Chapter 12 - THE TRUTH ABOUT THE CRASH
Months passed before we received a clearer answer.
Not the answer television would have given.
No confession:
We ran Noah off the road.
No perfect video.
No villain explaining everything.
The reconstructed evidence showed Noah had been followed.
The private investigator admitted it.
His instructions were to determine where Noah stored records.
He claimed he did not threaten Noah.
Phone location placed him several miles behind Noah when the crash occurred.
Weather records showed severe rain.
Vehicle analysis supported loss of control as plausible.
Could the pursuit have contributed to Noah driving faster?
Possibly.
Could prosecutors prove someone intentionally caused the crash?
Not from the evidence available.
I hated uncertainty.
Then eventually I learned to respect it.
Calling Noah’s death murder because anger wanted certainty would not make it true.
Marco still faced serious consequences for fraud, surveillance, intimidation, obstruction, and other conduct supported by evidence.
Dominic faced his own.
Noah’s death remained officially an accident occurring while he was being unlawfully monitored.
Ugly enough.
True enough.
Then a civil settlement came from Meridian and related parties regarding Noah’s treatment as a whistleblower and the misuse of his records.
I did not become rich.
I did receive enough to pay debts.
Fund Mia’s education.
Take time away from work.
I used some of it for therapy.
That might have been the best-spent money.
Then I made a decision.
I returned to school.
Part-time.
Accounting.
Noah had been good with numbers.
I had always liked them too.
But I had spent years assuming education belonged to people with more time.
More money.
Fewer toddlers.
Vincent’s employee tuition benefit applied.
I used it.
No special scholarship.
No secret envelope.
Policy.
That mattered.
Then he asked again about the administrative job.
I said:
“Not yet.”
He nodded.
Renzo told me later Vincent hated being told no.
“Good for him.”
Then Mia started preschool at a new location.
Safer procedures.
No strange men across the street.
No investigators.
No secrecy.
One afternoon she came home with a drawing.
Three people.
Me.
Her.
Vincent.
I stared.
“Why is Mr. Castalano in our family picture?”
“He has snacks.”
Apparently kinship standards were flexible at age four.
Then I noticed the fourth figure.
Renzo.
“Why is Uncle Renzo purple?”
“He talks too much.”
Fair.
Then she pointed at a small star in the sky.
“That’s Daddy.”
My throat closed.
“Who told you?”
“No one.”
She shrugged.
“I know.”
Children sometimes understand grief without explanation.
Then she added:
“Daddy doesn’t do mad face.”
I smiled.
“No.”
Noah never did.
Then Mia leaned closer.
“Mr. Vincent does.”
From the hallway behind us:
“I heard that.”
Mia immediately lowered her eyebrows.
May you like
Vincent sighed.
Some traditions survive everything.
