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NATE FORCED HIS GAZE from Marisa's message to face Leslie.
She hugged herself as if she were trying to keep from flying to pieces, though from fear or something else, he wasn't sure. Her entire body seemed to tremble.
He stood and let her sit in his chair.
"Why does she want me?" he asked.
Leslie sniffed, though he saw no tears in her eyes. "I don't know."
He filtered back through his memory to his conversations with Marisa. She'd only had good things to say about her sister. "What am I missing?"
"I can only guess here, but I assume she thinks you can keep her safe. You did it before."
The laptop dinged with a new message. You guys still there?
He snatched his computer off the table and set it on the kitchen counter. Give me a minute, please.
I know it's a lot to ask, her next message said. I'm scared.
He stared at those last two words before he turned the laptop away, as if that would keep Marisa's words from swaying him. He met Leslie's eyes. "Does she not trust you?
"I don't think it's about trust. You kept her safe before. She didn't believe I could protect her."
"But if you don't tell anybody where you're going—"
"I wouldn't, obviously. But the trick is convincing Marisa she doesn't need you."
He turned to the computer, then to the kitchen counter, strewn with stuff he still needed to pack. True to her word, while they were waiting to hear back from Marisa, Leslie had packed five or six boxes of Nate's books and other items from his office, which was now nearly empty. He was almost ready to leave, to escape to New Hampshire.
Go where he would be safe.
"Nate, what are you thinking?"
"I can't go."
The computer dinged.
I only have about five more minutes on the computer, Marisa said. I won't be able to get back on until tomorrow, if then.
Five minutes to make a decision that could cost him his life. Okay, fine. So he was being a little melodramatic. He hoped. Still.
Leslie looked over his shoulder. "She says—"
"I can read." He hadn't meant to snap.
"What should I tell her?"
He angled the computer away from Leslie and typed, You're asking too much.
I know.
Gee, as long as she knew.
He paced back into the living room and surveyed the remains of his life in New York. He'd had enough excitement for one lifetime just six months earlier, and no amount of therapy had helped. He needed to get out of the city, away from all the people, and recover. He needed to stay out of danger. To never play the hero again. And that's exactly what Marisa was asking—that he step into the role of hero, as if he had any idea how to protect her.
His one attempt at heroism had nearly gotten a lot of people he loved killed. Thank God the bad guy and the cop had been there to fix the mess he'd made. No way could he do that again.
No way.
Leslie touched his arm, and he ducked away.
"I can afford the plane tickets," she said. "I'll finance the whole trip."
"It's not about the money. It's about..."
After a few seconds, she asked, "Your job?"
He didn't have a job. He'd figure that out after he moved home. Until then, he could live off his savings and his father's generosity. And Rae and Brady's, probably, since they'd offered him whatever he needed. Nothing like being the charity case everybody else had to support.
Leslie tried again. "Why don't you tell me what the problem is?"
How could he tell her he was afraid? Could still feel the ropes binding him to the chair, the pain ricocheting through to his face, his head, his ribs, with every blow. The agony that had lasted for months, long after the wounds had healed. The fear that still gripped him.
"If I don't get to my sister and figure out who took the money, they'll kill me."
He turned to Leslie, who stood tall, shoulders back. "I'll go anyway, because I have no choice. I'll search for her. I guess I'll lose my house, my business. But what other choice do I have?"
Guilt trip. Nice tactic. "You haven't given me one, either."
"Marisa did that, not me." She glanced at her watch. "We're down to two minutes. Then it's tomorrow, if she even responds. Maybe she'll be gone for good. Maybe this is my only chance to find her."
He turned and stared out the back window at the small weed-infested yard. He'd had such plans for this house. For his work. For his life. Now all he wanted was to run home.
"There's a guy," Leslie said. "A good man who loves me. He wants to marry me. He's saving up for a ring, but he already proposed."
"Congratulations." His tone was flat.
"Can you imagine, some guy wanting me? But he does, and..." She paused. "I want to marry him, too. Is that selfish, knowing what Marisa's doing, how she's had to hide all these years? I just want her home and everything to be normal again. I want my sister back." The last words were carried on a sob. "By the time you make up your mind—"
"I know, okay?"
He whipped around to see Leslie's shoulders slumped. What was he doing, considering sending this woman away? What kind of man was he?
He stalked back into the kitchen and pulled the laptop toward him.
He typed the sentence and paused before sending it. Was he insane? Why did he feel like this trip would change everything?
And did he really want everything to stay just like it was right now? Barely surviving? Cowering whenever a car backfired? No.
And he wouldn't leave these women to fend for themselves.
And none of it had anything to do with the fact that he'd never been able to get Marisa out of his mind.
He hit Send and reread the line he'd sent. Fine. Where shall we meet?
You're coming, Nate?
You haven't given me a choice.
I know. I'm sorry. A pause. What time do you land?
If we can get the flight we looked at, 9:30 a.m.
Meet me at the Chapel of Peace tomorrow afternoon.
Chapel of Peace? Somehow, he doubted there'd be much peace in this adventure.
* * *
HOW HAD NATE GONE FROM packing his kitchen to meeting an international fugitive?
