Chapter Twenty-Two

Campbell

I DON’T GO back to court the next day or the day after that.

An explanation isn’t forthcoming, but my privileges inside have been completely suspended. No rec time, no phone calls. The daily wellness checks required for protective custody have been supplanted by Mills or the new night guy peering through the slot when they deliver my food, a split-second glimpse to make sure I’m alive. My questions are stonewalled with silence; I’m not even given the respect of an “I don’t know.” By the seventy-two-hour mark, I’m measuring how much of a commotion I can make before someone comes in to beat me unconscious via nightstick. Unfortunately, prior good behavior comes back to bite me here—I never smuggled anything inside to trade, and I’m presently cut off from the broader loop of the prison economy. Seven was already told off once for trying to talk to me, which is an interesting development since not a single guard seemed to care up until now.

Two sets of footsteps come down the hall, prompting me to sit up. The urge to twist my pillowcase into a garrote when the noise pauses in front of my door is almost too strong to resist. A lifetime of practice has made me a patient person, but the capacity has withered in here, frayed away hour by hour.

The locks pop with a reluctant grind of metal. When the door swings open, Mills is standing there with Sofia.

I get to my feet, heedless of the risk. “What the hell is going on?”

“Later,” Sofia answers, far too casual for my tastes. “Can you cuff them so we can go, please? The hearing is in an hour.”

What hearing?

If not for the imminent threat to my freedom, I’d have slipped out of the handcuffs the second Mills lost her sightline on me. I’m tired of the constant pressure around my wrists, range of motion arrested, steel biting into the radial pulse. The compulsion to give every guard here a taste of the violence they wield without remorse simmers under my skin; I wonder how long they would have to be afraid for “nonlethal” to stop being a point of comfort.

“You’re giving murder eyes to everyone we walk past,” Sofia mutters under her breath.

It’s very hard not to roll the eyes in question. “And you’re not giving me an explanation as to why I shouldn’t.”

“Just hang on,” she insists. “I’ve had about three hours of sleep in the same number of days, and I have to look like a human being in front of Keita.”

Another glimpse Sofia’s way confirms the truth. She’s gone heavy on the makeup around her eyes and chosen a shade of lipstick to play off exhaustion’s pale aura. Her usual fashion tends to incorporate deep blues and greens, but today, she’s sheathed in herringbone and slate, close to mourning colors. The fit looks good on her, yet only enhances how much I loathe being confined to shapeless beige.

Sofia’s silence holds through a long drive until we’re back in the courtroom, past the gauntlet of metal detectors and various forms of law enforcement passing custody of me around like a wayward Christmas package. Judge Keita sits high on the bench, mouth set and eyes grim, but Hart doesn’t look happy either. He only has one assistant with him today, and the amount of paperwork stacked in her lap looks heavy enough to kill someone if you dropped it out a window.

“Sit down.” Keita directs Sofia and me with a hand. “We have a lot to cover today.”

I take my seat, floundering in ignorance. How am I supposed to defend myself when my own lawyer hasn’t told me what’s going on?

The judge continues: “Three days ago, special supervisory agent Francisco Amato was found dead in Catskill State Park. He was shot twice.”

Huh.

Her attention flickers to me—as does everyone else’s. But I don’t need to feign the depth of my surprise; I didn’t touch him. Sofia and I never even discussed the idea. It would have been far too risky to rely on a third party.

“Preliminary evidence recovered from the murder weapon revealed the gun had fingerprints on it from suspected mobster Cesare Galici.” Keita’s gaze diverts to Hart. “That’s correct, isn’t it, prosecutor?”

Wait. I had that gun in storage. Did Sofia—

“Yes, Your Honor.” His voice is hollowed out, like someone opened up Hart’s throat and forced the volume down. “The federal report attests to that.”

“For the last seventy-two hours, I have been in chambers with both parties as disturbing new evidence has come to light. Ms. Cattaneo provided the defendant’s prison visitation and phone records and confirmed there was no outside contact from any member or associate of the Galici family during their stay. It did, however, prove that Agent Amato visited the defendant three times ex parte, two of which occurred without mandated video surveillance.”

