The memories rolled through her like armed trucks through the village. She thought of that fateful time, of Vinnie's admission, his terror, his murder. And of her decision not to let it go.

Flashes of cowering in the hotel, dyeing her hair, followed by bus rides and trains, by leaving everything behind.

She pulled in a deep breath and looked around. She was safe here. She'd made a life here, and if she sometimes longed for America, she pushed those desires away with thoughts of her beautiful daughter, of the home they had.

Ana.

Marisa could handle anything as long as she had her daughter. She was safe. They were safe.

Marisa looked back at the message.

Just an email. No one would be able to track her, would they?

Slowly, she typed, words she'd longed to say to her sister about her life, her daughter, her job, and her village. She added how much she missed Leslie. She'd missed Nate, she realized. Yes, she'd thought of him over the years. If, when she'd met him, she hadn't just lost her fiancé and had to flee the country, perhaps something could have come of that relationship. But Marisa had learned years before that if was about as valuable as excrement and could foul up your life just as fast.

Good thing word pictures didn't come with scratch-and-sniff.

She was losing her mind.

She deleted everything and started over.

Hello, Nate. Is Leslie OK?

She stared at the line. The two sentences were arrows drawn, full of potential, itching to be released. Seemed harmless enough, but those two sentences could change everything.

She swallowed, took a deep breath, and hit Send.

Marisa stood, paced to the door, paced to the window. She crossed her arms, folded her hands together, and then crossed her arms again. She should do something else. Go for a walk. Go see the children. It would probably be a while before she heard back, but how could she close the program and go back to work as if nothing had changed?

She alternated between praying silently in Spanish and rehearsing her fears in English.

What could have happened that would cause Leslie to contact her? Maybe the police had found the real thief, and maybe Charles had decided he didn't want revenge. Maybe Marisa was finally safe.

A little bud of hope formed in her heart.

She imagined packing their meager things and moving back to New York. Would Ana like the city? Going to a normal school, one not filled with orphans and children parents couldn't afford or didn't want. Would she enjoy the cold weather, the snowfall? Marisa could picture her daughter making snow angels in fresh powder. Flashes filled Marisa's artist's eye—Ana with snowflakes on her long eyelashes, Ana posed beside a lopsided snowman, Ana snuggled between her aunt Leslie's legs, sledding down the hill at the park, their hair poking out from their knit caps and fluttering in the cold wind.