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“Why should I trust you?”
“Don’t trust me. We can do the photos in an open place. No danger to you or Carlos. I promise.”
Another second of hesitation, then she nods. Just in time.
“It’s all arranged,” Dee says, striding from the hotel with a squeak of the gate. “I’ll show you to your room and speak with Sister Angelica about other ways we can help.”
Rosa stands and picks up Carlos and his toy, which she hands to him when he makes grabby hands toward it. We walk inside together.
After we help Rosa and Carlos get settled, Dee and I return to the street. I’m planning on making my excuses when Dee turns to me. “Would my hero care to walk me to the soup kitchen?”
Hero? Pain stabs me in the chest. After Sofía, I feel like anythingbuta hero. “Oh, aye. But I probably protected those blokes from you more than you from them.”
She smiles, and we move off. Leg screaming in pain after the fight, I limp more noticeably. Dee seems to take note, but doesn’t mention it. Instead, speaking English with her light Spanish accent, she says, “What do you know of El Rico Ladrón?”
More than I’d like. “Locals speak of him as if he’s in the past. Women were lured away through an invitation issued through others, then never came back. Were never heard from again. It’s myth, really. Honestly, I think those lads threatening Rosa used the story as a cover for whatever they intended.”
A line pinches the middle of her brow. “If this has been happening for years and it has nothing to do with traffickers, it could be…” She hesitates but finishes with, “A serial killer.”
A chill works its way down my body. Not sure why I didn’t see it before.
Something on my startled face must make her feel like explaining, because she does.
“Someone who consistently kills woman, who lures them using a predictable pattern—in this case, paying men who won’t be around long enough to testify––and has done this long enough to have rumors circulating, to the point of garnering a name for himself… It’s something to consider.”
She’s right. It’s a wonder it never crossed my mind. “Where did you get your training, Sist… Dee?”
Eyebrows raising at the question, she gestures to my leg. “I recall reading about your injury. It was a bar fight, right?”
Tidy way of turning the tables and of pressing my buttons. I try to shake off the flash of annoyance, but I can’t. I glance into the bright distance and the pink- and orange- and lime-painted buildings. A bar fight? Is that how people remember it? From most people, I wouldn’t care, but her? “Do I look like the type to throw away my career on booze and anger?”
“No,” she answers instantly. “You don’t.”
That soothes my wounded pride. “Thanks for that.”
“Claro, what happened?”
There’s a question. I don’t answer as we pass trinket-sellers, food stalls, and people eating lunch by the fountain.
Where to start? Learning to walk again after the accident. Using drugs and alcohol to numb the pain. The long torturous road to mental and physical recovery? Ach, I shouldn’t. It’s a lovely day, too lovely to bring up ugly memories. Not right. “Too nice a day to get into all that.”
“I could google it.”
Bloody hell. “Didn’t think you knew about google blackmail, Sister Dee.”
“Just Dee. And I’m a nun, not someone from another planet.”
Rubbing at the knot of pain forming at the top of my bum leg, I admit the truth. “I can’t see you as a nun. Sorry.”
There’s a long beat of silence. I’ve offended her. I can tell by the way she’s holding herself, but I have no idea how to take it back.
After a moment, she says, “Not a bar fight, so what happened?”
I like that, like how she moved past my offense. I like it enough that I tell her the truth. “I had an exhibition game in the States, then went out afterward to blow off steam. I was leaving the bar and saw one of my teammates, a guy known to have a temper, along with a morality problem, dragging a woman into his rental. Not a stretch to guess his intent. I ran over, punched him in the face, and tossed him to the ground. I was taking her inside to call the authorities, and—”
“He shot you in the leg three times.”
“Aye.” The papers had at least gotten that detail right. “Bloke who’d done it claimed self-defense. He wasn’t prosecuted.”
