Twisted Lies

by Robin Patchen

  She stepped into the bedroom, flipped on another overhead light that bathed the space in gloom, and crossed to a tiny bureau.

  He stepped into the doorway. One bed, a double. They must have shared it. Above the bed was a beautiful landscape, a mural of the sun rising over the old mission that stood across the street. It was painted right onto the stucco wall. The rest of the scene appeared different from what he'd made out in the dark. Verdant fields of crops, smiling people, and well-kept houses.

  "The village as it should be," Marisa said.

  He turned to see her watching him. "It's beautiful. You're so talented."

  She pivoted back, opened the middle drawer of the short bureau that looked like a garage sale find, and dug through it.

  "Can I help?"

  She tossed a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt onto the bed. "I don't think so." She added underwear and bras to the pile. He turned away and surveyed the living room. Well, living, dining, and kitchen. Like a great room, only about the size of a normal dining room. If that. The kitchen consisted of a two-burner stovetop, a tiny sink, and a refrigerator about Ana's height. They ate on a rickety table for two. The living room consisted of a futon that looked like it was about to fall over. From behind, he could see it was supported not by legs, but by concrete blocks. There was no TV, but a small radio stood on top of the bookshelf. The other shelves held books, notebooks, pens, pencils, and paints. Lots of paints.

  And he could see why. The walls were nearly papered in paintings, some of local vistas and people, but there were plenty of New York. Manhattan and Queens and what looked like scenes of upstate. And portraits. Leslie with an older woman who looked like her—their mother presumably. A handsome dark-skinned man. Probably Marisa's father—she looked like him. Lots of portraits of Ana and other folks Nate assumed were friends here. There were a few of Vinnie. And on the bookshelves, stacks of canvases. He stepped closer, saw they also held paintings. He lifted the one on top—two little Mexican children arm-in-arm. He flipped through the portraits until he reached one that had him pausing.

  It was his own image, staring back at him. His hair was longer, like he'd worn it when he and Marisa had met. He was seated on a bus, his eyes concerned, his mouth turned down at the corners.

  It was probably exactly how he'd looked the day they'd met. And she'd remembered every detail.

  The way he'd always remembered her.

  "It's my therapy," she said.

  He set the paintings back on the shelf and turned. "I'm sorry. I was curious."

  "I don't mind. How do you think I did?"

  He shrugged. "Very good, considering how little you had to work with."

  She nearly smiled, but it faded fast. She found a plastic sack in the dingy kitchen and returned to the bedroom.

  Was painting how she'd survived here? Not just survived, but from all accounts, she'd thrived. His respect for her grew even more.

  He went back to the bedroom door. "Did you get socks and warm shoes?"

  "Don't have either. I gave a lot of stuff away. Is it cold there now?" She stuffed her things into the thin plastic bag.

  "It's March. Do you have more warm clothes?"

  She shook her head.

  "We'll figure it out."

  "I have no money."

  "Don't worry about it, Marisa. Just grab what you need."

  From the bottom drawer, she pulled out a small, carved box, which she rested on the bed and opened. She lifted out the engagement ring she'd been wearing when Nate had met her. She closed the lid and shoved the box in her canvas bag. "My valuables."

  "Anything else?"

  She looked around the space, shook her head. He stepped back into the living room, and she passed him and headed for the kitchen.

  "You need a bathroom?" She pointed to a door on the far side of the kitchen. "It works, most of the time."

  "That's okay. I'll wait."

  She spun slowly, obviously wondering if she'd missed anything.

  The door banged open, and a man stepped inside. He wore dark jeans and a T-shirt that stretched across his overly large muscles.

  Nate stepped between Marisa and the door, facing the man. His legs itched to run, but he wouldn't leave her unprotected.

  A second man stepped in behind the first. Smaller, beady-eyed and mean-faced.

  Not exactly how Nate had planned to die.

  The first man crossed the room and stopped a foot from Nate. "¿Quién es usted?"

  Nate knew enough Spanish to answer. "I'm a friend of Marisa's. Who are you?"

