Page 43 of Forgetting the Enemy
“No, it wasn’t me.” He seems angry, and I am not sure where his anger is stemming from. “I would never propose to the woman I loved like that, and I hope you would know enough about me by now to know I couldn’t.” He begins pacing again. “What else, Zaira?”
“I’ve had another vision. We were at a house I do not recognize, and a man was angrily accusing another man of murder. I don’t know who the accuser was, the only person I recognized was your father, the accused,” I say, waiting for his reaction. To my surprise, he doesn’t react. He must have been there. He knows exactly what memory I am referring to, and the idea of his father being accused of murder does nothing to rattle him.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“Just a few things. A woman in her sixties, impeccably dressed, I assume she’s my mother?”
He nods.
“Also, I remember sitting under a willow tree when I was younger. For some reason, I was very sad, but I don’t know why.”
“I know why.”
“You were there?”
“Yes. Anything else?”
“No other visions that I can recall, but feelings.”
“Feelings?”
“Yeah, like with you and Mia. I don’t particularly remember either of you, but I have feelings I know you and that you are safe.”
He nods his head. “Is that all?”
I nod.
“Zaira, the world in which you and I grew up in is dangerous and corrupt. There’s murder and mayhem, and if there is any sign of disloyalty within the family, it’s dealt with in the cruelest and most inhumane ways. There are names in which we are referred. Words like Mafia, Cosa Nostra, syndicate, and criminals are used to describe our families.”
I have no words. I mean, I knew something is up with his family. They live in a gated, highly secured home with men always around them, but I never guessed my family was part of all of this as well.
“We don’t always abide by the law, and we have enemies, lots of enemies,” he says. “Your father had more enemies than most. Someone close to your family murdered your mother five years ago. And the night of your accident, your father was murdered.”
“Do you know who did it?” I ask.
“I don’t know who killed your mother, but I have a pretty good idea.”
“And my father? Do you know who killed him?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies.
“Who?” I ask.
“It’s being dealt with, Zaira. I won’t tell you.”
“But why?”
“Zaira, I promised you I would tell you what I could. You have to respect that there are things I can’t tell you and things I won’t tell you for your own safety.” He’s pleading, and oddly, I do respect that—as if it has been ingrained in my mind all my life for me to do.
I nod.
“Can you do that?” he asks.
“Yes, but you must promise me one more thing.”
“Anything,” he replies.