She opens the folder on her desk, then adjusts her glasses before reading. “This is a signed affidavit from Agent Ryan of the Bureau, who was responsible for searching Agent Amato’s apartment. Ryan discovered written records detailing Agent Amato’s past connections to a deceased member of the Galici family, which were not part of any official federal informant file. She also found a burner phone with multiple messages to and from members of the crime syndicate, including a promise from Agent Amato to pay Fantino Greco twenty thousand dollars in return for his testimony.”

Keita’s eyes harden as she levels Hart with another look. “I believe that was the third witness you had on your list, prosecutor.”

I respect him slightly more for not flinching. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Ms. Cattaneo also provided time-stamped video evidence of the defendant in their car during the supposed ignition time of the fire.”

Oh, that has to be Enrico. Who else could go back through six months of traffic cameras and find me on the right street at the exact right moment?

“I have to state my objection again, Judge,” Hart says. “That footage was significantly damaged. It has gaps both before and after the timeline of the crime.”

That was absolutely Enrico. A complete tape would show me tracking La Rosa’s car until he turned off toward his house, and that would only bolster the prosecution’s case. I owe him a favor, big-time.

Keita frowns. “Yes, Mr. Hart, but I don’t believe anyone in this room, including the defendant, is capable of spontaneous teleportation. Unless you have evidence otherwise.”

The man looks like he just swallowed a ball of nails. “No, Your Honor.”

“In fact, you told me that the arson evidence for this case was incorrectly disposed of, correct?”

Keeping my face empty of everything but distant surprise is a test. The shock I felt when Stefano called me and raged about the fire is reborn anew at having the blame suddenly snuffed out. But I’m left with the same damn question.

How?

“Yes, Your Honor,” Hart admits. “The archivist on site said it appeared to be due to a label mismatch in the evidentiary file.”

“Convenient, truly.” Disapproval settles over Keita’s posture like a cloak before she lets out a deep, measured breath. “I have no choice but to see this case as tantamount to a conspiracy on the part of a federal agent against a citizen with no history of criminal violence. The original extradition order was granted under false pretenses, as are the felony charges that were brought before this court.”

Hart’s shoulders stiffen. “Judge, I can move to vacate the charges—”

“I’m not finished,” she says sharply. His mouth shuts hard enough for me to hear Hart’s teeth click. “Vacating the charges does not establish guilt or innocence on the part of the accused. At this juncture, I can’t trust the Bureau won’t wield this case as a cudgel to save their reputation in the wake of a dead agent. I’m granting Ms. Cattaneo’s motion to dismiss on all charges, based on insufficient evidence.”

Keita slams her gavel. Sofia’s eyes light up like a serpent’s under the sun.

“You’re free to go, Campbell,” the judge adds.

When I stand, Hart quickly chimes in: “Your Honor, I just want to say for the record that the prosecution had no idea Agent Amato was abusing his position or manufacturing the evidence for this case.”

She raises a brow. “I know, Mr. Hart. If I believed otherwise, I would have hit you with a six figure fine in contempt and asked the bar to look into your license. This loss falls on the Bureau, not your career.”

Looks like I’m not the only one making a clean escape today.

Yet the truth of it doesn’t sink in until the cuffs come off, and Sofia leads me out to her car, where a bag of clothes is waiting on the passenger seat. From the quality and style, I expect she picked them up from the outlet mall three blocks over, but even the most basic dress shirt and trousers is better than what I’m wearing.

“Didn’t want you walking around looking like a felon,” she notes once I finish changing in the back. “I’ll tell the prison to send your effects home.”

Even if they don’t, losing a swimsuit and sandals isn’t a priority. “Care to tell me what just happened?”

Sofia huffs. “Get your seatbelt on and shut up for at least a mile.”

She’s never been inclined to order me around, so I take the command seriously. As we drive away from the courthouse, her body relaxes by degrees, starting at the line of her jaw and working down to each finger wrapped around the steering wheel.

“Enrico had the arson evidence torched,” she begins. “He went in and swapped the labels. Feds still work on paper for a lot of important files.”

I blink. “Enrico left his apartment?”