  "Marisa." The man sidestepped Nate. "¿Estás bien?"

  "I'm fine." She turned to Nate. "It's okay. Ramón is a...friend."

  Nate could tell the word friend had been a stretch. He feared Ramón had heard the hesitation, too.

  Nate crossed his arms. "You always barge into women's houses in the middle of the night?"

  Ramón stepped toward him until they were nose-to-nose. "You no belong, gringo."

  "Like I said, she's my friend."

  "Ramón," Marisa said, "it's fine."

  He turned back to her, eyes narrowed. "You want I take care of him?"

  "Please... I'm okay. Nate's doing me a favor."

  "¿Necesitas algo?"

  "I don't need anything. But thank you."

  "¿Dónde está Ana?"

  Nate turned and saw tears fill Marisa's eyes. "Ana's been...taken. I have to get—"

  "¿Quién se la llevó?"

  "I don't know who took her." She sighed, started again. "Por favor, habla Inglés. You're making my friend nervous." At Ramón's scowl, she added, "He's helping me."

  "Sí. Okay." He turned to Nate. "You helping?"

  Nate's gaze darted from the small man back to Ramón. "I'm trying."

  Ramón turned back to her. "I will help. We will have her back by tomorrow. You no need this gringo."

  "They've taken her to America."

  "Sí. Tengo"—he glanced at Nate—"I have friends. Where you going?"

  "It's okay, Ramón." Marisa nodded as if she were confident.

  "You think I cannot help? I can help. I know many people. Give me paper."

  Nate got the distinct impression that Marisa didn't want his help. Nevertheless, she scooted past Ramón and Nate and took a sketchbook and pen from the bookshelf. She handed them to him.

  He wrote something on it and handed it to her. "You call me if you need me. Also, I put Julio, a friend in New York. His phone number is there. You need anything, you tell him Ramón said give you whatever you need. Money or..." He glanced at Nate. "Whatever. Sí?"

  She took the paper. "Gracias."

  With a nod to Nate, Ramón and the other man left.

  "Seems like a nice guy," Nate said after the door closed. "I can see why you lock the door."

  "He's my protector, so I don't fear him. Well, I don't only fear him, if that makes sense."

  "Can I have that sheet of paper?"

  Marisa dropped the sketchbook on the table. "We don't want his help. He's the drug dealer—"

  "I gathered," Nate said. "You never know what kind of help we'll need."

  "Fine." She grabbed the sketchbook, tore the paper out, and handed it to him. He slipped it in his pocket.

  She wrote something in the sketchbook, tore out a second sheet, and stepped outside. He watched her jog across the street. She folded the note and slipped it under the mission door before she jogged back. "A note for Carlita, so she doesn't worry."

  "What'd you tell her?"

  "That I was going to be gone longer than I'd thought, and that I'd call her soon. And to pray for us." Marisa looked at the bookshelf, then toward her kitchen. "I don't need anything else."

  "You sure?"

  She shrugged. "I'm not sure about anything. I just want Ana back."

  Chapter 8

  THE FLIGHT FROM ACAPULCO to Mexico City took barely long enough to take off and land again. Marisa couldn't help thinking about the last time she'd been on a plane, when Vin
nie had flown her to Montreal to celebrate the anniversary of their first date. That's where he'd proposed. She'd only been twenty at the time, probably too young to get married, but she'd been in love, and Vinnie had been the perfect man. Kind, generous, handsome. He'd lavished her with gifts the same way her father had.

  In retrospect, he hadn't lavished her with his attention—also a lot like her father. He'd always been working, but she'd overlooked that. It would all be different when they married, or so she told herself. And maybe it would have been.

  Vinnie's admission that he'd broken the law hadn't changed her decision to marry him. She'd agreed to stand by him, and at least he'd planned to do the right thing.

  His murder had shattered her life. No, not exactly. His murder had shattered her heart. When she'd run, though, that had ended her life. With Vinnie, she'd been somebody's everything. And even after he'd died, Marisa had had Leslie, she'd had friends and coworkers and fellow students, people who liked her and cared about her. Marisa had mattered to those people.

