LaGuardia grunted in response. “You’re dismissed.”
Ian picked up the camera equipment and a plane ticket to Mexico City on his way out. Then he bought some clothes and supplies before returning to his hotel. Tossing aside his backpack, he strode into the bathroom. After a quick shower, he left the stall, wrapping a towel around his waist. He wiped the steam from the mirror and took a hard look at himself.
What had Maria seen in him? He was a mess of shaggy hair and hollow eyes. His body was too lean. He was all muscle and bone and sharp edges. No softness, no give. No extra padding. He’d played the role of a junkie as if he’d been born to it.
And he had been.
He closed his eyes and thought about their night together. Her sleek curves and honeyed skin. Her hot mouth underneath his. Her cries of pleasure and tears of relief.
The empty place she’d left beside him. Inside him.
He took out a pair of clippers and leaned his head over the trash can for a buzz cut. The uneven layers fell away like dead weight. When he was finished, he used the hotel soap to lather the stubble on his jaw. He shaved with swift precision, wicking the blade over his skin.
He paused at his upper lip. He didn’t want to look like a drug addict anymore. He also didn’t want to look like Ian Foster: dirt-poor, white trash, desperate to escape his upbringing. So he set down the razor and rinsed his face, leaving his mustache intact.
It was only a few days’ growth. He didn’t resemble a 1970s porn star or a Wild West gunslinger, but he wasn’t quite himself, either. He was Ian Phillips, hipster photographer.
National Geographic photographer.
He nodded at his reflection, pleased with the easy transformation. In less than ten minutes, he’d changed his appearance considerably. He looked sort of academic, artistic. The mustache suited his face better than a scruffy goatee.
And Mexican women liked mustaches. Didn’t they?
Chapter 2
Maria removed the black lace mantilla from around her head as she walked through the cast-iron gate at La Escuela de Nuestra Fe.
She didn’t think anyone had followed her to the private Catholic school on the outskirts of Taxco, but she couldn’t be too careful. She’d bought a faded gray dress from a woman at the bus station in Mexico City last night. It hung loose on her slender body. Her sturdy black shoes were matronly. Covering her hair with a veil added to the disguise.
Sister Rosalina led her down a cobblestone path, toward a small chapel. There were several outbuildings on the school grounds that appeared to house dormitories, classrooms, and a cafeteria. Maria had never been to a boarding school. She’d been lucky to attend two years of public high school—two more than her mother, who’d stopped at the mandatory eighth grade. Maria would have loved to go away to a place like this. Even if the nuns were mean and made the girls scrub floors or pray for hours, it was worth the hardship to get a good education. Vale la pena, as the saying went.
“Which student did you say you were visiting?” Sister Rosalina asked in Spanish.
“Sarai Tomás,” Maria replied. It was the name on the envelope Armando had given her.
“And you are?”
“Maria…Mariposa.”
“Maria Mariposa?”
Maria flushed at her sharp perusal. Her last name was Santos, but Sarai wouldn’t recognize that. The girl wouldn’t recognize her. She might recognize her father’s favorite term of endearment, which meant butterfly. “It’s a family nickname.”
The nun gave her a skeptical look and continued past the chapel. Maria hoped that lying to a woman of God didn’t earn her a spot in hell. Then again, she’d committed quite a few sins over the past few weeks, so what was one more?
“Sarai is in catechism class,” the nun said when they reached a quiet courtyard. “You can see her when she gets out.”
Maria nodded and took a seat on a stone bench in front of a fountain. She supposed that nuns were as corruptible as politicians and policemen, but she felt safer among women. The danger here was to her eternal soul, not her physical safety. She didn’t think Armando’s enemies had followed her here. She was almost free. As soon as she delivered this letter, she could go home.
Her throat closed up at the thought of seeing her mother again. It had been four years. Four long years since she’d paid a coyote to smuggle her into the United States. Four years since she’d been left for dead in the middle of the desert. Four years since she’d been sent back to Tijuana, where she’d worked around the clock to support her family—and waited for another opportunity to cross.
Three weeks ago, her dream had come true. A friend had agreed to give her a ride to San Diego. Maria had stowed away in a cardboard box in the back of a van, where she’d fainted from lack of air. But she’d been overjoyed to wake up in the United States.
Unfortunately, there had been no smooth sailing after that. She’d found a job in a hotel full of criminals and dark secrets. She’d reunited with Ian, a man she’d often fantasized about but never expected to see again. That hadn’t ended well, either.
She took a deep breath and tried to push aside her heartache. Ian was like the American Dream: too good to be true. Not for her. Out of reach, off-limits, on the other side of an insurmountable wall. She was going back to Mezcala. Back to her mother, and her brother and sister. Back to the hardscrabble existence she’d left behind.
After about twenty minutes, Sister Rosalina returned with a teenage girl. She was wearing a white blouse and a plaid, knee-length skirt. Her hair was very short and curly on top. She had a delicate build and fine features.
“Sarai?” Maria said, rising to her feet. “It’s been so long, I hardly recognized you.”
The girl greeted her with a warm hug. “Tía Mariposa. You look exactly the same.”
Maria smiled at Armando’s daughter. She didn’t resemble him, despite the boyish haircut. “Are you finished with classes for the day?”
“No, but I have an hour break.”