She sat by my bedside and leaned in tight when we were alone. ‘Cariño, you can tell me, it’s OK. I do not judge you. Did those bad men force you to… travel to places to… be with other men?’

She meant was I sex trafficked. My subsequent silence spoke volumes for her and she collapsed into tears, gripping my hand, rubbing it as though rubbing me clean. She pulled me into the warmest hug, stroking my hair, rocking me gently. ‘Esta bien cariño. Nosotras te cuidaremos.’

It’s OK, darling. We will take care of you.

As I drifted into sleep I heard hushed voices muttering.

‘That must have been why she was at the airport that day.’

‘Probably pimped out to some drug lord in the city.’

‘He had acres of poppy fields.’

‘He’d been a hitman, they said. Made her change her eyes and have surgery.’

‘Black tar. Unrefined.’

‘The detective said there’s no bank account. Lord knows where he kept it.’

‘She cut off her own hand to save those kids?’

‘What makes a person do that to themselves?’

‘Poor, poor girl…’

The bottom line was that Raf’s family all felt sorry for me. I’d been used and abused by the rich and wealthy of Rocas Calientes and I was a broken, shattered soul in need of their care. And they would care for me, no question. It was like being lifted up by a thousand hands. I even volunteered to have an AIDS test, to further enhance the lie.

It was just like after Priory Gardens. Get Well Soon balloons, presents, cheek-strokes, cuddles and more kisses than I’d had in my life. I’d saved those children. That, at least, was true. And the Arroyo-Carranza family would be there to save me. And that was all I wanted.

None of them left me alone for an instant – except a single ten-minute slot, last thing at night when Raf was snoring in the chair beside me and turned to the wall. I picked up the little yarn gatita on my cabinet, intending to further investigate the small hole that had become unstitched. I’d noticed it a few days before, when the doctor had been wanging on to me about physio facilities in San Diego. There was something white rolled up inside the cat’s rear end. A scrap of paper. I waited for the next snore to mask its unravelling.

A scrawled note in pencil: it read…

NYC Vaults. Box 23-25. Go live your life, gatita. Tx

Part 3: New York State

Wednesday, 22 January 2020 – Sluggers Bar, Fifth Avenue, New York City

‘So that’s why you’re here,’ says Freddie, turning to the last page in his notebook. ‘That’s a safety deposit box number here in the city, right?’

‘Yes.’