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Federico nodded. “Is this something to do with your gunshot wound?”
Francis winced. “Yes?”
The old priest sighed and placed the rest of the candles down on a side table. “Your friend came to me, we talked. So, forgive me for asking, but could he have decided to leave?”
“What? No.” Regardless of everything that had happened last night, Francis had his gun, and Vitari never would have been so careless as to drop it. But he couldn’t tell Federico that, not without revealing they were criminals.
“It’s just that, yesterday, he was… troubled.”
Francis took a step back. “Yesterday?” He blinked. “He was troubled?” Vitari hadn’t said.
“About you.”
Francis eyed the pews, the church, the candles. Vitari had come here when Francis had been out cold and feverish. He’d come for solace, when Francis hadn’t been there for him. What had he told Federico about being troubled?
It didn’t matter what was said. Francis knew Vitari. “He wouldn’t leave, not like this.” He pulled the note from his pocket and handed it over. It was a risk, given how Vitari had written amore mio, but it also proved he’d had every intention of returning after his walk.
The priest’s eyebrows pinched together, but Francis couldn’t be sure if that concern was for Vitari’s whereabouts, or if he was about to receive a lecture in sin. He hated this, hated standing under the eyes of God, feeling small and wrong and shameful. “I know he’s been taken,” Francis said, more forcefully. “Will you help me or not?”
Federico lifted his gaze and handed the note back. “I will help. Wait here.” Federico strode down the aisle and out of the door.
Wait here?
Waiting didn’t seem like the best idea, since he had no idea if he could trust Father Federico. What if he had left to fetch the police? Francis followed just a few strides behind him. They crossed the road and entered Mia’s house. Federico wasted no time in speaking to Mia in her make-do waiting room, which was at least currently empty of patients. They spoke Spanish, with Mia occasionally glancing over. Her friendly smiles faded too.
She’d been kind, she’d helped him, but he didn’t know either of them, and trust wasn’t something that came easily, not anymore. What would Vitari think of Francis asking these two strangers for help?
He paced a little, checked the window, hoping he’d see Vitari saunter down the street.
What if he was dead?
No, no, Francis wasn’t thinking that. There was no reason to think Vitari had been killed. He’d been taken.
The gun poked Francis in the back. He shuffled it around. He should probably have left it somewhere, not brought it with him, but there hadn’t been time.
“You think he was taken?” Mia asked in English. Federico stood stoic beside her.
“I do.”
“Any proof?”
“Proof?” He frowned. “What proof? Isn’t my word enough? He was taken, I know it.”
“There’s someone I can ask, but he’s not someone you go to unless it’s important.”
“Vitari was taken,” Francis said again. “This is important.”
“You didn’t have any kind of argument?”
An argument? What did they think had happened, that Vitari had stormed off because of a lovers’ tiff? “You want proof? Fine.” He grabbed the gun and then realized what a terrible idea that was when Mia and Federico recoiled as though Francis was some kind of gun-happy madman about to shoot them both. “Oh, no.” He raised his hands, and the gun. “I’m not going to use it! I found it.” He laughed nervously. ”It’s not mine. It’s uh…”
Wide eyed, Mia waved a hand. “Maybe point it away?!”
He lowered the gun to his side. “It’s Vitari’s, and I found it under our car. Someone must have kicked it there. He would never do that. He’s careful with guns.”
“Like you’re not?”
“Well, I… I don’t have much experience…” He tried to put the gun down on a nearby table but Mia shook her head, making it clear she wanted nothing to do with the weapon.
