Where the Sun Sets
Chapter 12
Harold Davis stopped and stared at a portrait of himself and his wife. The
portrait had been taken two years before he had retired. The only professional portrait
of the two they ever had done. They had eloped when they were teens. There were no
wedding photos at all. He deeply missed her. He was not able to fill the void in his
life her death had caused. Who knew someone could hold so very much of you inside of them.
Coming out of his trance, he shook his head to clear the thoughts. Entering his
kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee, Harold stepped into the puddle caused by the earlier
mishap. Cursing to himself he looked down at his shoe. He picked up his foot and
looked at the sole. There was a small hole on the sole of his shoe caused from years
of wear. The cold coffee had entered the hole resulting in a wet sock. He took a deep
breath and continued on his way to the coffee pot. With cup in hand he returned to his
office. Again he sat back in his chair. For a moment he just sat and sipped his beverage.
He became thoughtful.
Antonia Dal Santo was such a small child when he had first seen her. He had barely
found her hunched back in the closet the way she was. She was so frightened, so quiet,
so very quiet. This was the one thing that had stood out in his mind, year after year,
day after day. Every time he found himself surrounded by silence he thought of that little
girl in the closet surrounded by silence.
He looked down at the fourth and last pile in front of him. With a deep sigh he
removed the photo, paper clipped to the top paper. A photo of what should have been a
woman's face. A woman with deep rich auburn hair and eyes as green as jade. A woman who
could very well have made the cover of every magazine in the country, possibly the world,
in Harold's opinion. But she came from poverty. She never knew the world or imagined
herself as anyone. At the age of sixteen, she had found herself married to Salvatore Dal
Santo. Her own father had used her hand for payment of a loan.
Juliet never made it to her twenty fifth birthday, a victim of a savage beating.
Her own husband had left her with no recognizable features. Even dental records could
not prove her identity. Salvatore had punched her repeatedly until the front of her skull
was nothing more than a cavern. She had called the station that afternoon. The afternoon
of her death. She called to report abuse at the hands of her husband. She had said she
feared for the safety of her daughter. Harold had asked her what time her husband was
expected home. He had instructed her to leave, perhaps come down to the station. Juliet
had no means of transportation. The Dal Santo house was set back off the main road by
about a mile. There were no markers and you could only find the place if you knew where it
was or stumbled upon it accidentally.
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