  After she'd had to escape, it was as if she'd disappeared. She had still existed, still taken up just as much space in the world, but people had stopped seeing her. They often noticed the pretty face—when she didn't hide well enough—but they didn't know her.

  She remembered standing on a corner in Mexico City, surrounded by hoards of people and wanting to scream, "Look at me! I'm right here." Not that she would have, not with her fear of Charles and his goons. Even if she had, though, they wouldn't have looked, wouldn't have cared. She was one of millions and millions of people. She might as well have been a ghost.

  When she'd started teaching at the orphanage, that had changed a little. Even then, though, she could imagine what would have happened if she'd vanished like so many people in this part of the world did. What would they say about her?

  Remember that lady who taught English? She disappeared.

  Oh, how sad. What's for lunch?

  It hadn't been until Marisa found Ana, the baby who'd always been meant to be hers, that Marisa felt corporeal again. Suddenly, she wasn't just the English teacher. She was somebody's mother, and that somebody needed her like Marisa had never been needed before.

  Now Ana was gone. Marisa could feel herself vanishing, even as she sat on the airplane and headed home. Without Ana, she would disappear. Without Ana, Marisa wouldn't matter at all. Without Ana, she wouldn't want to exist, anyway.

  At the airport in Mexico City, Nate bought breakfast and two coffees. Rather than eat at the food court, they continued to the gate to wait for their next flight.

  Seated in one of the many leather-like chairs scattered around the gate area, Marisa eyed the sack Nate had set on the seat between them. "I won't be able to eat. Not until I know where Ana is."

  "Starving yourself won't help."

  When Nate handed her the egg sandwich, her stomach growled. She ate the whole thing, then teared up for the thousandth time that morning. Had Ana eaten breakfast? Had she slept? Had they mistreated her?

  Thirty minutes later, they were seated near the back of the jet, passengers still filing on and filling the rows in front of them. The engine humming below, the murmur of other passengers, and the slamming of overhead bins gave the scene a sense of normalcy.

  As if anything was normal.

  "Why Boston?" Marisa asked.

  "I was surprised when you didn't ask me earlier."

  "I thought about it, but..." She'd been too tired, too worried, to think about anything but what she was doing. She'd focused on getting her stuff, getting to the airport, and getting to Mexico City.

  The truth was, she'd been relieved to turn over the decision-making to Nate. She'd had no idea what to do. She'd been muddling through life for eight years. And what a job she'd done, taking care of herself. Adopting a child who was now in harm's way because of her. If only she'd ignored her sister's email. If only she'd never looked at the computer that day. If only she'd stayed in her safe little village, none of this would have happened.

  Her decisions had gotten her here. They'd gotten Ana and Leslie kidnapped. Marisa never wanted to make another decision as long as she lived.

  But.

  But she couldn't follow blindly. Ana was Marisa's responsibility, and all that had happened was her fault.

  Now that they were about to take off, Marisa needed to know Nate's plan. "You said to do the next thing. So that's what I've been doing."

  He shifted to face her. "There are still people looking for you, right?"

  "Who do you think kidnapped them? The people who were looking for me obviously followed you guys. They must've found me."

  "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not."

  "Wait, what do you mean? Of course it was them."

  "It could have been Charles and his people, but there were a lot of other people at G&K who might've had a bone to pick with you. It wasn't just his money that was stolen. The business account was emptied, too. Everybody lost their jobs. They couldn't even negotiate with the feds to keep their doors open. They were broke. They were in debt."

  "That wasn't my fault."

  "They think it was. Anyway, I'm not willing to take the chance that, while we're searching for Ana, somebody else doesn't try to hurt you."

  "You think I care if something happens to me? As long as Ana's safe."

  "And what happens to Ana if you're killed? Do you want her to grow up without a mother?"

  "Leslie will take care of her."

  "Assuming she survives."

  "Don't say that."

  "And you'd want that, to leave Ana in Leslie's hands? How would Ana feel to lose you? How did you feel when your mother died?"

