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Maria’s expression softened at Tom’s obvious attempt to protect her. “You know I’m a Marine, right, and I’ve done two tours in a combat zone?”
“Who’s gonna have your back out there?” he countered, pointing a thumb toward the window.
“I appreciate your concern, I really do. I’m not looking to do anything stupid or piss off Esteban del Fuego. I seriously think we can help each other with regard to these murders.”
Tom ran his hands over his face. “Fine. I’ll pass along your message. Give me a cell number to reach you at.”
Maria complied, writing her number on a piece of scrap paper. Tom stuffed it in his pocket and stood. Maria got to her feet as well.
“Maria,” he said, then clamped his mouth shut, shaking his head.
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I ever told you that, but I am.”
“It was a long time ago. We were kids, Tom,” she said.
“I wasn’t a kid. I did you wrong. I know it, and your brothers had every right to kick my ass.”
She stared at him for the space of a heartbeat, a man she had loved, and hated, so many years ago. The pain of loss was only a dull ache now, like scar tissue that felt a little sore when stretched but had otherwise healed. Time did that, she supposed.
“Thank you, Tom,” she said, turning to leave.
Walking down the familiar streets toward her rental car, something in Maria’s chest lightened, and a weight she hadn’t known she still carried, lifted.
