"Oh, thank God." Marisa angled the phone toward her. "Are you okay? Is Ana okay?"

"We're fine. Please just do as he says."

"Can I talk to Ana?"

A second passed before Ana said, "Mama?"

"Baby, are you all right?"

She didn't answer into the phone, but they could hear her crying over the man's voice when he spoke again.

"One week. Get me the money or proof, and don't go to the police. You understand?"

"I understand."

The line went dead.

* * *

NATE GUIDED MARISA to rest on the step and sat beside her. He wrapped his arm around her back, whispering words of encouragement that he didn't believe. Because how in the world were they going to come up with two million dollars in seven days?

The phone still gripped in Marisa's hand, she crossed her arms, laid them on her legs, and dropped her head on top. Her shoulders shook from her sobs.

"Shh. It's going to be okay."

"What if they hurt them? What if they...?"

"Don't think about it. It won't help you to think about it. We just have to focus on doing the next thing."

She looked up. "How can you say that? How can I not worry?"

"I know you can't stop, Marisa. But I also know worry and fear aren't going to get your daughter back. We have to go."

"But..." The word floated on the humid air while Nate watched her process the information she had. He knew when she got there by the determination he saw in her eyes. "I have to go back. I have to go back to New York."

"To the States, yes. We can't do this from here."

She pushed herself away from him. "Do what?" she demanded. "What are we supposed to do?"

"We have to figure out who took the money."

"I have no idea. I never knew. Oh, my God, he's going to kill them. He's going to—"

"Marisa, stop."

She blinked and nodded.

"Let's go back to the hotel."

"But how—?"

The words of his therapist fell off his tongue. "We're going to do the next thing. We're not going to worry about what comes three or twenty-three steps down the road. Right now, we're going to go to the hotel. Can we just do that, please?"

She stood. Silently, they went down the steps to the street. She was in no shape to walk, so Nate hailed a taxi.

He held Marisa's hand while his own fear settled on him heavier than the scent of body odor and tobacco in the old car. Could Marisa hear his heart pounding? It was all well and good to tell her to focus on the next thing, but how could she do that? How could he? He couldn't stop thinking about what Leslie and Ana were going through. The memories all came back—the ropes chafing his wrist, the blood dripping from his head. The fear, the overarching, debilitating fear.