Chapter 10
TEN
Ryan went to the window and cracked it open.
Outside, the Ensenada sun bounced off the corrugated roofs of neighboring buildings, casting hard-edged shadows into the alley below.
A gull cried overhead. Somewhere down the block, a car horn blared, long and irritated.
Normal sounds. Life continuing, as if the world hadn’t just shifted under his feet.
He leaned his forearms on the sill, feeling the heat of the frame sink into his skin. Five days. To track down a woman he’d never met.
He shoved away from the window and crossed the room, starting to pace. The tile floor was warm beneath his feet. He had to think like a marshal again.
Find Lucía Duarte.
But how? The name meant nothing. All he could deduce about her from the facts at hand was that she must have something someone wanted badly enough to snatch a kid off an American lawn to get it.
What are you going to do, Ryan? Run? Or hunt?
He sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. Sweat beaded at his temples, the coastal heat making the air feel heavier than it should.
Kylie, what would you want me to do?
Silence.
He’d had hundreds of imaginary conversations with his wife over the years. Probably more than they’d had real conversations. In truth, Kylie had haunted him long before she died. Not with memories, but with guilt.
Guilt that he’d pushed her too hard after the miscarriage, when they were barely more than kids themselves.
Guilt that he couldn’t stop her from unraveling, from slipping into the slow spiral of depression and addiction.
That he’d watched her chase danger, chase chaos, chase other men, and let his own bitterness keep him from dragging her back from the edge.
Worst of all, he’d never been able to sever the thread between them, even after she’d left town. He’d always answered her calls. Always came running. Always enabled, even when he told himself he was trying to help.
But the deepest wound, the one that wouldn’t close, was this: he hadn’t helped the one time it truly mattered. Maybe, just maybe, if he could help her son, he could lay a few of those demons to rest.
His jaw clenched. For a moment he didn’t feel tired anymore. He felt awake in a way he hadn’t in years.
Abruptly he stood, shoved the chair aside, and pulled the duffle bag from under the bed. Started packing. Clean shirt. Jeans. Extra magazines. Passport.
He hesitated before adding his badge. The chromium star still gleamed in the light. He turned it over in his hand, then slid it into the bag.
If he was going to do this—really do this—he’d need to remember who the hell he used to be.
The bus rocked gently with each curve in the mountain road, tires whirring against the asphalt as dusk rolled in through the scratched windows. Lucía kept her eyes trained on the murky horizon, chin tilted just enough to avoid catching her reflection in the window.
She’d been on the run for over nine years. And every time she had left a place behind, it felt like she lost a little more of herself. Not just names or bank accounts. The deeper parts. Memories. Touchstones. Voice patterns. Favorite foods. Anything that might anchor her too solidly to one life.
She reminded herself that she wasn’t running without aim, not this time.
She had one stop in mind: Ramiro Vargas, her father’s old boss.
The man who used to sneak her tamarindo candy and let her spin in the dispatch chair while her father worked on trucks in the yard.
He was perhaps the last person alive who might still open a door for her without asking for an explanation first. If Ramiro said yes, she’d have a fighting chance. If he said no…
She didn’t let herself finish that thought.
Shifting in the hard seat, she glanced toward the back of the bus. Just a quick scan. Old reflex.
There was no one suspicious. Just a mother dozing with a toddler splayed across her lap. A couple of students murmuring over a shared playlist. An elderly man holding a rosary and talking to himself in whispers.
And…him.
Mid-twenties, maybe. Strong jawline, thick lashes, a lean build beneath a worn denim shirt. Handsome, in a soft, non-threatening way.
He was looking at her.
Lucía’s stomach tightened. She immediately dropped her gaze and shifted in her seat, casually as she could, the hairs on her arms prickling to attention.
Was he watching her? Had he boarded after her, or before?
She tried to replay it, tried to recall faces at the station.
Nothing stood out. Had she been too distracted?
She peeked back around, just enough to confirm it.
Still looking.
But his expression wasn’t cold or calculating. In fact, he was smiling. Not wide, just the barest curve of interest, the hopeful flicker of someone trying not to be obvious.
Oh. He was flirting.
The realization hit her like a slap. Not because of him, but because of the way her body had reacted: tense, closed off, braced for violence. Her mind had gone straight to they’ve found me, not he’s cute. When had she last let someone look at her like that? When had she last looked back?
She turned her head again, letting the curtain of her dark hair fall into place, shielding her expression. Her heart was still thudding, but the fear had cooled into something quieter. Sadness.
The idea that someone might see her as attractive, as desirable, felt absurd. It was like being handed a ticket to a movie that had ended years ago.
There’d been a time, in another life—literally—when she’d wanted marriage. A home. Children. She’d pictured it often: messy mornings, socks on the floor, pancake batter on the counter. A husband with laughing eyes, the sounds of life filling the kitchen.
That dream was well and truly dead now. Not buried, there hadn’t been time for a funeral, but long gone.
She shifted again, pulling her backpack closer between her knees. The bus was climbing now, the air thinning as Oaxaca’s ridgelines came into view beyond the glass.