Hushed Guardian: Brandon's Story

by Shandi Boyes

  The whooshing noise sounding down the line has me picturing him nodding. “Yes.”

  I almost crush the micro camera in my hand when I squeeze down on it with all my might. Instead, I growl my frustration into the street. I’m pissed—beyond fucking outraged. I trusted Grayson because I thought he was the only person being honest with Melody and me.

  I know better now.

  “I’m done. You’ll have to find Katie without my help.”

  As my hand moves to my ear, Grayson recites his last plea. “Brandon, you need to think about this. This is bigger than you realize. This is about more than Liam stumbling onto something he shouldn’t have. Cutting me off now won’t help anyone. We’re so fucking close to finding out the truth—” His words are cut off when I rip the earpiece from my ear, throw it to the ground along with the camera button, then stomp on them.

  Once I’m confident they’re destroyed beyond repair, I toss open the door of my BMW and slide into the driver’s seat. As I reverse out of the dusty lot at the speed of lightning, I demand Siri to bring up my call history. I throw my gearshift into first gear before tapping the screen on the dashboard. An operator at the Federal Bureau of Investigation answers my call two rings later.

  “Brandon James, Agent 443567. I need you to patch me through to Agent Russell.”

  “Phillipa Russell from the New York Division of Internal Affairs or her father, Phillip, Acting Director of the Bureau?” the operator queries, doubling the knot twisted in my stomach.

  15

  Melody

  “Ms. Gregg, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” introduces a pretty brunette with a kind smile and bright, glistening eyes. “My name is Phillipa Russell. I’m an agent at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today.” She gestures her hand to a seat across from her and a male agent wearing a similar suit as hers, he just has a striped tie curled around his neck. “I asked Agent Moses to sit with us during your interview since he’s familiar with ASL.”

  Phillipa’s head slants to the side when I say, “I can talk.” Her pale cheeks bloom with heat when I add, “I can also hear you.”

  “Oh… ah… okay.” She straightens her suit jacket before screwing up her face. “I must apologize. Our reports state you were born deaf.”

  “I was. I had cochlear implants done three years ago. They made me not deaf.” I almost laugh at the daftness of my reply, but the seriousness of the situation stops me from doing that. “Can you tell me what this is about? Your email was quite blasé, and when I called the number at the bottom of your message, the gentleman on the other end wasn’t overly obliging, either.”

  She smiles to settle my unease. “It’s a habit of the job. The less they know, the less—”

  “Likely they’ll find themselves in trouble.” When surprise crosses her pretty features, I mutter, “My dad use to say that all the time.”

  Her eyes twinkle even more when she smiles. “Mine still does. Along with many more annoying odes.” When she gestures for me to sit, I do. “Would you like me to excuse Agent Moses, so we can talk girl to girl?”

  I hide the gurgle of my stomach with a cough. Why would we need to talk girl to girl? Female agents usually reserve that courtesy for victims of… Oh, God, does she know my secret?

  Incapable of speaking, I shake my head, acting brainless to her reasoning behind us needing privacy.

  The tight knot twisted in my stomach loosens when Phillipa says, “Okay,” before she flips open the chunky file in front of her. It isn’t full of witness statements from the attendees of Joey’s summer party. It’s evidence from my family’s home invasion. “I know you were very young when this incident happened, but I’m hoping the steps your father took after it has kept it fresh in your mind.”

  She speaks as if she knows about the drills my father ran Brandon and me through every weekend he wasn’t deployed.

  When she requests permission to show me some photographs, I nod. “These were taken shortly after the incident. I don’t want you to look at the objects the forensic team was focused on. I want you to look deeper. Take in the background of each photo.”

  I lick my dry lips before nodding again. “These are from the basement?”

  “Yes,” she agrees, nodding. “How did you know that?”

