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.
Chapter 3
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."
Twisted Lies Page 3
