Kit snorted.
Malcolm adjusted himself against the hard desk, wincing slightly. “She’s been hurt, Kit. Desperately. If I ever find out who did it, I think I might actually kill him. There’s something fine inside her fighting to get out. I see glimpses of it all the time. First in London, again in Brighton. Then in Rome …” He swore softly. “We were both a little drunk. Hilaria was in full swing. She was doing so well and I was so proud of her and the next thing I knew…”
”Stop.” Kit held up one hand. “Please.”
Malcolm halted. Then, very quietly, “It isn’t much, but I never meant any of this. I’m bloody sorry, Kit. I won’t say I’d undo the way I feel about her, but I’m bloody damned sorry for how I’ve handled this, the mess I’ve caused. If it’s any consolation, I went through nine days of absolute hell, thinking I’d killed her.” He groped for something else to say and ended lamely with the only thing he could say. “I’m sorry, Kit.”
”So am I,” his one-time friend sighed.
”I’ll … I’ll go to another station, I guess, get out of your way…
”Malcolm.”
He shut up, ready to take whatever bitter anger his friend vented.
”I ought to break your neck, you know. I’m tempted to saddle you with the Neo Edo. The punishment ought to fit the crime, after all. You deserve that paperwork and the government auditors and the inspections and…”
Malcolm winced.
”But…” Kit’s faint smile shocked him. “At least she had enough sense to pick someone like you.”
Malcolm didn’t know what to say.
”It might have been Skeeter Jackson, after all.”