"Well, I'll be damned," I surprisingly told myself while being assisted through the overcrowded security barracks between the local paparazzi and blue-collared patrol units. I didn't want to admit it, nor bring his name up now, but Chris was right.

"This way ma'am," the husky-built man directed.

Security, although pleantysome, was lacking the proper knowledge and know-how for protection. This man never dared to ask for my badge nor identification number. If something as simple as a random ex-convict wearing a CPD-issued windbreaker and sunglasses can fool the police themselves, then, well, God help us all.

The security escort soon stopped short behind me. "You should be clear," he noted as we crossed over the police barracks.

I gave him a quick 'thank you' as I continued my own.

The sun continued to beam down hard, as the afternoon humidity increased, enhancing the feeling of my body decomposing with every minuscule step. My ass was a killer, my back scathed, ankles rolled, and I can feel swollen rashes forming from my already Indian-burned thighs. It's true, the pain doesn't compare to getting shot three times near the chest—but I was still uncomfortable.

Keeping my composure was only becoming harder, more tiresome. The day had only just begun; there was no time for rest. I sucked up my discontent and quickly glanced upward, seeing men and women of all sorts continuously walking in and out of the main entry door from my former home—police, government, fire department, and the occasional FBI; all presumably coming and leaving from paying their respects to Rafael. I did not expect this many people...

I purposely gave a slight nod whenever I came across a fellow officer who walked out, almost like a gesture of respect; a 'thank you for supporting your fellow brother in blue' sort of thing.

So far no one's recognized me, which is a plus, or the pure magic power of Ray Ban sunglasses, I couldn't tell. Perks of being within the largest municipalities of the nation—you can't possibly know everyone who works for the CPD.

I walked up the three, white-painted, wooden porch steps, and stood beside the doorway. I could perceive the abundant sounds of atypical chatter, silverware, and the occasional sniffle or weep of despair through the unlocked screen door.

This was it. The belly of the beast.

I inhaled deeply before pulling the thick, glass-made, screen door open and taking two steps in. For a brief millisecond, I was witnessing a standard, supportive, grieving ceremony. My stepmother sat on the large living room sofa, crying into her white handkerchief as the other women and police wives coddled over her for emotional support.

Although she wasn't our biological mother, Rafael and I respected Irene's love and nurturing nature. She had a lot of pieces to pick up, losing a parent or a partner to random gun-violence is torturing news for anyone to endure—let alone two toddlers. We never referred to her as 'mom' or 'mother,' and she surely understood the reasoning—however, neither Rafael and I never quite comprehended her attraction toward Robert.

Our father stood with his fellow men on the other end of the open-concept living room. Wearing the same 'official' ensemble from the live press conference, they all stood near the makeshift table drinking from nearly empty bottles of Corona and discussing what could only be a ploy of some sort. "Fuck them, bastards," were the words I saw him mouth before they all made a quick cheer with their clinking bottles. "We'll fuck them all."

I casually made my way around the overly crowded living room and stood between the two areas, near the opposite end of one of the buffet tables, hoping not to get too close to any crowd folk.

The egg-shell white living room walls were engulfed with baseball memorabilia and several iconic family portraits strictly containing Rafael—his graduation, their fishing trips, even a few awkward kindergarten and baby photos—none of which dared showed me. Another missing item from the ensemble appeared to be a shrine or an urn of sorts to give condolences to. Not that I crash awakes often, but the few I've visited normally had one or the other around.

"You look like a fish 'otta water, ya know that?" A raspy, but familiar, voice started my concentration.

I slowly pivoted to find retired Police Sergeant, Dan MacArthur smiling at me. Uncle Dan-Dan, as we used to call him, was a welcomed secondary father figure within our household, the good-cop, to Robert's bad-cop regime. Just as it was growing up, Dan purposely denounced his Chief Superintendent role to my father in the early 2000s due to age—since then Mr. Bad-Cop ruled with a stern fist and fear to match. As kids, Rafael and I constantly joked around, referring Dan-Dan as Robert's conscious. We were right.

"Am I that obvious?" I jokingly smirked while giving him the tightest hug possible.

"The glasses gave you away, kid. You're the only one wearing them indoors" he said pulling me in further aside into a corner, away from the crowded buffet table. He stood in front, obscuring anyone's view of my face. "Go ahead, you're good now."

I pulled off the Ray-Bans and hung them on the neckline of my maxi dress, "Thanks."

"Now tell me," he lowered his voice while creeping closer, "What form of stupidity brought you here? This is not a safe place, Rebecca."

"I needed to know what happened to Rafie and I sorta figured Robert needed outside help with the case."

"Shit kid," he clicked his tongue with despair. "No one told you about your brother, huh?"

I shook my head and lightly shrugged my shoulders at the same time, "Do you know what happened? All I got was the press-filter."

I could tell by his shuffling-stance that he didn't want to be the one to tell me the gruesome details, but quickly straightened up and did so anyway.