He slid into the backseat beside Leslie, into the same taxi that had brought them from the airport to the hotel. The driver, Luis, had been kind enough to return after they'd checked in and freshened up. Leslie had arranged transportation while they'd laid over in Mexico City. Nate's insistence that they reserve hotel rooms had led to their first argument. Leslie had decided they'd stay with Marisa when they arrived in Acapulco and couldn't imagine why that would make him uncomfortable.
"We have no idea where she lives," he'd said during the flight. "No idea if she wants us there or has room for us."
"She'll make room. I'm her sister."
"I'm not."
"But she insisted you come."
"Reserve a hotel room—one for each of us—or I'm flying straight back to Kennedy."
Leslie had growled at him, but she'd done it. For all her mousy hair and sad looks, she could be stubborn. Well, she'd sucked him into this drama, so he got some say, too.
Leslie'd found two rooms at a very cheap resort among what looked to be the oldest stretch of hotels in the city. It'd probably been old when the Love Boat had docked nearby. And no, it wasn't impressive that the only reference he had for Acapulco came from a TV show popular before he was born. His mom had enjoyed the reruns while she was going through chemotherapy. "Dreaming of all the places I'm going to go someday." Turned out the only exotic place she got to see after her diagnosis was the inside of the hospital.
And heaven, if there was one.
Unlike Nate, who was now on his way to La Capilla de la Paz with a woman who'd been a total stranger barely more than twenty-four hours before.
Luis drove them through the Technicolor world of resorts and fauna alongside the bluest ocean Nate had ever seen. They headed out of town amid the sounds of traffic and the local music playing on the radio.
The Chapel of Peace was located, according to Google, at the highest point above the city. A few times, Nate had already spied the giant cross that stood beside it, which was supposedly visible from everywhere in the city. He didn't doubt it.
Was this where Marisa had lived for the past eight years? Not a bad place, he supposed, and with her Puerto Rican coloring, she'd certainly fit in. Though Mexico had become increasingly dangerous through the years, the resort towns were generally considered safe. He would have chosen someplace less touristy. And he certainly wouldn't have chosen this oppressive heat. The only place he'd ever been that was hotter than this was Tunis. The African city had been just as hot but dry. Not comfortable, but at least his sweat had evaporated before it soaked his short hair.
He wiped his moist forehead and frowned. The fact that the Tunis trip, a necessity for a story he was following, had been the impetus that had led to his kidnapping and torture a few months earlier did not sit well. He boxed up that thought and stored it in a container labeled don't open 'til pigs fly in a frozen hell.
Leslie shifted beside him, and he glanced at her. A frown creased her face. When she noticed him looking, she smiled. "This seems like a decent place. I've wondered over the years what kind of life Marisa was living. Most of my guesses have made me think of... I don't know, slums I guess, but this doesn't seem so bad, right? I mean, sure, it's not New York."
Spoken like a true New Yorker. Most city dwellers seemed to believe living anyplace outside of the five boroughs was akin to choosing among different degrees of third-world nations. He braced himself for the inevitable next line—something about culture or diversity or education. But Leslie only turned back to the window.
Five minutes later, she said, "Must cost a lot of money to live here."
"I doubt it. I'm sure there are cheaper places to live in Mexico, but I don't think there's anyplace as expensive as Queens, much less Manhattan."
"Good point. I wonder how she's supporting herself. I mean, assuming..."
Her words trailed off. "Assuming what?"
"You know." She lowered her voice, so the driver wouldn't hear. "That she didn't steal the money."
"You think she did?"
Leslie shrugged. "I never did before, but now"—she indicated the luxurious hotels surrounding them—"it's hard to say."
"The people who work in Acapulco live near here, too, and not in hotels." He nodded to the taxi driver, who certainly wasn't living the high life on his income. "Doesn't mean anything."
"You're right, of course."
Of course, but the intruders who'd threatened Leslie certainly thought Marisa had the money.
Refusing to come on this trip had seemed like too cowardly a thing to do, even for him. But now he wondered if coming here was a mistake. Would his interference help lure Marisa into some trap that she'd avoided for eight years?
There was no time for second-guessing now. If it all crumbled like a Jenga tower, he'd have plenty of time for regrets later. Hadn't the last six months proved that?
Nate peered out the window as the taxi snaked up the side of a small mountain on a too-narrow road. The jarring of the little VW Beetle turned his stomach. He'd never been a good backseat rider. Every few moments, he was rewarded for his willingness to endure with a glimpse of Acapulco Bay and its deep blue water.
Luis veered to the right and came to a sudden stop. "Stay here, si?"
He stepped out of the car and had a rapid conversation in Spanish with a man standing nearby—a gatekeeper of some sort, perhaps? There seemed to be some disagreement, but a moment later, Luis climbed back in the car. "They wanted your identification, but I vouched for you."
"They wanted to see them?" Leslie asked. "Like for security?"
"They like to hold onto them, but I say no, you're okay."
Nate reached over the seat and clasped the man's shoulder. "Thank you, Luis. You're right—that would have made me uncomfortable."
