No, that thought didn’t sit well. He lit his last cigarette, crushed the pack, and told himself he’d give her five more minutes. No more.

And what then?

Just leave?

No way, tough guy. She’s in trouble. You’ll wait.

Disgusted with himself, he took a long drag and told himself no matter what, this was his last smoke. He’d quit years ago, only bought a pack a couple of days ago because of Lucia. He’d gone a little nuts seeing her again.

Stupid reason.

The gas station was open. An all-nighter. One pimply faced kid in a stocking cap and mechanic’s suit with his name, “Al,” on a patch sewn between the zipper and shoulder was manning the pumps and till. In Cruz’s estimation, Al couldn’t be more than nineteen, maybe twenty, but there he was, head bent into his cell phone, texting like mad but available if someone drove up and needed service.

He smoked in silence, feeling the thrum of the city, despite the fact that it was quiet, the middle of the night.

New Orleans was never asleep. Along with the humidity, the heavy air on his skin, and the wash of neon lights on the streets nearby, there was an underlying current of energy that throbbed just beneath the surface of the night. Invisible but palpable.

A car slowed for a red light, an old Chevy rattling and wheezing as it idled, the single guy behind the wheel eyeing the gas station for a second. But the light changed and the Nova rolled noisily away.

Cruz checked his watch and jangled the keys in the pocket of his leather jacket. Where the hell was she?

From the corner of his eye, he saw movement, a woman crossing the empty street.

If he hadn’t been looking for her, he wouldn’t have recognized Lucia. Dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a cardigan sweater, her hair braided and slung over one shoulder, a large pack strapped to her back, Lucia Costa looked more like a coed on a backpacking trip than a woman who’d so recently sworn she wanted to take her final vows to become a nun.

He crushed out the Camel and met her at his bike, its chrome pipes and black paint so shiny it looked wet as it gleamed beneath the glowing fluorescent tubes.

“Hey,” he said, trying to sound casual, even though his pulse had kicked up just at the sight of her. “What’s going on? What’re you doing?”

“Escaping,” she said, and flashed him a nervous smile that tore at his heart.

“From the convent.” It was a statement.

“Yeah.”

“How’d you get out?”

“We all know how. It’s not a prison, not really, though lately . . .” She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. “Can we just go?”

“Where?”

“Somewhere we can talk.”

“At one in the morning?”