older than I am and two years younger than Emily, so the three of us have always been more like sisters than cousins.

Her dad forced her to separate from us in the years after my father died, but by the time we all reached adult age, there was no keeping us apart. When she opened her restaurant, The Vault, Emily and I were by her side, folding napkins and scrubbing floors and even waited tables for her the first few months to help her get it off the ground.

I pull into the tiny parking lot and lock the car after filling my arms with all the plastic bags full of Emily’s things. She must have seen me from inside the restaurant, because the moment I walk in, she throws her arms around me, sobbing.

I let her cry, trying to keep a grip on all the bags, finding it hard to breathe. I can’t cry with her. I can’t cry ever.

Finally, Sophie steps back, wiping tears from her eyes. Her soft honey brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun and she swipes a stray lock behind her ear, her green eyes golden with grief.

---