  I point to a bike with pink tassels in the background. “My dad put the tassels on the day before the home invasion. I loved them so much, I wouldn’t let him put the bike into the back shed. After a long-winded compromise, we agreed my bike could sleep in the basement for the night.” I stop when I choke on my last three words. The memory is a happy one, but it reveals how much my father changed only a few short hours later.

  “That’s good, Melody. What about the other images? Can you spot anything familiar in them?”

  I half-heartedly shrug. “I think that was the table in the foyer. I didn’t give it much attention when I was a kid. Dad always threw his keys on it.”

  Phillipa points to a line of picture frames on the table I just referenced. “And the photos on the table? Do you recognize those?”

  As my lips curl, I smile. “Yes.” My smile greatens when I recall my dad shoving them into the drawers of the table every time my grandma came over. My mother said she was so obnoxious, she criticized any photograph that didn’t include her.

  My eyes lift from the images to Phillipa when she asks, “How old were you in those pictures?”

  My nose screws up. “Around three or four? I think.”

  “And these?” She pushes across a handful of photographs to reveal one of the stairwells in the old brownstone my parents sold to fund my father’s legal fight. They have similar pictures to the one of the entrance table, but they’re ten times the size. “I don’t know. Around the same age, I guess.”

  “Is this not you?” Phillipa asks, tapping on an image of a baby in the far corner of the picture.

  I shake my head. “No. That was a cousin of mine. I can’t recall his name…” I stop talking when shock rockets through me. When my grandma passed away years ago, I thought that was the end of my family legacy. I completely forgot about the boy in the portrait at the bottom of the stairwell. “Do you know who he is?”

  My wish to be a cooperative witness flies out the window when Phillipa’s eyes shift upward and to the right before she shakes her head. She’s lying, which doubles my hostility. “What is this about? This incident occurred over two decades ago. The people responsible for it are either abolishing their sins with God or rotting in jail.”

  Air whizzes out of Phillipa’s nose as she discloses, “All the men responsible for terrorizing you and your mother that night are all abolishing their sins with God.”

  What’s she saying? Is she underhandly telling me the third assailant is also dead?

  When I fail to read the answers to my questions on her face, I straight up ask them. “How did the final assailant die?”

  “We were hoping you’d be able to tell us that.”

  “How could I possibly know what happened to him?” I choke on my spit when she slides a familiar photograph over to my side of the desk. It was the one Brandon and Grayson showed me the day my life was upended for the third time. It’s a picture of my father with Henry Gottle, Sr. I know who Henry is better now than I did back then. My position in the DA’s office ensures I’m aware of the number one Mafia figure in the United States. “As I told one of your agents years ago, I don’t know why my father met with Henry that day.”

  “But you do acknowledge you know who Henry is?”

  I don’t fall for her I’m-your-friend tone this time around. “Of course I do. I’m an Assistant District Attorney for the State of New York. If I didn’t know who Henry was, I’d need a new profession.” After standing from my chair, I run my sweaty hands down the front of my skirt. “Is that all? I have cases to prepare for.”

  Phillipa dips her chin, silently acknowledging she understands my frustration, but she’s not willing to let
me slip away just yet. “One last thing. Can you confirm if you’ve seen this tattoo before?”

  My heart beats out a funky tune when she slides a blown-up photograph to my side of the desk. It doesn’t show the face of the person she wants me to identify, just a tattoo of a family emblem.

  “That tattoo belongs to the man prosecuted with setting my dorm on fire seven years ago. The last I heard, he was serving his twelve-year sentence at Wallen’s Ridge State Prison.”

  My brows furrow when Phillipa slips away the blown-up image to reveal the original photograph below. The tattoo doesn’t belong to the man charged with setting my dorm ablaze. It belongs to a man lying lifeless in a ditch with a single bullet wound to the forehead. He looks oddly similar to the man my mother sat across from when she testified at his trial for home invasion, deprivation of liberty, and attempted rape. The only man my father left breathing when he and two of his friends forced him to become as violent as they were being to my mother, and the date hidden in the far bottom corner of the photograph reveals he was killed the day of my parents’ accident.

