Page 124 of Reaper’s Wrath

“All gone,” she assures me. “I don’t even need to do chemo, so you have nothing to worry about. Will you come in for a bit? I told your father I wanted a minute alone with you so I could tell you, but he and D are waiting inside.”

“Yeah, I can come in.”

She told me not to feel bad, but hell, it’s hard.

I follow her to the kitchen where D sits at the table, and Dad wipes down a perfectly clean countertop, his movement slowing when he sees me.

D stands and shakes my hand. Then it’s down to my dad and me. Tears flood his cheeks while his dark eyes recite a litany of prayers. It’s hard to hold his gaze. The pain—his and mine. It’s overwhelming.

“DiAngelo told me,” Dad starts, his words catching on a sob. “I never…”

“Rocco, what are you talking about?” Mom asks anxiously.

Dad continues, his attention riveted to me. “I never refused to pay. I would have … I would have done anything. Please, believe me.”

His fractured words, wrought with shuddering sobs, break me.

To see a grown man cry is touching. To see the father I respected and loved openly weep over his love for me disarms me until I’m nothing but a child again.

The years of fear.

The loss and heartbreak.

The longing.

All of it hits me like a final storm surge on a rocky shore, battering my body one last time before receding from where it came.

“I didn’t want to believe but…” My breathing hitches, and I have to stop to collect myself. Even so, the emotions are too much to contain any longer. Silent tears slip from the corners of my eyes.

Without another word, the three of them join me, arms and bodies wrapping me in comfort and reassurance.

We hold one another.

We grieve and rejoice.

And I realize that the moral of my story isn’t the misfortunes that can derail a life but the importance of family who will always welcome you home. I am so much more blessed than I ever realized.

After the emotions ebb to a manageable level, we sit as a family at the kitchen table and walk through the events of my kidnapping. Mom made tea and set out a plate of her shortbread cookies. We take turns explaining our perspectives and sipping tea.

“I never would have believed him if I hadn’t heard the call myself,” I tell them.

Dad’s face contorts with bewilderment. “That’s what I don’t understand. D told me about that, but it’s not true. We never even got a second call asking for less money than the first ransom. It never happened.”

“I know that now,” I explain. “They tricked both of us by calling and pretending to be some sort of salesman. He got you to say certain phrases and recorded them. When he called his associate, that guy played back the tape, making it sound like you refused to pay.”

Mom raises a cookie in her hand as she speaks. “Those days are a strange mix of vivid and foggy in my memories—some parts seem like yesterday, and others are a total blur, but I do remember a strange call.” She looks at my dad and taps her finger on the table thoughtfully. “Do you remember Rocco? It was some sort of insurance representative or something like that. Something about a fee being charged or a fine.” Brow creased, she racks her brain to summon the memory. “I only remember because we were a nervous wreck every time the phone rang, and that call made you so irritated.”

“Actually, that does ring a bell,” Dad says, staring into the distance. “Yes, I think I remember. It was the phone company that called and said your cell phone would need a separate line and couldn’t be on our family plan because you had aged out. It was absurd, and I told him so. Not only were you still legally a minor, but the cost for a second plan was outrageous.”

“Yes!” I snap, eyes wide. “That’s the word you used. Outrageous. But in this call, you said ‘he’s an adult. Not my problem.’” I can suddenly hear the words plain as day, ringing in my ears.

Dad shakes his head. “I don’t remember why I said not my problem, but I definitely remember saying ‘he’s not an adult.’”

“I’m sure he doctored the recording to cut the word not out,” DiAngelo adds. “It’s shady as hell, but from what you’ve told me, you didn’t have a way to get back here, anyway.”

“That’s true, and there’s more. Three years into our captivity, they brought a little girl onto the boat. Her name is Tessa. Kairos and I raised her.”

Mom’s eyes go round as her teacup. “You have a daughter?” she breathes.