Luis nodded, and Nate took his hand back.
"He say the chapel is closed until four," Luis continued, "but is okay. The gardens are muy beautiful. You will enjoy. Or you want to go and come back later?"
"We'll stay," Leslie said.
"I should wait for you?"
"Um..." Leslie looked at Nate, a question in her eyes.
"Can't hurt," he said. As long as she was footing the bill.
She turned back to the driver. "Yes, please wait."
Luis pulled forward on the small drive and parked. "I wait here. Many photos from Las Manos de la Hermandad."
"Um, okay." Leslie looked at him and shrugged. "Thanks."
They meandered up the walkway and peered in the windows of the chapel. "Mid-century modern," Leslie said. "Not my favorite style. And for a church?"
"It has its charm." Nate led the way toward the gardens, where they followed the path for a few minutes, both of them scanning the area for Marisa, before they discovered what Luis had been talking about.
Las Manos de la Hermandad was a giant sculpture of two hands, fingertips touching as if in prayer. The sculpture stood near the foot of the giant cross Nate had seen from town. Nate read the sign, printed in both English and Spanish. "The Hands of Brotherhood."
Leslie nodded and studied the intriguing sculpture. "Or sisterhood," she said.
"Of course."
They moved on. The chapel was open in the mornings and again in the evenings, but closed between one and four. Siesta. And what intelligent person would choose to be outside right now? He wiped the dripping sweat from his temples, as if that would help, and continued looking for Marisa. Was she here yet? Had something kept her from making it today, or perhaps, had she changed her mind?
They strolled through the gardens and all manner of flora—palms and flowers and spindly plants that had grown high on each side in this particular part of the garden, so Nate and Leslie could hardly see ahead more than a few feet at a time. The effect made him claustrophobic. He focused on the beauty, the scent of the flowers and the twitter of exotic birds, and tried to push the growing fear away
Suddenly, a little girl dashed around a bend toward them, giggling and looking over her shoulder. She had brown skin and shiny black curls. Nate would have guessed she was Mexican until she turned and called over her shoulder, "You can't catch me, Mama," in perfect English.
No more than four, she froze when she saw them. Her baby-toothed smile faded as she looked up into Nate's eyes.
"Hi, there," he said.
Leslie smiled at the girl.
"Hola," the girl said. "I'm Ana."
"Nice to meet you. Where's your Mama?"
As he said it, a woman rushed around the corner. "Ana, don't run off like that. You scared me!"
Leslie gasped. Nate's reaction was quieter but no less shocked. So focused on the little girl, the woman hadn't looked at them. Her hair was longer, and her braid had fallen over her shoulder and nearly reached her waist. Her build was slender, her face a little more mature, though not at all wrinkled. If anything, Marisa had only grown more beautiful in the years since he'd seen her.
Leslie seemed to pull herself together. "Marisa."
Marisa looked up from the little girl, and he caught the first glimpse of her eyes. Oh, he'd forgotten those eyes. Big, innocent eyes like... What was that princess's name from his little brother's favorite Disney movie? Jasmine—yes, that's who she'd always reminded him of.
Her jaw dropped, and then she smiled. "Leslie." The large canvas bag she'd held fell to the path, and Marisa stepped forward into her sister's embrace. They held each other and rocked and cried.
Nate looked at Ana and smiled. "I guess they know each other."
The little girl nodded. "Si. Mama said we might meet my aunt today."
Might. Like she'd doubted they'd show. Well, he'd doubted Marisa would, hadn't he? But now that she was here, all those doubts slid off him like the latest beads of sweat. Somehow it seemed as if this reunion had been destined since the first moment he'd laid eyes on Marisa more than eight years earlier.
A ridiculous thought, but there you go.
Marisa stepped out of the embrace and turned to him. She looked as if she might want to step in for a hug, but she held back. "Thank you for coming."
He nodded, itching to embrace her and feeling sort of shy himself. And foolish. Very foolish. "You knew I would."
She nodded. "I sort of did, yeah."
Leslie bent toward Ana. "And who's this little girl."
"I'm Ana."
She held out her hand, but Leslie pulled her into a hug. "It's lovely to meet you, Ana. I'm Leslie."
"Aunt Leslie." The girl pulled back and looked at Marisa. "Right, Mama?"
"Right."
Leslie stood straight and looked at her sister. "We need to talk. Can we go back to your place?"
Marisa turned to her sister. "Can't we just talk here?"
The smile the older sister had worn faded. "You're in such a rush to be away from us?"
"Worried. You said your life was in danger."
"Right. I'd rather talk about it someplace private. Is your house far from here?"
"I don't live in Acapulco. We just arrived in the city today."
"Oh." Leslie seemed confused. "Where do you live?"
"It's a little village a few hours from here." She glanced at Nate, then back at Leslie, and bit her lip. "I should have told you that. I hope you have a place to stay."
Nate couldn't help the smug expression he felt on his face, though Leslie was careful not to look. "We do. Do you have a car, or—?"
"Nope. We took the bus."
Leslie wrapped her hand around her sister's. "All right. I'm glad we had our taxi wait for us. Let's go."