  When my wide and uneasy eyes lock with Phillipa’s, she mutters, “Do you think you could spare me a few minutes now?”

  If our home invasion didn’t change my father from a loving, caring man to a maniac obsessed with protecting my mother and me, I’d dip my chin without pause for thought. But since that isn’t the case, I shake my head instead. “I’ll be in contact once I’ve spoken to my lawyer.”

  I spin on my heels and stalk to the door, halting halfway when Phillipa says, “I’m not here to prosecute you, Melody. I’m here to warn you—”

  I whip around so quick, my hair slaps my face. “Warn me about what? That the man who terrorized my mother for over an hour might come back from the grave and haunt me? That that…” I jerk my chin to the photograph of him lying lifeless in the gutter, “… was a much kinder punishment than he deserved? What exactly are you trying to warn me about, Agent Russell?”

  “I’m here to warn you that vigilante justice isn’t an appropriate action for anyone to take.”

  The heaving of my heart is heard in my shouted words, “Alleged vigilante justice. You’re assuming my father killed a man. You have no proof of that.”

  “When did I once mention this was about your father?” Her almost black hair falls into her eyes when she shakes her head ever so gently. “I’m more concerned about who else unearthed this connection.”

  My heart falters when she places down a witness statement from my parents’ accident with a blown-up copy of a driver’s license of the man driving the cattle truck that struck my parents. Even with his cheeks a more natural color, I’m confident it’s the same man lying lifeless in the ditch.

  “Milo Bobrov was killed two hours after your parents’ accident—”

  I cut her off and talk through the bile burning my throat. “How can that be? Why wasn’t he still in police custody? He mowed down my parents, for crying out loud! How could they not have held him for longer than an hour?” I’m yelling, and it’s unacceptable, but when my mind is spiraling, anger seems to be my go-to way to express myself. I’m fuming mad because I asked several times if there was any link between my parents’ death and Crombie’s arrest. I was forever told there wasn’t. It seems as if I wasn’t the only person lying all those years ago. So was Grayson—and perhaps Brandon.

  My attitude takes a step back when Phillipa replies, “I’m here seeking the same set of answers you are, Melody, but no one appears willing to ask the hard-hitting questions.”

  Her determination is inspiring, but I’m still cautious. Why after all this time is she interested in my parents’ case? The prosecution of a deceased defendant is extremely rare. I’ve not heard of a single case since I commenced studying law over seven years ago. Unless I want to bring a civil suit against Bobrov, which I have no intention of doing, Agent Russell’s investigation makes no sense whatsoever. Unless…

  “What division of the Bureau did you say you were in again?”

  The friendly mask Phillipa has been wearing the past twenty minutes slips away as her lips tug into an uneasy grin. “I didn’t, but for whatever it matters, I’m part of a special task force that has a direct association with the IA Department.”

  “Internal Affairs,” I say in full, ensuring she knows I’m not as silly as she seems to believe. “So, you’re not here about my parents’ deaths. You’re here to take down one of your own for an alleged act of vigilantism.”

  She looks pleased more than annoyed by my reply. It’s a known trait of any female when they realize the person they’re attempting to railroad is just as smart, if not smarter, than them.

  I push the photographs she placed down in front of me back to her side of the desk. “So much for comradery between peers.”

  “Two hours isn’t enough time to protest the law and carry out your own agenda,” Phillipa shouts, her voice rising to a level even my implants find distasteful.

  Although I could retaliate with just as much malice, I keep a cool, collective head. “But it was certainly enough time for the officers on the scene to rule my parents’ death as an accident. But you’re not here to get justice for them or me, are you? You want the person responsible for freeing the world of a rodent nobody wanted. Why am I not surprised? Justice only occurs for those willing to fight for it.”

  When I immaturely roll my eyes before spinning on my heels and heading for the door, the real reason for Agent Russell’s request for an interview is exposed. “You uncovered the connection yourself, Melody. You recognized Bobrov and Crombie’s identical tattoos, so who’s to say Brandon didn’t also make the same connection?”

