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Inside the building, a guard says, “He’s waiting inside.”
Takeshi and I usher the four men into the room where I received much-needed closure, and now I look forward to our husband getting his.
Shinji faces the night sky, his back toward us, and his hands in his pockets. He turns upon our entry, a question in his gaze when the four men enter with us.
“Who are they?” he asks.
“Your fellow alumni.” I hold my hands out to him as I approach. When I’m inches apart, I take his hands and draw him in for a kiss. I cut the embrace short, too excited for his present.
The men glance at each other, as confused as Shinji, so Takeshi steps forward. “A week and all of Katsuo’s resources found the people responsible for Fumio’s death.”
“Woah!” Clay retreats. “I think there’s a misunderstanding here. I don’t know a Fumio.”
“Me neither,” all four men say.
“Keishi-kun?”
Takeshi winks at our husband. “Trust me.”
Shinji nods and leans against the wall, his body relaxed while waiting for Takeshi to reveal his information.
Meanwhile, Takeshi turns toward the four men. “You’re right. You don’t know Fumio because you never cared to learn the name of the college student you murdered. Just like you don’t know the name of the other men you’ve killed on the anniversary of Fumio’s death. Weird bonding ritual you share.”
Our hostages share a guilty glance and try to back away. “You have no proof.”
“Is it a habit for you to underestimate people?” I ask. “You each share a cloud photo album that goes back to your college days.”
Shinji pushes away from the wall. “How did you find them so quickly?”
Takeshi shakes his head. “I didn’t find them quickly enough.”
I pull Shinji between us and rub soothing circles on his back. “So, who goes first?”
The hostages spin around and race to the door, bumping and pushing each other to save themselves rather than working together to escape. Not like their efforts will succeed. Our guards haul them back and hurl them to the floor.
Takeshi ignores the scuffle and hands Shinji a familiar cleaver. “We’ll follow your lead.”
Our husband inhales deeply, his eyes closed. When he’s ready, he accepts the blade with a grateful smile.
CHAPTER 42
Shinji
Takeshi and I wait in the back of the car in silence as we wait for Lakeshia to make the first move. We’ve been sitting in front of a suburban property on the outskirts of Minneapolis, waiting for the company our wife hired to appear.
Located in a densely wooded residential neighborhood, there are two buildings on the property, a main two-story house and a smaller mother-in-law suite. Quaint comes to mind as I look over the semi-private lot, the trees soaring in the background, and the colorful flower beds. The closest neighbor is a fair distance away, and I’m sure we won’t cause any ruckus once the heavy equipment arrives.
“Are you sure the owners won’t have a problem with you digging up their garden?” Takeshi asks.
Lakeshia grabs the door handle and spares him a sparse smile. “Doubtful since I own the place.” She exits the car and Takeshi and I follow close behind.
“Have you been back since...” I trail off not knowing how to finish my question.
“Since the night Tomasso murdered my father? No. I swore I’d only return once I avenged his death.” Lakeshia leads us to a flower bed full of wildflowers. “A property manager maintains the grounds and the buildings, though I couldn’t care less if either house burned down. This area right here is all that matters.”
A two-man crew arrives, one behind the wheel of a grave-digging machine, the other in a hearse. We oversee them as they dig near where Lakeshia buried her father, D’Angelo. When they get close to six feet, they switch the heavy machinery for shovels.
The piles of rich earth scent the air and drive our anticipation the longer it takes the men to find D’Angelo’s remains.
