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WHEN MARISA VEGA WAS a little girl, dreaming of her future, this life had never crossed her mind. Who knew it could be so good? She'd escaped New York eight years earlier and thought her life was over. Without Vinnie, without her sister, without her parents, what did she have to live for?
She brushed her teeth, showered, and braided her hair before she tiptoed back into her bedroom and looked at the sleeping form on the far side of the bed. Curly dark brown hair peeked above the blanket. Marisa had memorized the beautiful face hidden beneath, those dark chocolate eyes. She'd fallen in love the first moment she'd seen the child as a newborn, still pink from birth, silent as if she'd given up on the world. Aside from when she slept, that may have been the last time Ana was quiet.
"Despertarse." She rubbed her hand over the messy hair. "Wake up, pajarita."
Ana slowly turned over and opened her eyes. "Mama, why do you call me little bird?"
Marisa smiled at her daughter and supplied the same answer she gave every morning. "Because you're always chirping."
Ana sat up, wrapped her slender arms around Marisa's neck, and kissed her on the cheek, her lips rose-petal soft. "Buenos dias."
"Good morning." Marisa responded in English. "Hurry and get your clothes on. Are you hungry?"
"Si."
Marisa laughed. "That's the other reason I call you little bird. You eat like a bird—three times your weight every day."
Five minutes later, they stepped into the sunshine. The early morning humidity would only get worse, and by afternoon, the air would be stifling. Marisa held Ana's hand, and they walked across the narrow gravel road to the orphanage that had been Marisa's place of employment since she'd arrived in town years earlier. The scent of coffee from the shop on the corner had her mouth watering. Sometimes on Saturdays, she would let Ana play with a neighbor and go to the coffee shop to enjoy one perfect cup. She'd take her sketchbook and pencils and draw what she saw—or what she remembered. Sometimes, the front of the old mission that had become the orphanage. Sometimes, the street she grew up on back in Queens. Sometimes, the face of her fiancé, dead eight years now. Often, she'd sketch Ana.
There'd be no sketching today, but maybe later, during siesta, she could set up her paints in the mission courtyard. An hour, no more, to satisfy the urge to create while her daughter and the rest of the town slept.
They entered the orphanage, passed the office, and headed down the long hallway to the cafeteria, their feet tapping on the faded red Spanish tiles. Marisa paused at the entrance. "Behave yourself and—"
"I know. Eat my eggs."
"They have protein. You want to grow healthy and strong."
Ana was halfway to her chair by the time Marisa finished the sentence. She waited until Ana had taken her seat beside her best friend at one of the long tables. The two tables each sat twenty kids on long benches. There seemed to be more than the room could accommodate this morning.
In the kitchen, Marisa served herself two huevos rancheros from a platter and poured a cup of coffee. She carried her breakfast to the office.
"Did we get more kids?" she asked when she stepped inside.
"Sí." Carlita looked up and rubbed her eyes. Her hair seemed grayer this morning, her skin paler. "A single mother dropped off three last night. She said her husband had disappeared, and she couldn't feed them."
Disappeared. Happened too often in this part of Mexico, and most of the time, the people never turned up except in the form of dried bones in the desert.
"So were you up all night?"
Carlita shrugged.
"We have room for the new kids?"
"Barely."
Marisa set her breakfast on the table in the corner of the small room, a good spot to feel the morning breeze, which fluttered the gauzy curtains and carried the scents of dust and the manure piles the mules deposited daily. Marisa gazed at the picture on the wall across from her. The village at sunset, children playing in the foreground, the mission a silhouette behind. Marisa had painted that one and all the pictures that hung in the orphanage and in her small house. And a few at the coffee shop. There were pictures she'd painted or sketched all over town, gifts Marisa had given the people who'd taken her in, made her feel at home.
Marisa prepared her lessons for the day while she ate. She'd been teaching English at the school attached to the orphanage for years, so preparation didn't take that long. Thirty minutes later, she made her way to the first classroom.
The children greeted her with smiles and waves when she walked in. The small room had one window and four rectangular tables long enough to comfortably fit two students each. Four sat at each today, kindergartners through second grade—and little Ana, whom Marisa had insisted be included with the kindergarten class. Theirs was the only school in town, so the kids came from all over the village. Most were barely subsisting with their meager income, but a few came from families whose fathers were involved in the drug trade. They were the only ones with money to spare.