  “Leave Brandon out of this. He had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Allegedly,” Agent Russell fires back, her smirk back to its previous smug appearance. “It’s my job to prove what he did or didn’t do.” My stomach rolls when she slaps down a picture of a man hanging in a jail cell. I recognize his face in an instant. It’s the man who set my dorm on fire years ago. “Two men killed years apart, and they both have one connection. You.” She raises her eyes to mine, “Or should I say, you and Brandon?”

  Years of legal studying ensures she can’t rattle me. “A prisoner in your custody died on your watch, Agent Russell. If anyone should be interrogated, that person should be you.” The image of Crombie hanging lifelessly bombards me with horrid, sick memories of Joey hanging from the old oak tree at the McGee’s ranch, but I keep a rational head. “There are no defensive wounds on the defendant’s hands, neck, or face. The noose is made from material similar to the jumpsuits prisoners are transported in, and even with your zoom capabilities being proven mighty effective today, it’s obvious he’s in a prison cell. Not even drug addicts like peeing in a lidless toilet.” After pointing out each of my objectives on Crombie’s photograph, I push it back to Phillipa’s side of the desk before taking a big breath.

  In my eagerness to talk, my words aren’t as clear as I want. “If you came here hoping I’d help you pin a murder on an innocent man, you underestimated me. Even if I were still deaf, I still wouldn’t have been stupid enough to fall for your tricks.”

  With my head held high, and my determination at a place I never thought it would be, I exit the room.

  16

  Brandon

  I drag my hand down my tired face when Grayson says, “I told you this was way bigger than us. It’s as deep as it goes.” For the first time in almost a year, he’s standing across from me instead of tattling in my ear like he usually does.

  We’re conducting our meeting in the shadows of a shady back alley, hiding out like we’re one of the many criminals we’ve put away the past seven-plus years. If we get caught with the files we have, we could very well end up behind bars with those men. They’re not just sealed, they are a matter of national security, and the proof I’ve been seeking the past almost seven years.

  Mr. Gregg didn’t end things the way my father implied bec
ause of something hurtful Melody said. He was taken down by an organization the Bureau has been chasing for years. Because the hub of this entity is based on foreign soil, rumors are the Bureau had been working alongside the CIA to infiltrate it. As I’ve said before, I’m not a fan of rumors, but the information Grayson has shared with me the past hour is pretty damning.

  I grip the file in my hand a little harder while asking, “Why is the CIA acting as if Liam’s death was an accident? Why not come clean and say he was taken out by an organization he was investigating?”

  Grayson shrugs. “I don’t know. I figure that’s why Tobias did some investigating under the radar. There’s some murky shit going on here, Brandon.”

  As I shift my eyes to the photograph of a man believed to be the third assailant in the Greggs’ home invasion, I ask, “Did Tobias have any leads on who killed this man?”

  Grayson’s shrug isn’t as convincing this time around.

  “Do you think his murder was payback for the Greggs’ ‘accident’?” I nudge my head to a photograph of a deceased body slumped in the gutter in a small town bordering Saugerties. When Grayson lifts his chin, I grind out, “That’s why Crombie broke into Melody’s dorm. He wanted to reinitiate their game of tit-for-tat. The only thing I can’t work out is why there was such a big gap between incidents.”

  “They unearthed something no one knew previously.” When I peer at him in shocked silence, he adds, “No one knew Melody was deaf.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Grayson looks at me as if I’m an idiot. “Melody identified Henry Gottle, Sr. in the photo we showed her at the dress boutique. She mentioned she’d met him a handful of times before their home invasion. What if the men who organized the hit believed Melody had heard something she shouldn’t have? I don’t know about you, but if I discovered the only surviving witness to a massive conspiracy I was endeavoring to hide was deaf, I wouldn’t be overly worried about tying up loose ends.”