"There was a 904 call to the Golden Nugget, a dumpster fire." He started, "I think it was some time past midnight—around twelve fifty-five, maybe one in the morning. As usual, CFD came in to extinguish the flames, within doing so, they end up seeing a body charred within the bin."

I slowly bend my knees downward, creeping my body closer to the floor, attempting to hide from the few passing folks.

"So anyways, they call us," Dan noted while shaking his head at my over-dramatized paranoia. "Your father and the crew show up, finding out this guy has three, very consistent, bullet wounds on his chest—on top of the severely charred skin. So, no one knew who this body belonged to, nor how it got there." Dan let out a lengthy dry cough, before continuing. "Sorry," he said, "These people keep the air too damn low in here."

"It's alright." I gave a slight smirk, knowing that the cough was a slight side effect from his long-term leukemia treatment. Three years of being cancer-free, but dry eyes and a slight cough were the only lingering reminders.

"Anyway, after some searching and conversing with witnesses, they find out that it's not only your brother's body—but his car was there too. The damn driver's side drenched in blood. It didn't take long after that for forensics to confirm the two, but yeah...that's what happened. Or at least what I know."

"How about this person-of-interest?" With the Montanari's businesses being ransacked, I'm sure there's some sort of explanation there. "You know who they're talking about?"

"I dunno much of the exact details afterward," he coughed once again, this time catching the attention of a few nearby people. "But whoever done it was met with your brother in the diner just before the murder."

The scene, once audible, became instantaneously dead the minute someone grasped my name. "Rebecca Caruso?! I thought that was you."

"Fuck Me." The room shifted uncomfortably as all eyes drew murderous notions toward my direction. Dan shifted outward as I slowly shuffled my way toward the door—not knowing what to truly say or do in situations like this...

"Yes, I shot two cops—two fathers—two sons, but was I wrong for defending myself? Was I wrong for deciding based on clear, cut, visual evidence? You all do it every damn day," I provoked thought lingered as I looked across the room. "Every time you put on that uniform, that holster, that badge—you all make split-second decisions that judges, and lawyers take years to master. Why was my case any different? Why am I the criminal?" Everyone continued staring, expecting me to make a confession or an apology of some sort. "Shall I apologize for being an honest sinner rather than a dishonest hypocrite?"

"You," Robert promptly stabbed the ice, "murders ain't welcomed here."

For once in my life, I will admit, I was completely wrong. Too naive thinking Robert would want me back—to help him solve Raffi's murder—thinking everything would go back to the way it was before.

"Bobby!" My stepmother yelled as she stood up.

"No!" He walked up closer to her, pointing menacingly at me as he spoke. "She ain't no daughter of mine, Irene." There was no hidden message. No secret addenda. Just a mad man who truly hated his daughter enough to publicize it on national television.

I was an idiot for thinking it was something more—I shouldn't be here. Period.

"She's our remaining child." My teary-eyed stepmother cried.

"She's the reason my. Son. Is. Dead."

I began slowly turning around, grabbing the door handle to leave.

"You can't possibly thi—"

"Will the two of you just stop," yelled Dan. "Let the girl speak?"

I stopped in my tracks as the room became silent once more. My father huffed at the remark but knew his argument wouldn't suffice against a well-respected member of the police community. I turned around and gave Dan a quick smile and nod before I spoke. He was a good man, almost a grandfather figure to me—an idol. The man with the most common sense in the room.

"I-I just," this was a lot harder than originally imagined; being in the spotlight, forced to say something to a room of people who despise you.

"I just came here to..." The snares coming from their faces as I looked around just confirmed my suspicion. "To pay my respects and go."

"Go back to prison you skank," someone yelled from afar. The eyes around me blinked and turned, facing alternate directions as whispers and rumors began to flood the floor.

My father flocked back into the crowd of men as my stepmother walked up closer to me. She wrapped her arms around me, giving the biggest and tightest hug of my lifetime.

It took a moment before I whispered, "I'm sorry.... for Rafie. I'm sorry for—" Nearly crying into her arms.

"It's okay Rebecca," she said as I laid my face on her shoulder. "It's all okay, I know he meant a lot to you, honey."

"I'm sorry Irene," I fully confessed within her shoulder without hesitation.

"Shhhh," she sounded while placing her left hand over my head, drawing me in closer. " I need you to be strong in front of them," she whispered into my ear.

"Bobby has the entire force rattled—they're gonna go after Marco."

I sniffled, "But he didn—"

"You need to go. Go now." She brought my head up and wiped my trickling tears with her thumb. "Stay strong," she smiled, warming my stung heart.

I took a step back, getting one final look at the crowd behind me, continuous stairs of uncertainty, unwelcomeness, and mischief. Rumors of my betrayal, my allegiance, and my previous conviction floated like comic book speech bubbles in the air. My father stood out from everyone with his gruesome snare. Irene was right, something big and messy was in plans for tonight. There was nothing I could do to stop it. I gave him a snare of my own before leaving the home for good. Like father, like daughter—I certainly won't make things easy for him either.

✶✶✶✶