Marisa moved on to teach the next grades up when the youngest class filed out. Carlita was determined that no matter what, no student would leave the orphanage without speaking and writing English well. That alone would set them apart from kids in nearby schools, where the teachers rarely knew much more than the kids and the curriculum was often not just outdated, but sometimes, outright wrong.
Marisa returned to the office after her last class of the morning and looked longingly at Carlita's computer. She'd hoped to order painting supplies, the only luxury she allowed herself. Carlita looked up from her paperwork and lifted her eyebrows.
"Would you mind if I—?"
"I'll grab some lunch. And maybe a nap." The older woman stretched and stood.
After Carlita left, Marisa slid into the cracked leather seat in front of the new desktop, her portal to civilization, and typed. The computer had been a gift from the church in Oklahoma that supported the orphanage. Marisa tried to get on the computer once a day, mostly to remind herself there was a world outside of her little village. She loved to read the news and check Facebook. Her sister's posts were rare, but any time Marisa was able to see Leslie's face, even if the photograph was old, it made her heart sing—and yearn for home. Most of the time, their Internet was too spotty to waste time. She navigated to the paint supplier's website and ordered the things she needed. Since Carlita wasn't back yet, Marisa clicked over to her email, though she knew it was pointless. She checked almost daily. She hadn't received an email in eight years.
But today, there was a message in her inbox. The sender's address gave no indication who it was.
Her hands shook, though from excitement or fear, she wasn't sure.
She clicked on the message and read the text.
It's Nate Boyle. I'm here with your sister. She needs to get in touch with you. It's an emergency.
Marisa stared at the words, almost afraid to move. Afraid they'd disappear, a mirage in the Mexican heat. Her heart pounded as if she'd been running. She swiped her moist hands on her shorts.
Her feelings were a knotted ball of multicolored threads, and she wasn't sure which color to untangle first. She was excited to hear from them, of course. Excited, but another thread had her heart thumping wildly, because if Leslie had gone to the trouble to find her, something must be very wrong.
Marisa looked up from the screen to see if anybody was watching. Old habits and all that, but she was alone and the space was quiet, if you didn't count the sounds of the children playing in the courtyard and the rumble of carts and clunker cars on the gravel out front. And she didn't—those sounds had become as common to her as the rattle of the radiator and the blast of car horns had been in New York.
She stared at the words. Nate Boyle. She'd first known him as Walter Boyle, no more than a by-line in the local paper back in Queens. She wouldn't have known what he looked like if not for the times he'd filled in for the regular columnist and had his photograph printed above the column. She wouldn't have cared if she hadn't recognized him as the guy she saw almost daily on the bus on her way to class. And she wouldn't have noticed him at all if he hadn't been so attractive.
The memories rolled through her like armed trucks through the village. She thought of that fateful time, of Vinnie's admission, his terror, his murder. And of her decision not to let it go.
Flashes of cowering in the hotel, dyeing her hair, followed by bus rides and trains, by leaving everything behind.
She pulled in a deep breath and looked around. She was safe here. She'd made a life here, and if she sometimes longed for America, she pushed those desires away with thoughts of her beautiful daughter, of the home they had.
Ana.
Marisa could handle anything as long as she had her daughter. She was safe. They were safe.
Marisa looked back at the message.
Just an email. No one would be able to track her, would they?
Slowly, she typed, words she'd longed to say to her sister about her life, her daughter, her job, and her village. She added how much she missed Leslie. She'd missed Nate, she realized. Yes, she'd thought of him over the years. If, when she'd met him, she hadn't just lost her fiancé and had to flee the country, perhaps something could have come of that relationship. But Marisa had learned years before that if was about as valuable as excrement and could foul up your life just as fast.
Good thing word pictures didn't come with scratch-and-sniff.
She was losing her mind.
She deleted everything and started over.
Hello, Nate. Is Leslie OK?
She stared at the line. The two sentences were arrows drawn, full of potential, itching to be released. Seemed harmless enough, but those two sentences could change everything.
She swallowed, took a deep breath, and hit Send.
