Page 83 of Shadows of Justice

“Sure. I mean, yes. Yes, please.”

He nods and I head to my car to get Doughnut. My dog is a shaky mess—between the storm and witnessing me do . . . that with a stranger, he’s had quite an eventful trip. He quickly relieves himself against a tree and then bounds up to me, faithfully sticking right by my leg. He peers at Leo, cocking his head, and follows us in the house.

The inside of Leo’s home is warm and well decorated, photos of family and a child’s artwork adorning the walls. It’s nothing like the warehouse in Cypress Park, and I wonder if that’s because he feels like a different man here.

“I’ll grab us some towels,” Leo says. He squeezes my hand before he heads down the hall, passing a shiny cherrywood staircase along the way.

I wander to the unlit fireplace and gorge on the photos lining the mantel as Doughnut curls up comfortably against the couch. There’s Leo as a child, Leo holding a younger version of the boy who greeted me at the door, then the boy with what looks like extended family, and finally father and son riding donkeys through lush, tropical countryside. I hungrily take in every image, my eagerness to uncover more about this man that’s captivated my soul borderlining on obsession.

On the far left is a beautiful candid photo of a woman taken in low lighting, of who I assume is Leo’s son’s mother. She’s wearing a man’s shirt, her long dark hair cascading down her back. She’s looking down at the days-old newborn she holds, bundled and angelic. Her expression is warm, tender. The loving gaze of an astonished new mom, embarking on her path of parenthood.

Curiosity mixed with sadness ebbs through my chest. His son said that his mother was in heaven. Such a tragedy for both of them . . . I hate that he’s grown up without a mother too. I wish I could say that I didn’t know what that emptiness was like.

“I was wondering when you were going to come inside,” says a strong, accented voice.

I turn and see an older woman. She has familiar, piercing eyes the color of chocolate, her dark, streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun. She holds a pile of folded bath towels in her hands and comes toward me to offer me one, a warm smile on her face.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, my mouth suddenly as dry as sand. I take one of the towels and blot my hair, terribly aware of my see-through top. “I’m Viv.”

“Ah, it’s wonderful to finally meet you. I’m Gloria. Please, sit.” She beckons at the couch and we both take up spots. “Oh!” she says, noticing Doughnut for the first time. “I see you’ve brought a friend.”

“I’m so sorry, he sort of just makes himself at home. I can have him wait in the car . . .”

My words die out as she bends to scratch Doughnut under the chin, to which he wiggle-worms onto his back for belly rubs.

Gloria obliges him. I like her already.

“He’s not hurting anyone,” she says, her scratches making a huffing sound of adoration come out of my linebacker of a dog. She pats him and then faces me, taking my hands in hers. “Now, let me look at you.”

I smile tightly and force myself to meet her gaze, very aware that her son just fucked me so hard my legs are still quivering.

“Mamá, leave her be,” Leo says, returning to the room with a folded towel and a faded CalTech T-shirt. His eyes ignite as our gazes find each other and I feel my cheeks redden, memories of what we just did leaking through my thoughts. He’s changed into dry clothes, but his hair is still damp—dark, unruly curls flopping onto his forehead. He looks absolutely edible.

Gloria hisses him quiet, winking at me. “I’m just getting to know the woman that brought you home to me, niño. Leave us alone.” She takes the stack from him and hands it to me.

He starts to protest and she hisses sharply at him again, effectively shutting him up. I have to stifle my laughter at his show of obedience at her orders. I gratefully shrug on the T-shirt, so large it goes past my shorts. They harp at each other in lightning-quick Spanish, most of which now I can understand.

You’re scaring her.

Be quiet. I’m not scary.

She’s been through a lot.

You both have. That’s why she’s good for you.

“I hear you’re quite strong,” she says suddenly in English, nothing but sincerity reading in her sharp eyes. “You survived those awful men. You saved a lot of people.”

I swallow against the lump in my throat, her warm hands still holding mine.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I believe it. You have strength in your eyes,” she says. “You have to be tough to stand being around this one, eh?” She cocks her head toward Leo, sitting in the lounge chair next to my spot on the couch.

“Mamá,” Leo groans. He quiets when she shushes him again, youthful laughter playing in her gaze.

I’m suddenly aware of the slapping of bare feet bounding toward us. Leo’s son bursts into the room, a grin on his face and a stack of baseball cards in his hand. He stops short when he sees me, and his big eyes beneath the Yankees hat go round. I feel mine do the same, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Papá, who is she?”

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