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Athanasios

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Did you get up?" the man asks Brooklyn.

"No. I checked the baby monitor on the bedside table. It was positioned above the crib where the two of them slept together, and I saw that they were sound asleep. I closed my eyes again, thinking it was just my imagination. I was almost asleep when I became certain someone was walking down the hallway. I looked to the side and saw Moses was still asleep, so it wasn’t him. That’s when I realized someone had broken into our house."

My partners weren’t joking when they said the three of us could be described as having what psychiatry calls antisocial personality disorder. I’m self-centered, and empathy is an emotion I don’t understand. Anger, on the other hand, is very familiar to me.

Yet, despite the limited number of people I can connect with enough to understand their pain, I am Greek. Even though emotions and feelings rarely reach me, I understand the concept of family. I was raised by loving mothers—both my adoptive and biological ones.

I think of Soraya and Silas, who were practically newborns at the time of the incident, and then I look at the woman beside me. I try to imagine the terror Brooklyn must have felt waking up in the middle of the night with the certainty that someone had invaded her home. But I can’t, so I focus on her words as she recounts the events to the detective.

"And what happened next?"

She closes her eyes. "It all happened so fast. The father of my babies had a gun he kept on the bedside table."

"One second. Before you continue, answer this: didn’t you find it strange that he kept a gun within reach?"

"No. I didn’t like it, of course, but my father had one too. The difference is that his was always locked, unloaded, and hidden from us."

"Weren’t you concerned about the future? I mean, when the babies grew up? Did you ever discuss that?"

"By the time the invasion happened, I was already preparing to leave him. I shouldn’t have moved in with him to begin with. My sister, Madison, never liked him and said she’d support me no matter what. But we grew up without our parents during our early years. Without our mother because she left us and later passed away. Without our father because he . . . well, he wasn’t present."

"So that’s why you decided to live with the father of your children?"

"Yes. I don’t understand why these details are relevant to what happened that night."

"I want to know if your relationship was built on total trust."

She looks at him, seeming a little confused.

"You don’t have to answer that, Brooklyn," the lawyer advises her. "What the detective is trying to determine is whether you had any knowledge of possible illegal activities your children’s father might have been involved in."

"What? You think I was an accomplice to some crime? Are you insane? I was the victim of a home invasion!"

"It wasn’t a random crime, Miss Foster. Whoever entered your home intended to kill one or both of you. I’m not accusing you of anything. We know that up until the moment you got involved with Moses Raines—or whatever his real name is—you had never even received a traffic ticket in your life. What I’m trying to understand is whether there’s any possibility the people who invaded your home thought you were aware of Moses’s real line of work."

"His real line of work? How can you be so sure he was a criminal when you just told me Moses doesn’t legally exist? If you don’t even know who he was, how can you claim he was involved in illegal activities?" As soon as she finishes speaking, her face turns red, as if she’s just pieced it all together. "My God, I’m such an idiot! Using the identities of dead people is a crime in itself, isn’t it?"

The man nods in agreement.

"As for your question,” Brooklyn continues, “I don’t think anyone would have come after me thinking I knew about whatever business Moses was supposedly involved in, whatever that might have been. No one knew we were together except for one cousin of his."

"A cousin ?"

"Yes. Enya," she says. "I had completely forgotten about her. I don’t know her last name. I only met her twice. First, when we found out about the pregnancy. We were going out to celebrate the news, and she showed up at his house. Moses told her where we were going, and she invited herself along. The second time, after we’d moved in together, she came to our house to invite me to shop for baby clothes with her. I didn’t go. I don’t make friends easily. Anyway, that was it. As far as I know, she didn’t live here in New York. We didn’t see each other again."

I memorize the name she mentioned because I’ll investigate on my own. I’m obsessed with control. When something captures my interest, I don’t stop until I’ve dissected my target inside and out. And right now, Brooklyn and her little family have my full attention.

"Returning to the events of that night, please continue from where you left off, Miss Foster," the detective asks, jotting down notes.

"The door opened, and a man entered the room. The hallway light was on, so I could see he was holding a gun. I got up, and so did Moses. What happened next felt like being inside a horror movie. Without saying a word, the father of my children aimed directly at the intruder’s head and pulled the trigger."

"It wasn’t a warning shot," the man states.

"No, he wanted to kill him, I think, or he would’ve aimed at his leg. Moses told me many times that he was used to handling firearms because he’d served in the army. So he knew exactly what he was doing when he shot the intruder."

"I suspect that might’ve been another lie—that he served in the army, I mean. But I’ll look into it," the man says, almost as if he’s talking to a child.

Suddenly, she goes pale and stares at the detective. "My God! I just thought of something: if he used a fake name . . . the children’s birth records . . .”

"Yes, they have no legal validity," the man confirms. "The person who supposedly registered your children has been dead for over twenty years."

She covers her face with her hands.

"Do we need to continue today? I think you’ve got enough," I interject.

"I’d rather finish everything now," she says, looking at me. "I don’t want to have to repeat this ever again."

We all look at her, probably thinking the same thing: it’s very likely she will have to repeat this story again because the men who attacked her will go to trial.

"Let’s continue," Brooklyn says. "Right after the intruder fell—dead, I assume—two more came in. And then something happened that I still can’t understand."

"What?" Zeus asks.

This time, we’re all paying close attention.

"The second man to enter the room aimed at me. The other followed suit. Even with all the terror I was feeling, I remember thinking: why me? I’ve never had enemies."

"What happened next?"

"I didn’t even have time to blink. Moses stepped in front of me just as they fired. That’s why the bullets hit him square in the chest, but me, only in the leg. After that, I remember the sound of sirens or an alarm—I can’t say for sure. I fainted shortly after."

"Yes, you hit your head. That’s what led to your coma."

"I know. Dr. Athanasios already explained everything to me." She looks exhausted.

"That’s enough, Brooklyn," I interject, but this time definitively. "You only woke up a week ago. This has been too much for one day." I turn to Zeus. "She needs to be examined and then rest. The statement is done."

He stands up. "Yes, I think that’s enough for today. Athanasios is right."

The detective and lawyer leave, and I watch as her brother-in-law says goodbye.

"Are you feeling okay?" Zeus asks.

"Fine. Just exhausted."

He gives me a quick look, as if still seeking an explanation for why I stayed in the room, but Brooklyn ends the conversation.

"Thank you for staying too, Zeus. Kiss Madison and my babies for me."

He leaves, and now it’s just the two of us.

"Lie down. I’m going to examine you."

"I don’t feel physically unwell. Just tired."

"Quiet, Brooklyn. I regret agreeing to this deposition. You’re practically running on empty."

She obeys, and as I press the button to call the team, her eyes close.

I think she’s already asleep, but suddenly, she grabs my hand.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For staying. You were my source of courage today."

Seconds later, she falls asleep.