deadly weapon—something that's basically unheard of just about anywhere given the lack of real, concrete evidence against him. Or the fact that nearly the entirety of my statement at the scene conveniently disappeared. Or the fact that everything was settled outside of court, where I wouldn't have to testify because, as my dad said, " I shouldn't have to be put through my attack all over again."
The only real caveat is the fact that Sean pled guilty. At the time, I thought it proved I'd made the right decision. Why would an innocent person admit to something he didn't do?
I'd heard rumors through the years that Sean had acted on advice of counsel, that there was no way he'd ever come out on top against my dad's heavyweight lawyers and my blind finger-pointing. Even the court of public opinion found him guilty and the press ran with it. After all, to them I was just a 20-year-old college student in Philly trying to start over after a troubled youth. A victim of simply being the mayor's daughter. Always a victim of something.
And to them, Sean Callahan was a monster who'd taken his grudge against the man trying to destroy his community out on his innocent daughter. And considering who his father was, it wasn't much of a leap to believe the Callahans would be capable of a plot like that.
"It's those Irish genes," I'd heard around Back Bay shortly after Sean was sentenced to 10-15 years with little chance at parole. "Stubborn and angry."
Of course, everyone in Southie stood by him, even after he pled guilty. They believed Sean was being unfairly prosecuted for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time, that the only crime he was guilty of was being his father's son.
Then Jack's words echo in my ears, " Maybe it'd be a little different visitin' him every week if he actually did what they said he did."
That's not something he would share so casually to a stranger if he didn't truly believe it. And somewhere, deep down, he just confirmed what I've always known, but could never admit out loud.
But if Sean wasn't there to hurt me, then whatwas he doing?If he didn't shatter my knee with a tire iron, then who did? Why?
"All you had to do was tell the truth..."
I've spent seven years living in doubt, self-hatred, and everything in between. It's time to find answers. It's time to finally make sense of what happened to me. It's time to stop lying.
Even though my hands are shaking and tears are still flowing down my cheeks, I feel strong for the first time in my life. I feel like I finally have a purpose. I feel like I finally have some power.
And so, with my dad's voice ringing in my ears, I dig through my closet until I find some paper to write on. This is probably the most reckless thing I've ever done, which is really something considering I've spent almost half my lifetime doing reckless things.
This is different. This is bigger than me because this is about righting a wrong that I never should've allowed to happen in the first place.
Maybe this is really that precipice I've been hovering over all this time. Maybe this is what's been headed right for me since I moved back to Boston. Maybe this is that risk I've been too terrified to take.
My pen skitters across the page and I rewrite the letter three times before I'm finally satisfied with my efforts. It will probably end up returned and that's nothing less than what I deserve, but I have to do it. After doing a quick search to get the address, I carry it to the mailroom in my bare feet and throw it in the outgoing box before I lose the nerve.
I nod to myself.
The truth.
Finally.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jack
I never should've agreed to this. There are plenty of reasons I could've skipped out tonight: I was already running late from visiting Sean and had to get my ass to the bar, but nope. No amount of protesting, excuses, or grumbling is enough to topple the master.
It's a true testament to her skills that I'm sitting here at the kitchen table with a smile on my
The only real caveat is the fact that Sean pled guilty. At the time, I thought it proved I'd made the right decision. Why would an innocent person admit to something he didn't do?
I'd heard rumors through the years that Sean had acted on advice of counsel, that there was no way he'd ever come out on top against my dad's heavyweight lawyers and my blind finger-pointing. Even the court of public opinion found him guilty and the press ran with it. After all, to them I was just a 20-year-old college student in Philly trying to start over after a troubled youth. A victim of simply being the mayor's daughter. Always a victim of something.
And to them, Sean Callahan was a monster who'd taken his grudge against the man trying to destroy his community out on his innocent daughter. And considering who his father was, it wasn't much of a leap to believe the Callahans would be capable of a plot like that.
"It's those Irish genes," I'd heard around Back Bay shortly after Sean was sentenced to 10-15 years with little chance at parole. "Stubborn and angry."
Of course, everyone in Southie stood by him, even after he pled guilty. They believed Sean was being unfairly prosecuted for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time, that the only crime he was guilty of was being his father's son.
Then Jack's words echo in my ears, " Maybe it'd be a little different visitin' him every week if he actually did what they said he did."
That's not something he would share so casually to a stranger if he didn't truly believe it. And somewhere, deep down, he just confirmed what I've always known, but could never admit out loud.
But if Sean wasn't there to hurt me, then whatwas he doing?If he didn't shatter my knee with a tire iron, then who did? Why?
"All you had to do was tell the truth..."
I've spent seven years living in doubt, self-hatred, and everything in between. It's time to find answers. It's time to finally make sense of what happened to me. It's time to stop lying.
Even though my hands are shaking and tears are still flowing down my cheeks, I feel strong for the first time in my life. I feel like I finally have a purpose. I feel like I finally have some power.
And so, with my dad's voice ringing in my ears, I dig through my closet until I find some paper to write on. This is probably the most reckless thing I've ever done, which is really something considering I've spent almost half my lifetime doing reckless things.
This is different. This is bigger than me because this is about righting a wrong that I never should've allowed to happen in the first place.
Maybe this is really that precipice I've been hovering over all this time. Maybe this is what's been headed right for me since I moved back to Boston. Maybe this is that risk I've been too terrified to take.
My pen skitters across the page and I rewrite the letter three times before I'm finally satisfied with my efforts. It will probably end up returned and that's nothing less than what I deserve, but I have to do it. After doing a quick search to get the address, I carry it to the mailroom in my bare feet and throw it in the outgoing box before I lose the nerve.
I nod to myself.
The truth.
Finally.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jack
I never should've agreed to this. There are plenty of reasons I could've skipped out tonight: I was already running late from visiting Sean and had to get my ass to the bar, but nope. No amount of protesting, excuses, or grumbling is enough to topple the master.
It's a true testament to her skills that I'm sitting here at the kitchen table with a smile on my
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