DeAngelo had researched my family, found out about Rachel’s upcoming wedding, discovered that my parents had power of attorney, and approached them with a “too good to be true” offer. They’d been so focused on getting money for Rachel’s wedding that they never questioned why someone would pay cash immediately for a house at such a reduced price.
The $850,000 had been Castellano money—laundered through the shell company, used to buy the house, with the goal of gaining access to find Angela. If we hadn’t moved her when we did, she’d be dead.
Her children would be dead.
The entire case against the Castellano family would have collapsed. My parents were charged with fraud, interference with a federal operation, and several other crimes. They pled guilty as part of a deal that gave them probation instead of prison time, but they had to repay the $850,000 (which they couldn’t do—the money was already spent), and they were required to testify against DeAngelo and the Castellano associates who’d orchestrated the scheme.
Rachel’s wedding was cancelled.
Brad broke up with her when he realized there was no more money coming. She moved back in with our parents, who had to sell their own house to pay legal fees and restitution.
I bought a new house in a different state and didn’t tell any of them where it was. The Castellano trial proceeded without Angela’s location being compromised.
Fourteen members of the organization were convicted.
Angela and her children got their new identities and their fresh start. And me? I sit here now, three years later, in my actual home—the one my family doesn’t know about, will never know about.
I’ve been promoted.
I’m still protecting people. Still traveling for work.
My grandmother calls sometimes. She’s the only one I still talk to.
She tells me my mother cries a lot, that Rachel is working at a retail store and living in a small apartment, that my father’s health has declined from the stress.
She asks if I’ll ever forgive them. I don’t know. Maybe someday.
But every time I think about possibly reconciling, I remember Angela Moretti’s face.
I remember her eight-year-old daughter crying. I remember her six-year-old son asking if the bad men were coming to hurt them.
And I remember that my parents sold the roof over those children’s heads for a wedding that never happened. Some things you don’t forgive.
Some things you just walk away from.
Last week, my mother tried to call. I didn’t answer. She left a voicemail:
“Sarah, it’s been three years.
Your sister is getting married again—to a different man, someone nice.
She’d like you to come to the wedding. It’s small, nothing fancy.
We miss you. Please call back.”
I deleted it without responding.
I bought myself a new car instead.
A nice one. With my own money. In my own name.
And you know what?
I sleep just fine. THE END
