Twisted Lies Read online

  They searched the Pod until they found the box marked photos, then dug inside. The item they uncovered was a color sketch on cream-colored paper. He'd had it professionally mounted in a thick gilded frame. The drawing depicted a little log cabin surrounded by tall trees and nestled against a sparkling blue lake. In the bottom corner, Marisa had written her initials in tiny letters.

  The artwork was simple. And it wasn't. With her talent and a box of colored pencils, Marisa had made the scene come alive. Nate could almost smell the flowers she'd drawn in the dainty window boxes, hear the lapping of ripples on the serene lake.

  "May I?"

  He handed Leslie the picture. "Your sister is immensely talented."

  "I know." Her tone was flat. "She's good at everything."

  Was that jealousy? Probably, but who could blame Leslie? Her little sister wasn't just talented, she was beautiful. The kind of beautiful a man couldn't forget. Not that Nate hadn't tried over the years, knowing he'd never seen her again.

  Leslie stepped out of the Pod, and Nate followed, closed the door, and locked it behind him.

  Back in the kitchen, Leslie opened her purse and pulled out a magnifying glass.

  Nate stared at the top of her frizzy head while she studied the picture. He couldn't imagine she'd find anything. That picture had hung over his bureau for years. He'd looked at it a thousand times, and he'd never seen anything out of the ordinary.

  "Got it." Leslie didn't look up. "Can you write this down for me?"

  Just like that? So much for his powers of observation. He snatched a Sharpie and an old newspaper from his pile of packing supplies. "Go."

  She recited an email address, and he wrote it down, a random scattering of numbers and letters at a Yahoo account.

  She looked up, triumphant. "We got her."

  He wasn't so sure. "May I see?"

  She handed him the magnifying glass and pointed to a spot on one of the logs that made up the cabin. He looked at the spot with his naked eye and saw nothing. But through the magnifying glass...

  He looked up. "How did you know it would be there?"

  She shrugged. "She's my sister."

  He handed her the magnifying glass and ripped away the edge of the newspaper where he'd written the email address. He held it out. "Here you go."

  She looked at it, looked at him. "I think you should email her."

  He took a step back. "Why me?"

  "They might be monitoring my email."

  "But if I email her, then when she emails back, I'll have to contact you. Won't that be just as dangerous?"

  "I'll wait."

  He stepped back, lifted his hands. "Whoa. Look, I was happy to help, but now I'm out."

  "Marisa trusts you."

  "She trusts you, too." He pointed to the drawing. "Or she wouldn't have left you that message."

  "She left it with you, Nate."

  "It doesn't matter. I can't—"

  "I'm scared to go home, okay?" She paused, swallowed, as if the admission had cost her. "I just...can I please just stay here. I'll help you pack. I'll be quiet, I promise, and...Marisa trusts you. So I trust you."

  He glared. He didn't need this woman here, cluttering up his life. He'd planned to finish packing the next day and and move for good. The house was already under contract. With no job in Manhattan, no former coworkers who cared to keep in touch, no friends here in Queens, there was no reason to hang around. Certainly not to help this woman with whatever wild goose chase she was on. Even if she was in danger.

  Even if Marisa was in danger.

  The thought made his pulse race, and he pulled in a deep breath, then another until he thought he could talk again.

  As Leslie watched, her eyes filled with fear and pleading. "I'm a good packer. And I own a cleaning company. When you're through, I can have my crew clean the house for you, no charge."

  Was she crazy? Did she think he'd risk his life to avoid cleaning his own house?

  Okay, he was being melodramatic, and her offer was tempting. He could use the extra set of hands. And the woman needed his help.

  And to communicate with Marisa again...

  He could practically hear his counselor's voice. "To not risk is to not live. The world isn't that dangerous."

  It was, though. Danger lurked around every corner. And perhaps right here, right now.

  But Leslie was in danger. God knew, he wanted to send the woman away. But no matter how much the thought of helping her terrified him, he couldn't live with the alternative.

  "Fine. Let me get my computer."

  Chapter 2

  WHEN MARISA VEGA WAS a little girl, dreaming of her future, this life had never crossed her mind. Who knew it could be so good? She'd escaped New York eight years earlier and thought her life was over. Without Vinnie, without her sister, without her parents, what did she have to live for?

  She brushed her teeth, showered, and braided her hair before she tiptoed back into her bedroom and looked at the sleeping form on the far side of the bed. Curly dark brown hair peeked above the blanket. Marisa had memorized the beautiful face hidden beneath, those dark chocolate eyes. She'd fallen in love the first moment she'd seen the child as a newborn, still pink from birth, silent as if she'd given up on the world. Aside from when she slept, that may have been the last time Ana was quiet.