Marisa stood, paced to the door, paced to the window. She crossed her arms, folded her hands together, and then crossed her arms again. She should do something else. Go for a walk. Go see the children. It would probably be a while before she heard back, but how could she close the program and go back to work as if nothing had changed?
She alternated between praying silently in Spanish and rehearsing her fears in English.
What could have happened that would cause Leslie to contact her? Maybe the police had found the real thief, and maybe Charles had decided he didn't want revenge. Maybe Marisa was finally safe.
A little bud of hope formed in her heart.
She imagined packing their meager things and moving back to New York. Would Ana like the city? Going to a normal school, one not filled with orphans and children parents couldn't afford or didn't want. Would she enjoy the cold weather, the snowfall? Marisa could picture her daughter making snow angels in fresh powder. Flashes filled Marisa's artist's eye—Ana with snowflakes on her long eyelashes, Ana posed beside a lopsided snowman, Ana snuggled between her aunt Leslie's legs, sledding down the hill at the park, their hair poking out from their knit caps and fluttering in the cold wind.
Would Nate be around? She could still conjure his image. Still thought of him often. Too often, considering they'd never had anything but a business relationship. Well, business plus a lot of meals together. The fact that he'd helped her stay alive probably went beyond the typical reporter-source relationship.
Marisa was telling herself for the millionth time not to think about Nate Boyle—a futile command if she'd ever heard one—when the email program dinged.
She stalked to the computer and looked.
Leslie is safe for now, but she needs to see you.
She stood straight again. Odd that Nate was emailing instead of Leslie.
Okay, not completely odd. She'd made it so they would need to contact each other in order to contact her. Her pathetic little fail-safe. Nate had held onto the drawing while Leslie had always had the ability to find the information it held. So neither could just contact her on a whim, and they'd both have to agree. Nate probably hadn't even known he could. So yes, it made sense they were together. But once Leslie had gotten the email address, why keep Nate involved?
Marisa trusted Nate. Of course she trusted her sister, too, but Nate had proved over and over he was not only trustworthy, but able to protect her. Maybe Leslie understood that Nate's presence would make Marisa more comfortable.
On the other hand, what if she was being duped? What if these people weren't Nate and Leslie at all? What if Nate had second thoughts about protecting her? What if he'd discovered the email address and given it to that FBI agent?
Worse yet, it could be one of Charles Gray's men. Charles was still in prison, but he'd had enough friends on the outside to force Marisa to run for her life. What if one of them had gotten ahold of the email address?
Maybe one of them was forcing Leslie to email her right now.
Marisa had to know.
She sat and clicked reply. Leslie is with you right now?
He answered immediately. Right beside me.
Ask her... Marisa paused. She thought for a moment, then typed, Where was the doll's favorite hiding place?
A moment passed. Marisa stared at the screen. If it took too long, she would know. But what would she do about it? If it was Charles's men, Marisa couldn't let Leslie be hurt, tortured even, to save herself.
She thought of little Ana. If she had to choose between her sister and her daughter...
The inbox dinged. Thank God.
Hi, sis. She liked to hide on the shelf beside the macaroni.
It was an old argument. Marisa thought the doll preferred the floor of Mom's closet, beside the pretty shoes. Leslie argued that the poor doll needed to eat sometimes. Another message came in.
She was easy to find there, though.
But at least she wasn't hungry, Marisa replied.
Tears filled her eyes. It was truly her sister. Her only relative, her best friend. She couldn't help but add, How I've missed you! Are you all right?
Long story. I need to see you.
Marisa sat back and blinked. See her? Impossible! she typed.
I'll come to you. Pick a safe place. Wherever you want.
No way Marisa could risk that. Another message came in.
It's a matter of life and death.
She swallowed hard. Marisa had put her sister at risk when she'd told Nate the story and escaped New York, but nobody, including Marisa, believed Leslie knew anything about the money or the business. Nobody had ever suspected Leslie. After eight years, what could possibly have happened? Was it serious enough to risk Marisa's life?
Nate is still there? Marisa asked.
Yes.
What if it wasn't Nate, though?
She stood and paced. What would only Nate know? What would nobody have cared to ask him, in all the years?
She sat back down and typed.
