Page 26 of Punishing Penelope
“She’s weak,” Mayra says, gesturing at the wheelchair.
Looking at the son, the father must be tall, and the boy has his genes. Mother and Giordanna look alike, but nothing like their son slash brother.
In my mind, I already create the words, tie the sentences into paragraphs, paint the picture to the reader.
“Don is at work. The other children are in school. I had to quit my job to take care of her.”
“Is Giordanna not in school?” I’ll talk to Mayra for now, but I’ll try to get some words out of the girl later on.
Mayra shakes her head and invites us to sit on a couch covered in protective plastic. The brother moves a chair and rolls the wheelchair to the table.
“I haven’t solved that yet. She had surgery to remove the bullet, but we had to take her home. I’m trying to help, but…” She throws out her hands in a gesture of hopelessness.
“Why don’t you tell me about what happened that day.”
After, I felt ill. I held myself together for as long as I needed, staying professional throughout the hours at the Miller household, asking questions, listening, letting them tell their story at their own pace, and taking notes. I kept up the façade until Mike and I split up at the office. Then I lost it.
Hidden away in a restroom, I bawl my eyes out.
Giordanna.
Savannah.
I wonder who’s better off. What if Savannah had lived like little Gio, weak and dependant, robbed of everything a girl should do? Is it better she never had to go through that? Is death the better option?
Yesterday, my answer would have been a resounding no. Today, I’m not so sure. Tomorrow, with my emotions less raw, I’ll probably realize the question is more complex than yes or no, black or white. Life is always life, and a handicap isn’t the actual end of the world. It’s just the difference between before and after—the pointless after—is so huge and hurtful.
Cold water splashed in my face, I get back to work. It happened. Life is cruel. I can’t change the past, but I can help tweak the future. I’ll focus my energy on a fundraiser for the girl, along with a feature that will make some noise.
A few hours of digging later, my heavy heart has given way to rage. The address belongs to a retired lawyer, and the guy has friends in high places. The investigation is so filled with holes, it’d have sunk the Titanic. This case just made it to the top of my pile. I jot down the name of the detective responsible for the clusterfuck that is the investigation. It’s getting late, but first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll make an appointment with the dick. He’s been on my radar before, but we’ve never talked.
That’s about to change. I’ll unleash the full fucking force of exactly how much of a pain in the ass this journalist can be.
Peter
Adrenaline is shooting out my ears. We’re in complete radio silence, and all my senses are on high alert. There are six of us sneaking up the stairs, guns ready, dressed top to toe in protective gear. I had to drop everything to help with the arrest of a convicted murderer on the run. He broke out of a prison transport, killing the guards, one with his bare hands, the other with the gun of the first victim.
His girlfriend ratted him out.
Never trust a woman, amirite?
She’s in the apartment, so we have to use the element of surprise to avoid a hostage situation at all costs.
Noises from behind the doors we pass—TV shows, children crying, arguments—help mask the sound of our boots. A woman and a child come around the far corner of the corridor, then disappear as quickly as they appeared when we gesture at them to back up.
Our team leader stops and points at a door. We take position and listen. There are loud voices from inside, one female and one male. We’re not knocking. We won’t announce our presence.
One guy readies the battering ram, aims, and slams the door open halfway in one hit. I kick it fully open and run toward the yelling.
“It wasn’t me, baby! It wasn’t me,” the female shrieks, a too-skinny woman in her thirties, her sunken, tired face displaying all the signs of meth abuse.
Rory Jenkings freezes. Turning on the spot, he runs and jumps out a window. As if we’re in a fucking movie, he catapults through the closed window, shattering the glass. We’re two stories up.
I dash to the window, look down, and see him hit the ground running.
“Fuck!” I hesitate a moment, then jump.
The impact reverberates through my body. Our equipment is heavy, and instant pain shoots through my feet and knees. This guy’s gotta be high as a kite because it must’ve hurt him, too, but he doesn’t seem to feel it the way he darts through the alley.