“It had to be him. The Bureau already know what Justine and I look like, and getting caught on those cameras would have screwed us exponentially.” That doesn’t make it any less impressive; calling Enrico’s agoraphobia “severe” is an understatement. “I broke into Amato’s apartment, took his notes on you and Justine, and unlocked the drawers where he stored everything on the Galici family. Had to make sure Ryan and company didn’t need a warrant to put the truth together as fast as possible.”

“You did?” I frown. “What happened to not committing crimes for clients? Plausible deniability?”

Sofia shakes her head. “You’re more than a client, Campbell. You’re a friend, and you saved my life. Twice. Enrico would be alone without me, and he’s the only man in my family who doesn’t deserve being pushed out a thirty-story window.”

I do the math, two, three times, trying to refuse the answer. But with this kind of timeline, only one person would have been able to kill Amato with Cesare’s gun and get away with it.

“Justine murdered Amato?” A wave of shock crashes against the roiling anger in my chest. “Why did you let—”

“Whoa, hey!” Sofia puts one hand up from the wheel to fend me off. “I didn’t let Justine do anything. This entire plan was her idea, start to finish. I just made sure she wouldn’t get caught.”

What?

That can’t be true.

“Why?” I demand.

She relaxes, looking at me like I’ve just asked why the sky is blue. “Because Justine loves you more than life itself. Considering she proposed to you, I thought that part would have been obvious.”

“But—” This will follow her forever. “I’m the one who…”

Half of everything, Justine said.

She meant it. She really meant it.

“You killed for her, Campbell,” Sofia says, voice so soft I can barely stand the gentleness. “Did you really think you weren’t worth that sacrifice in return?”

Yes.

My face is hot. The world blurs, and Sofia tenses up again before pulling over to the side of the road.

“Are you crying?” she asks, mystified.

“Maybe.” I wipe my eyes; they come back wet. “Can’t remember the last time that happened.”

“Me either. Weirded out on a foundational level, for the record.” Sofia reaches into the abyss of her purse, pulls out a tissue, and offers it to me. “But if you need more good news, I didn’t forget about your birthday either.”

She tosses a rubber-band bound package onto my lap. Once my face is cleaned up, I strip away the wrapping and find three pieces of paper: one with a name and address printed on it, a hastily scanned photo, and a single dollar bill.

Neil Cunningham. Fitcher Hotel, Hammonton, New Jersey.

The picture is of Neil himself getting out of a cheap, used sedan with a baseball cap pulled down low on his head. He’s holding a newspaper, and the date on the photo is surrounded in highlighter—this was taken yesterday.

“I figured out why you were hunting him inside,” Sofia says. “His wife contacted a social worker before even reporting him missing.”

Better late than never. “I told him to keep running. One state isn’t far.”

“I know you quit,” she continues, “or were trying to. So you can take or leave my little contract. But I couldn’t think of anything else to get you.”

Not the first time I’ve been told I’m difficult to shop for. “You know, I really thought this was going to be a number for a therapist.”

“Oh, please. We both know what those privileges do and don’t cover.” Sofia smiles. “Besides, if I’ve never said it, I like you just the way you are, Campbell. And so does your wife.”

My wife.

Justine committed murder for me. She risked her freedom for the rest of her life to make sure that I would have mine.

“It can be more than a compulsion,” Sofia continues. “It can be a choice, because, well—”

“Some people need killing,” I finish.

Her smile sharpens to a grin. “Some people need killing.”

And I’m good at it. Good in a way that no other skill can compare to. Every proficiency I have brushes against violence in one way or another, and I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life pretending that isn’t true.

Thirty years old is so early to retire.

“If I take new contracts, I want them to be like this,” I gesture with the photo. “Not about money. Protecting people. Always a purpose.”

Sofia starts up the car again, drifting back onto the highway and toward the city. “I can do that. Might not be as consistent though.”

“Fine by me.” Unpleasant as it’s been, I know I can stall out for months now, if need be. “But I need due diligence. I have to be sure.”

“You got it,” Sofia says. “Now let me take you home.”

She leans on the gas until we’re cruising at highway speeds. I roll down the window and let cold, fresh air cut into me. The numbness is refreshing after weeks of stale confinement, every color vivid in contrast to an incessant rotation of the same concrete-laden walls. The light is brighter, the shadows deep enough to hide in.

It’s a little easier to smile than it was yesterday.