“I saw a little café just around the corner,” he continued, glancing back down the street. “What do you say?”
“Okay.” She answered before she’d had a chance to really think about it, then immediately questioned her decision. She’d gone out with a few men since moving here, but never more than once or twice, and certainly not with a stranger. She pushed away the concern. It wasn’t like this was a date. He was just a friendly American who’d come to her rescue.
“I never got your name,” she said as they sat down at one of the small outside tables at the busy café a minute later. She signaled to the waiter and ordered two espressos in Italian, then pulled out a package of tissues from her bag and started dabbing at her knee.
“Joe Bryant,” he said, settling into his chair. “From Virginia.”
“Talia Morello, born and raised in Texas, actually,” she said.
“For a Texan your Italian is flawless.”
“My father was Italian and has family here, so I ended up spending most summers in Italy while I was growing up. What about you, though?” she asked, wanting to shift the conversation away from herself. There were things—personal things—he didn’t need to know about her. “Are you here on holiday?”
“The trip’s work-related, actually.” He pressed his fingers against the table, then pulled out his badge. “I went for the tourist look today, but I actually work for the FBI’s art crime team.”
“Art crime team?” She glanced at the badge, panic settling in as she repeated his words. This couldn’t be another coincidence. She received a message demanding some artwork and now the FBI’s art division was here? She searched her brain for a connection, but nothing made sense.
“Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy,” he said, breaking into her thoughts, “but I know who you are. I’m actually here because I was hoping for a chance to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
The familiar scenery around her began to blur. The line of shops down the avenue sprinkled with tourists, the smell of pizza baking, purple and red flowers wilting in the afternoon sun...
She’d moved to Italy to escape the questions.
“I know he was a police officer,” he continued. “I know he was accused of stealing from a number of police raids, that he was murdered and that the murderer was never caught. I know you were even questioned once as to whether or not you were involved—”
“I was cleared of any charges—”
“I know, and I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I’ve gone through the reports and they clearly show that no evidence ever led back to you.”
Not that that fact had stopped the accusations. She bit the inside of her cheek. She’d worked so hard to put Thomas and his murder behind her, along with the shame in discovering he’d been involved in something illegal. And now everything about today was forcing her to dredge it all up again.
“Listen,” he said, as the waiter slid two espressos in front of them. “This isn’t how I planned to approach you, but it is very important that we talk.”
“Agent Bryant—”
“Please...you can call me Joe,” he said, handing her a business card with the FBI logo on it along with his name. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”
“Joe... Thomas died a long time ago.” She ran her finger over the card before looking back up at him. “And even though his killer was never found, his case was eventually closed. So unless you have the name of his murderer, I don’t know what you could tell me that would matter at this point.”
“I don’t have that, but what if I told you that some new evidence has surfaced regarding his case?”
New evidence? Was that what all of this was about? A wave of nausea swept through her. There had to be a connection between Agent Bryant—Joe—this recently surfaced information and whoever had sent her that threatening text message.
“What did you discover?” she asked. “More evidence of his guilt?”
If that was what he was talking about, she didn’t want to know. Not after all this time. Not after moving to Italy to start a new life, a life without the stigma of his murder and his betrayal. She and Thomas had just celebrated their six-month anniversary days before he’d been murdered. The chief had come to her house personally to tell her what had happened.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he’d said, “but Thomas was shot tonight after a drug bust gone wrong.” He’d hesitated from where he’d sat across from her in their living room. “And unfortunately, we have solid proof pointing to the fact that he was involved—possibly for quite some time—in stealing evidence, both money and drugs, from a number of raids.”
At that moment, everything she knew and believed about the man she’d fallen in love with had been completely shattered.
“Not more evidence of his guilt,” Joe said, adding a packet of sugar to his drink. “But we have found a lead to the person who murdered him.”
“I don’t understand.” Her hands shook as she took a sip of her espresso. “How is the FBI’s art crime division connected to Thomas’s murder?”
She needed to know. Because if there was new information on the case, she’d have expected to hear the update from Thomas’s department. Not the FBI. And while she might want to forget the past, a part of her also needed closure. Which was why as much as she wanted to stand up and walk away, she knew she wouldn’t be able to until she heard what he had to say.
* * *
Joe took a sip of his espresso before answering her question, knowing that what he needed to tell her was going to be difficult for her to hear. Two days ago, he’d flown across the Atlantic, following a lead, in order to talk with her in person. And yet since his arrival there hadn’t seemed to be a right moment or a right way to approach her.
“Three months ago a young man was killed during a museum heist,” he began.
She shook her head. “Okay, but what does that have to do with Thomas?”
“Forensics was able to match the bullet that killed him to another murder where the same gun was used. It was the same gun that killed your husband.”
He caught the pain in her eyes and took a moment to study her reaction while giving her the time she needed to digest the information he’d just given her. He’d done his homework before catching the flight to Rome, but she looked younger than he’d expected. From her file he’d learned she was twenty-seven. She had a large family on her father’s side, but only one sibling, a sister named Shelby who lived in Dallas. Her parents were both deceased.
Today, her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail with loose wisps around her face. She was pretty in that classic sense, and fit in perfectly as an Italian in her black-and-white dress and wedge sandals. And from what he knew about her so far, she was the kind of woman he’d like to get to know better. Not that he would. He’d gotten involved with a woman once before while working a case, and he’d learned quickly to never mix FBI business with personal relationships.
“Are you okay?” he asked, when she didn’t respond.
“I don’t know.” She stared at her cup. “This was just the last thing I was expecting to hear today.”
“So you believe me?” He couldn’t exactly blame her hesitation. A complete stranger had walked up to her off the street and started talking to her about her husband’s murder.
“Enough to hear you out,” she said finally.
He glanced around the crowded café, wishing they were somewhere more private. But at least with the chatter of customers and the sound of cups clinking, no one would be able to listen