Moonstone: Gems of Wolfe Island One

“Ten years ago?” I gasp.

“Yes. I still can’t fathom it. He was such a happy kid.”

Ten years ago he was sixteen. I was eighteen. And he and Tony…

I reach forward and cover Aunt Agnes’s hand with my own. “Tell me. Tell me what happened.”

“For the life of me, I don’t know. Bruno doesn’t know. If Tony knows, he’s not saying anything.”

“Why is Tony in prison?” I ask.

“He got involved with some crack dealers or something. I don’t know. He was eighteen when it all happened, so Bruno and I weren’t involved. We tried to help him but he wouldn’t take our help. All we know is he pleaded guilty to selling and possession of a controlled substance. He was supposed to get out on parole last year, but he got into a fight with another inmate, so they canceled his parole hearing.”

“Drugs, huh?”

“Yes. For the love of God, I’m not sure how this happened. I thought I raised two good boys. Good Catholic boys. But—”

“Catholic?”

“Of course. You didn’t know we were Catholic?”

“I did.”

The crucifix in the hallway was a big clue. No, I’m just putting two and two together. A priest was involved in my capture. He was never there on the island, but he was involved.

“What parish do you go to, Aunt Agnes?”

“You know which parish, dear. You went with us to mass on occasion.”

I did, but I don’t remember. I was a kid, and kids find church of any sort boring as all get-out. “Yes, I’m sure I did. But I don’t remember.”

“It’s a parish in Manhattan. St. Andrew’s.”

St. Andrew’s. Doesn’t ring a bell. Did Zee ever tell me where that priest worked? I’m not actually sure, because I tried not to listen to anything other than her telling me someone new had been arrested. Whoever the priest was is probably either dead or behind bars now anyway.

I clear my throat. “I’m sorry about Jared.”

“I know, Katie. I’ll never get over it. He was my baby.”

“Did he leave…” I clear my throat.

“A note? No. Nothing. Just shot himself in his bedroom upstairs. Where he got the gun I’ll never know. The serial number was rubbed off.”

So he was dealing in firearms. Or knew someone who was. His brother, perhaps?

Though they didn’t pull a gun on me. They drugged me. I absently touch the side of my neck.

“I…” I clear my throat again and then take a drink of milk. It’s creamy thickness coats my tongue. “I’d like to see Tony.”

“They only let us visit on Thursdays.”

“Okay. That’s tomorrow.”

“Bruno isn’t going. He refuses to. But I’m going, of course. I’ll never turn my back on my baby. Never in a million years.”

“I’d like to go.”

“You can come along, but I don’t know if they’ll let two of us in.”

That doesn’t matter. I don’t want Agnes to be there when I talk to Tony.

“You know what?” I say. “I don’t want to horn in on your visitation with your son.”

“It’s okay, sweetie. I’m sure he’d be glad to see you.”

Actually, he probably won’t. Testimony from me will put him away for another decade or more. But that’s not why I want to talk to him. I need to find out how. And why. I just need some closure.

I take a bite of cookie, chew, swallow. “No, Aunt Agnes, but thank you for being willing to take me.

“If you’re sure.” Aunt Agnes doesn’t push it. She probably doesn’t want anyone horning in on her time with Tony either.

I don’t blame her.

Do I tell her? Tell her what her beloved son did to me? Put me through?

Aunt Agnes was like a second mother to me. In fact, she showed me more affection than my own mother ever did.

I can’t do that to her.

So much has been spoiled in my own life. I can’t do it to someone else.

“I should be going,” I say.

“Don’t be silly. You came all this way.” She cocks her head. “At least I assume you did. From LA?”

I shake my head. “I live in Manhattan now.” By way of a South Pacific island where I was held captive for a freaking decade.

“You are? Then you must come on Sundays for supper. Please.”

I’m never really hungry anymore, but Aunt Agnes’s cookies sure tasted good. “Maybe I will.”

“I insist. We’ll expect you this Sunday at four. You remember, don’t you?”

I nod. Sundays at Aunt Agnes’s were always an early dinner at four p.m., and they were always an Italian feast.

I usually went home with a weight gain of at least five pounds after a week in Brooklyn. My mother hated that. She was convinced I was going to be some wafer-thin runway model.

Yeah, right.

“All right, I’ll be here.” I smile. “I need to go now.” I punch in the number to call a cab.

“Where are you going? I can drive you. Mr. Luigi downstairs has an old Impala he lets me borrow sometimes.”