Mario Scalero and Richard Porter.
They probably did fire on unarmed civilians. They probably do deserve to be charged with murder. Just like they probably deserve to be charged with rape.
And yet they’re going to get off for all of it.
I don’t believe that any of what Royce admitted to Ned on that tape is bullshit propaganda. And now they’re free to go back to a war-torn country to continue doing the kinds of things that Royce spoke up about and got himself killed for.
Worse, Bentley knows. He knows and yet he’s sending them back in because Alliance just won another contract and Scalero is “effective” overseas.
I click on the news article posted just yesterday, showing a head shot of Bentley and a headline that reads, “Alliance Rewarded with Multimillion-Dollar Contract for Private Security Services in Ukraine.”
Bentley must have been in negotiations for that one for some time. Had that video surfaced, I’m guessing that the government would have passed Alliance over for one of the many other companies in line. It wouldn’t have taken too long for an investigative reporter to make the connection between the Mario and Ricky mentioned in Royce’s tattoo shop confession. The confession of a Medal of Honor recipient who was murdered not long after the recording happened.
With an eyewitness who can place a man with a heavy Chicago accent by the name of Mario at the scene.
My stomach tightens. One way or another, that connection may still be made, with something as simple as a mother’s scrapbook.
And the burn scar that the only witness to the murders just remembered.
Fuck . . . Why did she have to remember that?
It’s only a matter of time before someone—Bentley or Scalero or even this Ricky Porter guy, whom I have yet to lay eyes on—feels that Ivy is too big a threat to be allowed to linger.
I toss my iPad to the side and close my eyes, struggling to suppress my panic.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this unnerved at a dinner table.
We’re in Dakota’s greenhouse again. It was peaceful enough the other night, lit by dim lights, surrounded by a jungle of plants. I even liked the dozens of wind chimes dangling from above. Tonight, though, it all adds to the eeriness I’m feeling.
Dakota’s psychic medium guest—she goes by Esmeralda, though I’m guessing that’s her stage name—hasn’t lifted her unsettling crystal-blue eyes from my face since dropping her plump ass into her seat across the table. It’s not in a sexual way, either. She’s not trying to attract me or seduce me.
She’s trying to read me.
Or at least pretend that she can read me, because I know as well as she does that she’s a crook. None of that shit is real. No one can see the dead.
I’ve caught Ivy glaring at the woman through dinner several times. I’m guessing we share the same feelings about people like this. Right now, I’m wishing she’d stop biting that sharp tongue of hers and say something.
“So, Esme, any interesting readings lately?” Dakota asks, seemingly oblivious of the discomfort around her table as she slides a mouthful of scrambled tofu into her mouth.
I’m so uneasy under this woman’s gaze that I don’t even taste what’s on my plate.
“Not as interesting as what I’m reading right now.” Her eyes never lift from me.
Shivers run down my back.
This is bullshit. She can’t see the dead bodies piled up around me.
She can’t.
The pain in my jaw tells me I need to stop clenching my teeth.
“So, what exactly is a psychic medium, Esmeralda?” Ivy asks in that dry, disbelieving tone that I love even more right now, skipping the tofu and going straight for the chicken she threw onto the grill for me.
“Oh, it’s so much,” Esmeralda answers in a soft, breathless voice. “You can be psychic and not a medium, but you can’t be a medium and not a psychic.”