Forgive Me(89)

“Bleak in what way?”

“When you enter the program, you have to cut off all contact with your parents, your aunts, uncles, cousins, your friends, forever.” Bryce paused, letting the implications set in. “Everything you know about your old life is gone and gone for good in an instant. Going back to your old life can get you killed. Usually our close monitoring of the witness ends around three months after he goes in. Then the witness is pretty much on his own.”

“It sounds like a miserable life,” Angie said.

“Let’s just say it’s not easy getting witnesses to sign up. They have to give up an awful lot.”

“Yeah, like everything.” Angie took another bite of pie, needing to taste something sweet. “So the Conti family, what happened to them?”

“That’s the thing and the reason I wanted to see you in person,” Bryce said. “According to my contact, there is no record of who the Contis became.”

Angie set her fork down and her face scrunched up to show her confusion. Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing. “What does that mean?”

“It means Antonio Conti testified against Giordano and his people and was taken into witness protection. But whoever he became—well, he and his family—they don’t exist in our system. My contact couldn’t explain it.”

“I don’t follow.”

Bryce gave a solemn shake of his head. “Angie, it’s the craziest thing and I’m not surprised you’re confused. I’m confused, too. Best I can explain, it’s as if the entire Conti family simply disappeared, like they vanished from the face of the earth.”

Angie was reeling. “What date?”

“Date?”

“When the paperwork was filed for the Contis to get into the program. When was it finalized, do you know?”

Bryce took out his phone. “I took some screen shots of the application. Let me see what’s on there.” He spent a minute or so going through his various pictures. “Here it is.” His eyes were hard to read.

Then he took the picture of Isabella Conti that Angie had set on the table and turned it around so that the code on the back and the words May God Forgive Me faced her.

“Well?” The suspense was eating her alive.

Bryce said, “According these records the Conti family entered witness protection on March fourth, nineteen eighty-eight.”





CHAPTER 47




Sophia drove me to the Baltimore Central Booking and Intake Center. Horrible building. It looked like a castle from somebody’s nightmare. I couldn’t imagine being in there for an hour, let alone years. The beige cement walls were smooth except for the barbed wire running underneath the windows. We went on Sunday because that was when they had visiting hours. I think Casper and Buggy were being held there as well. I don’t know for sure. I didn’t go to see them, only Ricardo. But the best laid plans, right? I was ready to face him. Ready to ask the question I went there to ask. I got myself looking pulled together. I went double denim with stonewashed skinnies and a bright blue denim top, tight T-shirt underneath. I looked cute, but not too cute. I wanted to look good not because I wanted Ricardo to miss me. I wanted to be something he saw every time he dreamt of freedom.





Anyway . . . what happened? That’s the big question. I’ll tell you what. NOTHING. That’s what happened. All the build up, all my nervousness, my constant anxiety, it was ALL for nothing. SCREW YOU BCB! Hear me? SCREW YOU! When we got to the jail, they wouldn’t let me in to see Ricardo because I wasn’t immediate family. I guess the rule is written on the website or something. The woman behind the plexi didn’t give a crap what I was to Ricardo. She didn’t care what Ricardo did to me, how I suffered because of him. All she cared about was that I wasn’t 18. 18 and over I could have seen him, but under? No can do. And I didn’t have a fake ID. Not 18, not immediate family, not going to happen. That’s what the Plexi Lady said. I told the lady that in life experience Ricardo made me a heck of a lot older than my sixteen years. She said everyone who comes here has got it hard and rules are rules.





I was thinking about getting a fake ID. But I didn’t know how and Sophia couldn’t help me there. Well, she could help, but in other ways. She brought some vodka from home and that calmed me down after the BCB debacle. We were sitting on the hood of Sophia’s car taking sips of Gatorade that wasn’t just Gatorade and talking about what to do next. This was a mission now. I was going to get some kind of result. I had a purpose, finally, and that’s what I needed most—a purpose. We talked it over and Sophia came up with the idea, so I’m not taking the credit. I might not be able to get in to see Ricardo, but Tasha can.





Dear Diary . . . ha-ha! Dear Diary. Isn’t that what your supposed to write in these things? Deeeeaaar Diary. Hi there. I’m so screwed up. LOL! Actually it’s not a joke. I’m really messed in the head. I want to cover all the mirrors in my house because I get sick just looking at my reflection. Honestly, I think of ending it some days, slipping away into a place where I don’t have to be myself anymore. How would I do it? I’m back to thinking about that again. Lots of options, but I’m not going to do any bridge jumping (sorry Madison). I think I’ll go with pills. Pills work for me. But I don’t have any, so today I tried cutting myself. Just a test, just to see how it felt, and you know something, strangely enough it kinda worked. Obviously I didn’t kill myself, but the pain was sooooo super intense it took the focus off, well, my pain. When I cut, I didn’t feel anxious anymore. I felt alive, I guess. I felt like me again. For the first time in a long time the pain wasn’t something I was creating in my head. It was a living, pulsating thing right there on my arm. It had a shape and texture. The blood followed the path of my knife and it felt so good to finally be in control of something. I got to determine how much pain I felt, how much I bled. Nobody else but me. Guess I’m a cutter. Looks like I’ll be wearing a lot of long sleeve shirts from now on.