Page 23 of Punishing Penelope

“Mayra. Why are you calling a crime reporter?”

“I wish to report a crime.”

“That’s what the cops are for.”

“I did, Ma’am. They say it isn’t a crime.”

As I write, my pulse ticks up a notch.

“Go on. I’m listening.”

“My daughter… was involved in a thing.”

Her voice is unsteady as if she has to force out the words. I keep quiet and wait. Sometimes, these things take time. No matter how much work I have piled up, this is what I live for. You never know where and when you’ll find the next big scoop.

“She and a couple of friends were… well, they did some pot, got a little stupid, and it got out of hand. They were just trying to reach the apples. They say she jumped the fence, and he shot her. She would never do that. Her friends say it didn’t happen that way.”

I jolt. I haven’t seen any reports about this.

“When was this, Mayra?”

“A month ago.”

“How is your daughter?”

“She was shot, Ma’am. She had to have her colon removed. She wears a bag.”

I hear her swallow, swallow again, then she can’t quell a sob. It’s painful and raw, hitting me right in the feels across the phone connection.

“How old is your daughter?”

“Fourteen… she’s only fourteen.” Mayra sobs again.

Savannah. Almost. She had just turned fifteen by a hair’s breadth. The pain, when it comes, is almost as bad as it was in the beginning, even though most days, it’s shoved back into the deeper recesses of my mind. Life has to go on.

I’m not going to ask why she did pot at that age. I don’t blame victims. Besides, I hardly have the moral high ground myself.

“Did they tell you why the investigation was closed?”

“He had the right to defend his property, but she never went over that fence, Ma’am. She didn’t. Her friends swear it, but they’re just kids, and his words weigh heavier.”

“Who is this person?”

I fight the flashbacks that hammer mercilessly on my poor mind—Savannah in a pool of blood, our broken family, missing her with every breath I take. It’s the same case all over again. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.

“They protect their own, don’t they?” She sounds as bitter as she has every right to be.

“Who is he?”

“A retired lawyer.”

“Mayra. I would very much like to meet up and talk. I can come to your home if that’s all right? What’s the name of your daughter?”

“Giordanna.”

“Is Giordanna home or in the hospital?”

“She’s home. I can’t afford the bills.”