What's my favorite sandwich shop?
Nate probably wouldn't have forgotten. He'd brought her dinner nearly every night for weeks.
A message dinged in.
You call that a sandwich? It was a salad shoved in pita bread. It's not technically a sandwich if it has no meat.
She smiled. He'd said that every time she ordered it.
The message dinged again. And no, feta cheese doesn't count.
She replied, I wanted to be as thin and beautiful as Aphrodite.
You were always that and more.
She paused at the compliment. Yes, she remembered that, too. He was one of the kindest men she'd ever met. She let the words drench her the way she used to drench that sandwich in dressing.
But you haven't told me the name of the restaurant, she typed.
Change the subject—an old trick. You're blushing, aren't you?
She touched her warm cheeks. Nate hadn't known her for long, but he'd known her very well.
Before she could respond, he said, And it's Aristotle's. We always laughed because we had assumed it was named after Mr. Onasis until I met the owner. Good old Ari. I still eat there, and he's still fat as Jabba the Hutt and just as handsome.
So it truly was Leslie and Nate, the only two people in America she would consider trusting. Still, to meet them?
What do you mean, a matter of life and death?
A pause, and then, It's Leslie again. I'll tell you when I see you.
Marisa had to think it through. Could she risk exposing herself?
Marisa, they're going to kill me.
Cold fear dripped down Marisa's spine, and she shivered in the heat. A death threat. She'd experienced the feeling of knowing there were human beings, not so different from herself, people with minds and bodies and hearts, people who wanted to destroy her. Marisa had faced two choices—stay and risk it or run. She'd chosen to run. Chosen this life, however meager, over a violent death.
Marisa had been gone from New York for years before she'd let herself get comfortable again. Let herself believe she might actually get to live a long, healthy life. Maybe not what she'd planned, because living in an impoverished Mexican village had never made her list of goals when she'd been a child in Queens. But to live beyond twenty years old, to make it to twenty-two, twenty-five, now twenty-eight. She'd allowed herself to believe the danger was all behind her.
But she'd been wrong. So wrong. Because they were catching up with her now, those human beings who wanted her dead. Because Leslie's life was in danger, and it was Marisa's fault. Could she turn her back on her sister? No, of course not. So what choice did she have? She had to find a way to meet them without exposing the only home she had. She couldn't go on the run again. She had Ana to think of.
Their home and Ana needed to be protected.
What to do?
She had to meet them, but not here.
She returned to the computer and typed, How soon could you get to Acapulco?
Mexico?
Marisa didn't respond to the stupid question. Finally, her sister typed again.
Hold on. We're checking.
While Marisa waited, she clicked to a travel site herself and checked the bus schedule from Chilpancingo to Acapulco. The website said the buses ran hourly. She rarely found anything in Mexico to be so organized or consistent. But at least she could get to Acapulco eventually, assuming she could hitch a ride to Chilpancingo.
The inbox dinged.
I can be there tomorrow morning.
Leslie alone, not with Nate? Her fingers rested on the keyboard, and she closed her eyes. What should she do?
The answer was obvious, but they weren't going to like it.
I want Nate to come, too.
Why?
Marisa struggled to formulate an answer that made sense.
The next message arrived.
It's Nate. I'm sorry, but I can't.
She'd checked his column in the Times enough to know he was no longer with them. You got a new job?
Long story.
You can tell me when I see you, she typed.
You don't need me, Marisa.
She wanted to argue, because she did need him. Even now, whenever she felt the slightest bit of danger, she longed for Nate. We may need your help.
But would getting him involved put him in danger? There she went again, weighing other people's lives against her own. But it wasn't just her life on the line now. It was Leslie's life. It was Ana's life.
Nate typed, I'm sorry. I can't.
Marisa sat back and surveyed the small office. Nothing had changed. Her little corner of her little village seemed exactly the same. The people here were at peace, while for Marisa, a storm raged.
Nate had kept her safe before. She wasn't willing to expose herself without knowing he'd be there to keep her safe again. It wasn't just for herself, either. It was for Leslie, too. And Ana. Marisa squeezed her eyes shut and prayed again. When she opened them, she typed, Then I can't meet you, Leslie. I'm sorry.