Chapter 13 - The Truth About the Black Truck
The investigation took weeks, not hours. That was harder than any dramatic confrontation. Evidence had to be verified. Witnesses had to be interviewed separately. Bank records had to be obtained lawfully. Documents that looked damning on a phone screen needed context and authentication.
I learned patience because I had no choice.
Emma used the summer to work part-time at a neighborhood clinic. She loved the scrubs, even though they were too long. Ruth gained strength in physical therapy and began walking short distances without her walker. I started considering a job coordinating patient services at the clinic, something I never would have dared apply for before.
Luca encouraged me, but he didn't push.
Then Detective Brooks called me to the station.
The police had identified the transportation contractor connected to the black truck. Fleet records and maintenance files placed a vehicle at the relevant intersection on the night Daniel died. A retired dispatcher confirmed that the driver had later complained about damage to the truck, and company paperwork showed repairs soon afterward.
The driver, named Edward Pike, had agreed to an interview with counsel present.
“What did he say?” I asked.
Brooks spoke carefully. “His account is still being tested. He says he was instructed to follow Daniel, not hurt him. He claims the collision happened after he tried to block Daniel's route and misjudged the distance.”
My stomach turned.
“Who instructed him?”
“He named Victor Bellini.”
For a moment the office disappeared. I saw Daniel reaching for his keys. I saw Emma at ten years old asking why her father wasn't coming home. I saw the unopened strawberries that were never delivered.
“Does that mean Victor killed him?” I whispered.
“The investigation supports pursuing charges related to the alleged surveillance and collision. We have to let prosecutors determine the appropriate counts and prove them in court.”
Maya put a hand on my shoulder.
I wanted certainty. I wanted somebody to hand me eight years back. But justice, if it came, would arrive as paperwork, hearings, testimony, and an imperfect effort to tell the truth.
The detective also explained that financial investigators had traced a payment from a Bellini-linked entity to the transportation contractor after the crash. Combined with the records, it supported further inquiries into possible obstruction and concealment.
“What about Salvatore?” I asked.
“He has admitted approving questionable contracts and withholding information from the board. His legal responsibility is being reviewed. Cooperation doesn't erase conduct.”
I appreciated that too.
Outside the station, I called Emma.
“Baby,” I said, “they've learned more about Dad's accident.”
She heard my voice break.
“Was somebody responsible?”
“They believe someone followed him. There may be charges. We still have to wait for the legal process.”
She was silent so long I thought we'd lost the connection.
Then she said, “I always wondered if he was thinking about us.”
I closed my eyes.
“He was always thinking about us.”
That night we sat on the couch looking through photographs. Emma told stories about Daniel I had forgotten: how he made pancakes shaped like clouds because he couldn't manage stars; how he let her wear his paramedic badge at the kitchen table; how he cried at the end of every movie involving a dog.
We laughed. Then we cried. Then we laughed again.
Luca arrived late with takeout from a little Italian place outside his family's business. He asked whether we wanted company. Emma handed him a paper plate without hesitation.
After dinner, we went onto the building's small back porch.
“I spent a long time angry at you,” I told him.
He looked surprised. “At me?”
“At what you represented. Money. Power. A family that could move people around like furniture.”
“That anger was earned.”
“Maybe. But you've been trying to do better.”
He leaned against the railing.
“I don't know how to make up for what happened.”
“You can't make up for Daniel dying. That's not yours to fix.”
He nodded.
“But you can decide what kind of man you are now.”
He looked at me. The city lights caught in his dark eyes.
“And if I want to be someone who belongs in your life?”
My heart beat painfully hard.
“You'd have to enter it without trying to own it.”
“I can do that.”
“Don't promise too quickly.”
“Then I'll show you.”
I took his hand. Just for a moment.
May you like
It was the first time I reached for him.
And unlike the night of the engagement dinner, there was no audience, no chandelier, and no one waiting to tell me I didn't deserve happiness.
