"We should ask Leslie how old she thought they were."

"I did," Nate said. "On the plane. She said she didn't know, but she'd guess middle-aged. She also said she thought the man was tall, over six feet, and built. The woman was shorter but not short, according to your sister, and thin. It was dark, and they wore ski masks, so she didn't get eye or hair color. They both wore black."

"Thorough description. I can imagine you asking all the right questions to get that much out of her."

He shrugged.

"I remember that. You're good at getting people to remember things they didn't even know they knew."

"It's what I do." Did, but he didn't mention that.

A big wave created by the wake of a speedboat headed toward Ana. Marisa started to stand, but Nate touched her hand. "She's okay."

He itched to keep his hand there, to take hers.

Marisa looked at Nate's outstretched fingers. He pulled them back.

Ana jumped over the wave and looked at her mom, who clapped. "Very good!" Marisa leaned back again. "What are we going to do?"

An excellent question, one he'd been mulling since they'd found Marisa the day before. "You can't really do anything. Nothing has changed for you. You need to stay hidden, and you seem to have a life here. Though if you want, I could certainly help you find a safer place to live, maybe get you a job—"

"I have a job. If I can't go back to the States, I'll stay where I am."

"Ana said something about dangerous men in your village. Maybe you should consider—"

"Don't."

He shut his mouth, reluctantly.

"Besides," she said, "Ana's adoption isn't final. We have to stay where we are until it is."

"You can't move to a safer town?"

"Ours is pretty safe."

"When will the adoption be final?"

She shrugged. "This is Mexico. There's no telling. It's already been four years."

Ridiculous, but she was right. Mexico was not a paragon of efficiency and justice in the world.

Marisa pulled a bottle of sunscreen out of her old, ugly bag. She'd refused to bring the new one to the beach, lest it get dirty. She squeezed lotion onto her hand and rubbed it over one long, brown leg. Apparently, she didn't own a swimsuit, so she'd been swimming in gray shorts and a loose pink tank top. She could have worn sweatpants, and he'd still find her beautiful. Maybe she should have worn sweats, because he couldn't stop staring at her legs as she flipped her long braid over her shoulder and got to work on the other one.

She seemed unaware as she watched her daughter. "Which brings us back to the question—what should Leslie do?"