“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Many things of this world don’t make sense, Mary,” I whisper, frowning at the dark bruise blooming across her cheek. That tightness in my chest returns, along with the dark rage. I raise my hand, and Madi flinches. Her reaction causes me to grit my teeth but doesn’t stop me from gently brushing the back of my knuckles across her injured skin. “It’s in the afterlife where we’re rewarded with knowledge and freedom.”
Madi scrunches her face and digs her nails into the old wooden walls. “Please stop calling me that.”
If only... “I can’t. You need to get used to it, cara mia.”
Her eyes pop open. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“Cara mia.”
“It’s Italian.” My smile is genuine, soft with affection. “My mother taught me. It means my dear.” I don’t allow myself to think of her often, but somehow, with Madi, the memory doesn’t slice a new gash over old scars.
“If you won’t call me by my name, then call me that.”
“Cara mia?” I raise an eyebrow. A private nickname. Something of her that belongs only to me. Mine and mine alone. I like that. “Okay.”
Her shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“But you have to do something for me.” She looks up at me with those tear-stained eyes once more, and my heart stutters. They’re even greener now, like the grassy field behind the church in summer. “No more running. You’re mine, cara mia. You’ll always be mine. Put away those wishes of returning to the life you had before. It’s gone. You have a new one. Accept it, and this”—I brush her cheek lightly—“won’t happen again.”
“You want me to trust you?” When I nod, she traps a strangled noise in her throat and swallows it down. “That’s not possible. You’re keeping me here against my will. I’m not your friend, Luca! I’m your prisoner!”
My hand drifts from her face to her hair, the long blonde locks that first caught my eye now tangled and wild. “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”
She doesn’t understand the words, but she will.
Her eyes, heavy with truth, close again as she slowly sinks to the floor. “What’s going to happen to me?”
I wish I could answer that. I wish I could explain the way of the Divine Disciples, but I can’t. I don’t want to think about it. Now that the purity test is complete, they won’t touch her again.
Not until her eighteenth birthday.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Nothing at all, cara mia.”
CHAPTER NINE
Madigan
There’s a ghost staring back at me above the bathroom sink.
She looks a bit like me, and her cheekbones still curve like crescent moons—like a boy once told her they did. After that, the similarities end. I don’t recognize her sunken green eyes or the dark circles that look like dirt tracks on the road to Crazy Town. Her clothes are crumpled, her expression desperate. Whoever she is, she’s coming apart at the seams.
For the last two days, I’ve been working my ass off refuting the kind of evidence that would have condemned the pope. Luca’s fingerprints were all over the crime scenes. His car was seen by multiple cameras. The list of witnesses is endless.
As for Cain, his relationship with his father has been ripped apart like an old toy, and the stuffing spilling out is wicked and soiled. The DA has most of it—the abuse, the connections to the Divine Disciples of God, but no clear relationship with Luca yet.
Cain has yet to take the stand, but knowing the extreme fragility of his client, that’s exactly what Trent Anderson is going to make him do when the case swings around to the defense.
I’m not going down without a fight. I’ve reacted, I’ve cross-examined every minute until the sweat on Judge Harris’s brow was pure frustration. I’ve shouted, “Objection, Your Honor,” so many times, my voice is now strained and husky.
But it’s all been in vain.
Luca’s losing.
I’m losing.
Splashing water on my face, I grab a paper towel and dab my cheeks dry. These days, I’m existing on valium and wild hope, and I’m running low on both.
The door opens, and a tall woman dressed in a light gray pantsuit steps inside the courthouse restroom. I track her reflection into the third cubicle, while another woman finishes with the hand dryer and leaves. As soon as she’s gone, the tall woman emerges again with no tell-tale toilet flush following her out.
Is she a reporter? I recognize her face from the public gallery.
She comes to join me by the sink, leaning over to use the soap dispenser. As she does, she flashes me a glimpse of the police badge tucked into her waistband.
My heart lurches.
Why?
Her movements are slow, but for some reason, they’re causing me more damn anxiety than I care to admit.
She catches my eye in the mirror and forces a brief smile. I freeze, as if she just pulled her standard-issue pistol on me. I know that smile, the same way I know Moseley’s tears. It’s a weak disguise for an unpleasant truth that she’s figuring out how to share with me. It’s the same one I gave my parents when I told them I never wanted to see them again. When I knew I was too damaged for their brand of suburbia anymore.
“Can I help you, officer?” My voice is strained and unnatural.
“It’s detective. Detective Hunter. Are you Vincent’s lawyer?”
Like you don’t already know.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She digests this with a nod. “He’s a real piece of work, right? I guess he missed the whole heart thing when God was dishing out organs.”
Wrong. Luca has a heart. It’s as big and as broken as mine.
“I’m sorry, I can’t discuss this case or my client with—”
She cuts me off with a heavy sigh and neatens her already super-neat ponytail. “I’m not looking for a lead on the defense, Miss Bailey.” I watch her drop her arms and suck her stomach in enough times to convince me it’s a nerves thing. “I’m also not in the habit of getting involved in cases that aren’t my own, but that DA asshole is refusing to take this evidence seriously.”
“What evidence?” I say, my interest piqued.
She flicks her eyes back to me in the mirror. “Cain Moseley wasn’t the only line of inquiry my department was pursuing. He was one of a handful of suspects, and he was pretty low down on that list. I wasn’t on the case myself, but you need to take my word on this.”
Holy shit. “Are you telling me the lead detectives lied on the stand?”
“Not so much lied as asked to help bury the truth,” she says carefully. “Those files you requested from my department last month? The DA made sure they shuffled all the good stuff to the bottom of the pack. They know you’re working alone, Miss Bailey. They also know that there isn’t a hope in hell of Mr. Anderson doing due diligence on the same files.” The frown deepens. “That lazy son of a bitch should have been disbarred years ago. In fact, with the exception of yourself, your whole team is a joke.”
There’s nothing funny about them, detective. As testified by the agony I’m still feeling between my legs.