“I don’t see why not.” That wasn’t the most reassuring of answers. “We take care of our own.”
I swallowed. “Thank you.”
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Kitty.”
“Likewise.”
Luigi hovered by the back-seat door, but he accepted the plant that Stan passed over.
Unable to help myself, I asked, “Do you have a notepad, Luigi?”
His brow arched as he turned to look at me from where he leaned over the passenger seat to buckle the pot into place.
It’d have been funny if anything about this felt amusing.
He tucked his fingers into his coat pocket and a moment later, I had a pen and notepad.
Jotting down my number, I tore off the sheet, returned the items to Luigi, then passed the note to Storm, who was clearly going nowhere until we’d left his turf.
“I-If she wants it, here’s my number.”
“She might not,” he warned. “She’s been tight-lipped since she came here.”
“She can’t reach out if she doesn’t have it.”
As he accepted the number by folding the note and slipping it into his jeans pocket, Stan inquired, “She moved here recently?”
“She and her Old Man transferred from our Montana chapter two years or so ago.”
Then he waited. I took the hint and let Stan hustle me into the car.
After a couple minutes, we were out on the open road, heading back to the private airfield where we’d landed.
But my mind was on that grody room Beatriz had called home and those scars on her face…
FORTY-TWO
KITTY
Arriving at the private airfield just north of Poughkeepsie triggered a similar rigmarole as Ohio, but we shed a couple guards now that we were close to home.
I settled into Stan’s side in the car waiting for us by the jet as we headed for his friend’s place.
“Are you sure about this? I can have Luigi drive you home while I deal with?—”
I bit my lip. “No. Sofia was your friend. I want to meet her. Seems like it’s the day for meeting lost acquaintances.”
He pulled a face. “You might be right.”
Nervously, I toyed with the rings on my right hand. “Someone put Beatriz through the wringer, Stan. Those scars… Do you think… She wouldn’t tell me, but would she tell Martinez?”
“Maybe. You need to ask yourself why you’d prod this wound when she hasn’t.”
“Did she look happy to you, Stan?”
I appreciated that he took a moment to provide me with a genuine answer. “I don’t know. I can’t when I have no base measure,butshe seemed to feel safe. She brought food to a cookout and seemed set on staying before we, well?—”
“Ruined things for her,” I supplied grimly.
