I bought a new house in a different state and didn’t tell any of them where it was. The Castellano trial proceeded without Angela’s location being compromised.
Fourteen members of the organization were convicted.
Angela and her children got their new identities and their fresh start. And me? I sit here now, three years later, in my actual home—the one my family doesn’t know about, will never know about.
I’ve been promoted.
I’m still protecting people. Still traveling for work.
My grandmother calls sometimes. She’s the only one I still talk to.
She tells me my mother cries a lot, that Rachel is working at a retail store and living in a small apartment, that my father’s health has declined from the stress.
She asks if I’ll ever forgive them. I don’t know. Maybe someday.
But every time I think about possibly reconciling, I remember Angela Moretti’s face.
I remember her eight-year-old daughter crying. I remember her six-year-old son asking if the bad men were coming to hurt them.
And I remember that my parents sold the roof over those children’s heads for a wedding that never happened. Some things you don’t forgive.
Some things you just walk away from.
Last week, my mother tried to call. I didn’t answer. She left a voicemail:
“Sarah, it’s been three years.
Your sister is getting married again—to a different man, someone nice.
She’d like you to come to the wedding. It’s small, nothing fancy.
We miss you. Please call back.”
I deleted it without responding.
I bought myself a new car instead.
A nice one. With my own money. In my own name.
And you know what?
I sleep just fine. THE END