  "You don't..." She faltered. Her parents' deaths had been devastating, and she'd been an adult, theoretically.

  So she knew what he was saying, but Marisa needed to be close to Ana. "Don't you think they're in New York?"

  "They could be in Florida or California or Nebraska. They didn't say we'd make the trade in New York. And even if they are in the city, how do you propose we find them?"

  "At least we could try. From Boston—"

  "We're not going to Boston. I couldn't get a flight from Mexico City to Manchester without a wicked layover. We're going to New Hampshire."

  "To your hometown?"

  "We'll be safe, and nobody will know where to find us. We can figure out where to go from there."

  "But..." She wanted to argue, because she felt in her bones that Ana was in New York. She wanted to be near her little girl. But Nate's argument was sound, and anyway, she couldn't think straight enough to plan.

  "Go to sleep, Marisa." He stepped out of his seat, searched in the upper compartments, and came back with two pillows and two blankets. "Here." He handed her one of each. "We both need to sleep."

  "I won't be able to."

  "Please, try."

  She stared out the window until the flight took off, trying not to think about Ana and unable to think about anything else. After they'd leveled off, she draped the blanket over her jeans and sweatshirt, which she'd changed into in the airport in Mexico City. She slid her braid over her shoulder and propped the pillow against the window. She closed her eyes. The trip to her village, this flight, the airports—it all felt surreal. Just two days earlier, she and Ana had hitched a ride to Chilpancingo. And now... How had she gotten here? Tears dripped down her face and off her chin.

  "Hey." Nate touched her arm.

  She opened her eyes to find him watching her. He lifted the armrest between their seats and patted his shoulder. "Try this. It's soft."

  She shifted, leaned against Nate. The tears kept coming, but finally she drifted to sleep.

  AT LOGAN INTERNATIONAL in Boston, Marisa reached for the duffel Nate had purchased for her, but he lifted it from the baggage carousel first and slung over his shoulder. He pulled his and Leslie's suitcases toward the doors.

  "I can help with that,” she said.

  He turned, his eyes kind. "I got it."
<
br />   The area was packed with people, most speaking English. Any feeling of joy at being home was tempered by the circumstances.

  She followed Nate, who still looked as good as he had that first day despite so little sleep. They'd both slept much of the nearly seven-hour flight.

  The door to the street opened automatically. He let her go first and followed her to the sidewalk.

  She shivered and folded her arms. "I'd forgotten how cold the air could be."

  He just smiled and led her to a bench. "My friend will be here soon."

  "I feel bad he had to drive so far."

  "I didn't want to rent a car. We could be tracked that way. Bad enough they can track us to Boston through our flights. From here, we shouldn't be easy to find."

  She looked around. "You think we're in danger?"

  "The guys who kidnapped Ana have no reason to hurt us. They want their money. Theoretically, nobody else would know you were coming today. But it won't be long before they do. Information like that tends to spread."

  A shiny black truck pulled to the curb in front of them. A man as built and nearly as handsome as Nate circled the front of it and approached them. He had dark brown hair and warm eyes.

  Nate greeted him with a hug and a slap on the back. "I can't thank you enough, man."

  The man stepped back. "I still owe you."

  "I did nothing," Nate said. "Nothing good, anyway." He turned to her. "Marisa, this is Brady Thomas."

  She stepped forward and shook his hand. "Thank you for coming."

  "No problem." He slung Nate's suitcase in the bed of the truck. Nate followed with the rest. He said to Marisa, "You want yours back here or with you?"

  "Back there is fine."

  He set the duffel in the bed and opened the back door of the pickup. "Are you okay to sit back here? If you'd prefer—"

  "It's fine." She climbed in the backseat and inhaled the new-car smell she hadn't experienced in forever.

  "Nice truck," Nate said.

  Brady pulled into traffic. "I needed something big enough for a car seat."

  "How is Johnny?"

  Marisa could see the man's smile in the rearview mirror. "He's perfect. Crawling all over the house now."

  "Wow. Can't wait to see him. And Rae?"