Chapter 9 - THE COMING HOME SONG
The flashing red and blue lights blinded me as I pushed through the front doors of the apartment building.
The street was chaos. Dozens of police cruisers formed a barricade. SWAT teams had their rifles trained on the entrance. And, exactly as I had hoped, three different news vans were parked behind the police line, their bright camera lights illuminating the rain.
"Hold your fire!" a voice yelled through a bullhorn. "It's a civilian and a child!"
I raised my hands high in the air. Josie clung to my leg, weeping.
A SWAT officer rushed forward, grabbing my arm roughly. "Are you hurt? Are the suspects inside?"
"I need to speak to a reporter," I screamed over the sirens. "Right now!"
"Ma'am, you need to come with us—"
I ripped my arm out of his grasp. I saw a woman holding a microphone with a Channel 5 logo standing behind the yellow tape. She was broadcasting live.
I didn't hesitate. I sprinted toward her, dragging Josie with me.
"Hey! Stop her!" a police captain yelled, a man I recognized from the names on the back of the photograph. He drew his weapon, aiming it at my back.
But he couldn't shoot. Not with the cameras rolling.
I crashed into the reporter, grabbing her microphone.
"My name is Lena Brooks!" I screamed into the camera, gasping for breath. "My real name is Elena Vale! The men inside that building are being framed by the Commission! I have proof!"
I knelt down, pulled off Josie's shoe, and pulled out the photograph.
I shoved it directly into the camera lens.
"Read the back!" I shouted to the reporter. "Read the names! Account numbers! Dates of every murder ordered by the Commission to cover up their crimes!"
The reporter, realizing she had the scoop of a lifetime, grabbed the photo and held it up to the light. The cameraman zoomed in on the meticulous handwriting.
It was over. The truth was live on television, broadcast to millions.
The corrupt police captain lowered his gun, his face draining of color. He knew he was finished.
Within an hour, the FBI—the real FBI—arrived, swarming the street. The corrupt officers were disarmed and arrested. Paramedics rushed into the building, bringing out Silas, Mark, and Roman on stretchers, followed by Margaret, who was wheeled out with her head held high.
Six Months Later.
The conservatory at the Vale estate was filled with sunlight.
The white orchids were blooming, casting delicate shadows across the marble floor.
I sat on a velvet armchair, sipping tea. I wasn't wearing a thrift-store coat anymore. I wore a simple, elegant cashmere sweater. But on my left wrist, I still wore a woven blue and silver bracelet. Roman had tied it back together for me himself.
Outside on the manicured lawn, Josie was running through the grass, laughing hysterically.
Roman was chasing her. The feared mafia boss of Chicago was wearing a tailored suit, his tie abandoned on a patio chair, letting a seven-year-old beat him in a footrace.
He caught her, scooping her up and spinning her in the air. Josie squealed with joy.
She called him Roman. Never Daddy. Mark had survived his wounds and was currently serving a reduced sentence in a white-collar facility, having turned state's evidence against the Commission. Silas was with him, having surrendered his power to ensure Mark and Margaret remained untouched.
Josie knew who her real father was. But she knew who protected her, too.
I smiled, feeling a profound sense of peace.
Beside me, Margaret reached out and touched my hand.
I looked at her. She looked healthier, stronger. The heavy burden of twenty-nine years of silence had been lifted from her shoulders.
"She runs just like you did," Margaret said. Her voice was still raspy, but it was clear and full of warmth.
"She runs faster," I laughed softly.
Margaret squeezed my hand. "Are you happy, Elena?"
I looked out the window. Roman was carrying Josie toward the house, both of them out of breath and smiling. Roman looked up and caught my eye through the glass. The dark, lethal edge that used to define his features had softened. When he looked at me now, he didn't see a maid. He saw his equal. His partner. His family.
"I am," I said. "I really am."
Margaret smiled. She lifted her hand and gently tapped my wrist.
Three. Two. One.
I didn't answer with four taps. I didn't need to answer the fear anymore.
May you like
Instead, I turned my hand over, laced my fingers through my mother's, and held on tight.
We were finally home.