  "Despertarse." She rubbed her hand over the messy hair. "Wake up, pajarita."

  Ana slowly turned over and opened her eyes. "Mama, why do you call me little bird?"

  Marisa smiled at her daughter and supplied the same answer she gave every morning. "Because you're always chirping."

  Ana sat up, wrapped her slender arms around Marisa's neck, and kissed her on the cheek, her lips rose-petal soft. "Buenos dias."

  "Good morning." Marisa responded in English. "Hurry and get your clothes on. Are you hungry?"

  "Si."

  Marisa laughed. "That's the other reason I call you little bird. You eat like a bird—three times your weight every day."

  Five minutes later, they stepped into the sunshine. The early morning humidity would only get worse, and by afternoon, the air would be stifling. Marisa held Ana's hand, and they walked across the narrow gravel road to the orphanage that had been Marisa's place of employment since she'd arrived in town years earlier. The scent of coffee from the shop on the corner had her mouth watering. Sometimes on Saturdays, she would let Ana play with a neighbor and go to the coffee shop to enjoy one perfect cup. She'd take her sketchbook and pencils and draw what she saw—or what she remembered. Sometimes, the front of the old mission that had become the orphanage. Sometimes, the street she grew up on back in Queens. Sometimes, the face of her fiancé, dead eight years now. Often, she'd sketch Ana.

  There'd be no sketching today, but maybe later, during siesta, she could set up her paints in the mission courtyard. An hour, no more, to satisfy the urge to create while her daughter and the rest of the town slept.

  They entered the orphanage, passed the office, and headed down the long hallway to the cafeteria, their feet tapping on the faded red Spanish tiles. Marisa paused at the entrance. "Behave yourself and—"

  "I know. Eat my eggs."

  "They have protein. You want to grow healthy and strong."

  Ana was halfway to her chair by the time Marisa finished the sentence. She waited until Ana had taken her seat beside her best friend at one of the long tables. The two tables each sat twenty kids on long benches. There seemed to be more than the room could accommodate this morning.

  In the kitchen, Marisa served herself two huevos rancheros from a platter and poured a cup of coffee. She carried her breakfast to the office.

  "Did we get more kids?" she asked when she stepped inside.

  "Sí." Carlita looked up and rubbed her eyes. Her hair seemed grayer this morning, her skin paler. "A single mother dropped off three last night. She said her husband had disappeared, and she couldn't feed them."

  Disappeared. Happened too often in this part of Mexi
co, and most of the time, the people never turned up except in the form of dried bones in the desert.

  "So were you up all night?"

  Carlita shrugged.

  "We have room for the new kids?"

  "Barely."

  Marisa set her breakfast on the table in the corner of the small room, a good spot to feel the morning breeze, which fluttered the gauzy curtains and carried the scents of dust and the manure piles the mules deposited daily. Marisa gazed at the picture on the wall across from her. The village at sunset, children playing in the foreground, the mission a silhouette behind. Marisa had painted that one and all the pictures that hung in the orphanage and in her small house. And a few at the coffee shop. There were pictures she'd painted or sketched all over town, gifts Marisa had given the people who'd taken her in, made her feel at home.

  Marisa prepared her lessons for the day while she ate. She'd been teaching English at the school attached to the orphanage for years, so preparation didn't take that long. Thirty minutes later, she made her way to the first classroom.

  The children greeted her with smiles and waves when she walked in. The small room had one window and four rectangular tables long enough to comfortably fit two students each. Four sat at each today, kindergartners through second grade—and little Ana, whom Marisa had insisted be included with the kindergarten class. Theirs was the only school in town, so the kids came from all over the village. Most were barely subsisting with their meager income, but a few came from families whose fathers were involved in the drug trade. They were the only ones with money to spare.

  Marisa moved on to teach the next grades up when the youngest class filed out. Carlita was determined that no matter what, no student would leave the orphanage without speaking and writing English well. That alone would set them apart from kids in nearby schools, where the teachers rarely knew much more than the kids and the curriculum was often not just outdated, but sometimes, outright wrong.

  Marisa returned to the office after her last class of the morning and looked longingly at Carlita's computer. She'd hoped to order painting supplies, the only luxury she allowed herself. Carlita looked up from her paperwork and lifted her eyebrows.

  "Would you mind if I—?"

  "I'll grab some lunch. And maybe a nap." The older woman stretched and stood.

  After Carlita left, Marisa slid into the cracked leather seat in front of the new desktop, her portal to civilization, and typed. The computer had been a gift from the church in Oklahoma that supported the orphanage. Marisa tried to get on the computer once a day, mostly to remind herself there was a world outside of her little village. She loved to read the news and check Facebook. Her sister's posts were rare, but any time Marisa was able to see Leslie's face, even if the photograph was old, it made her heart sing—and yearn for home. Most of the time, their Internet was too spotty to waste time. She navigated to the paint supplier's website and ordered the things she needed. Since Carlita wasn't back yet, Marisa clicked over to her email, though she knew it was pointless. She checked almost daily. She hadn't received an email in eight years.

  But today, there was a message in her inbox. The sender's address gave no indication who it was.

  Her hands shook, though from excitement or fear, she wasn't sure.

  She clicked on the message and read the text.

  It's Nate Boyle. I'm here with your sister. She needs to get in touch with you. It's an emergency.

  Marisa stared at the words, almost afraid to move. Afraid they'd disappear, a mirage in the Mexican heat. Her heart pounded as if she'd been running. She swiped her moist hands on her shorts.

  Her feelings were a knotted ball of multicolored threads, and she wasn't sure which color to untangle first. She was excited to hear from them, of course. Excited, but another thread had her heart thumping wildly, because if Leslie had gone to the trouble to find her, something must be very wrong.

  Marisa looked up from the screen to see if anybody was watching. Old habits and all that, but she was alone and the space was quiet, if you didn't count the sounds of the children playing in the courtyard and the rumble of carts and clunker cars on the gravel out front. And she didn't—those sounds had become as common to her as the rattle of the radiator and the blast of car horns had been in New York.

  She stared at the words. Nate Boyle. She'd first known him as Walter Boyle, no more than a by-line in the local paper back in Queens. She wouldn't have known what he looked like if not for the times he'd filled in for the regular columnist and had his photograph printed above the column. She wouldn't have cared if she hadn't recognized him as the guy she saw almost daily on the bus on her way to class. And she wouldn't have noticed him at all if he hadn't been so attractive.

  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.

  Would Nate be around? She could still conjure his image. Still thought of him often. Too often, considering they'd never had anything but a business relationship. Well, business plus a lot of meals together. The fact that he'd helped her stay alive probably went beyond the typical reporter-source relationship.

  Marisa was telling herself for the millionth time not to think about Nate Boyle—a futile command if she'd ever heard on
e—when the email program dinged.

  She stalked to the computer and looked.

  Leslie is safe for now, but she needs to see you.

  She stood straight again. Odd that Nate was emailing instead of Leslie.

  Okay, not completely odd. She'd made it so they would need to contact each other in order to contact her. Her pathetic little fail-safe. Nate had held onto the drawing while Leslie had always had the ability to find the information it held. So neither could just contact her on a whim, and they'd both have to agree. Nate probably hadn't even known he could. So yes, it made sense they were together. But once Leslie had gotten the email address, why keep Nate involved?

  Marisa trusted Nate. Of course she trusted her sister, too, but Nate had proved over and over he was not only trustworthy, but able to protect her. Maybe Leslie understood that Nate's presence would make Marisa more comfortable.

  On the other hand, what if she was being duped? What if these people weren't Nate and Leslie at all? What if Nate had second thoughts about protecting her? What if he'd discovered the email address and given it to that FBI agent?

  Worse yet, it could be one of Charles Gray's men. Charles was still in prison, but he'd had enough friends on the outside to force Marisa to run for her life. What if one of them had gotten ahold of the email address?

  Maybe one of them was forcing Leslie to email her right now.

  Marisa had to know.

  She sat and clicked reply. Leslie is with you right now?

  He answered immediately. Right beside me.

  Ask her... Marisa paused. She thought for a moment, then typed, Where was the doll's favorite hiding place?

  A moment passed. Marisa stared at the screen. If it took too long, she would know. But what would she do about it? If it was Charles's men, Marisa couldn't let Leslie be hurt, tortured even, to save herself.

  She thought of little Ana. If she had to choose between her sister and her daughter...

  The inbox dinged. Thank God.

  Hi, sis. She liked to hide on the shelf beside the macaroni.

  It was an old argument. Marisa thought the doll preferred the floor of Mom's closet, beside the pretty shoes. Leslie argued that the poor doll needed to eat sometimes. Another message came in.