His fingers trembled on the paper until Callie stilled it with her own hands.
“She looks like…me?” Callie gasped.
It was a close-up picture of a woman who—but for her obviously dyed blonde hair—indeed lookedjustlike Callie. The woman’s warm-olive skin glowed under the sun as she laughed outside a café at something—or someone—out of frame. Her brilliant smile, the one she only gavehim, made Hawk’s heart beat again, just like it did all those years ago.
Phoenix sucked in a breath and shook his head. “No… it’s… holy shit.Fuck. Hawk is that—”
“Yeah… it’s Hannah.” He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry with panic over what this could mean. “He found her.”
CHAPTERONE
Present Day
“Es un día caluroso aquí en Truist Park mientras los Bravos de Atlanta juegan contra los Dodgers de Los Ángeles…”
“I don’t care how hot it is back in Atlanta. The Braves better beat them this time, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“¿Perdóneme?”
At the sound of the female voice so close to her, Hannah’s fingers tightened around her necklace and she jolted from her reverie, nearly dropping her newly dried T-shirt into the laundry hamper before she could fold it. Two elderly women, the only other patrons inside thelavandería, stood in front of her next to a large dryer a few machines down. One tilted her head at Hannah with curiosity, while the other’s weathered brow furrowed, accentuating the wrinkles etched in her bronze skin.
Under the old woman’s wary brown eyes, Hannah tucked her necklace back under her T-shirt and rubbed her sweaty hands on her jeans. Her cheeks heated as she explained herself.
“Lo siento.Estaba hablando solo.”
An apologetic smile ghosted across Hannah’s lips after she explained she was talking to herself, but the other woman’s judgment didn’t disappear. The two women held Hannah’s stare for a moment too long. With only the sound of the machines running in the background, it was hard to focus on anything other than the awkward moment, making Hannah’s muscles tighten with panic.
Do they recognize me? Has someone asked about me?
Finally, the scowling woman nodded once before returning to her laundry and muttering under her breath to her friend.
“Chicana loca.”
Hannah almost snorted at the woman’s derision. A little over two years ago, she would’ve. But now, attention like that could be memorable and she survived on being forgotten.
Her stomach turned over at the thought of having to leave yet another city she loved, only to start all over again somewhere else in Mexico. Her little house was perfect this time around and had all the amenities she needed close by. There was a laundromat, a market, a café and a park to keep from going stir-crazy, and a post office where she could mail the artwork she painted for her online store to make ends meet. Mérida had been one of her longest stays yet, and the rich city was finally starting to feel like home.
Don’t overreact. They’re just harmless old ladies. Busybodies, just like in the States, but harmless.
She swallowed back the paranoia manifesting as a lump in her throat and continued to fold the clothes from the dryer into her hamper at a quicker speed. The laundromat had a small TV hanging in the corner and she’d planned laundry day around the Atlanta Braves baseball game so she could fold and watch at the same time. It’d already gone on several innings, much longer than she ever felt comfortable staying away from her house nearby.
Maybe it was time she left the city anyway. The more she stayed in one place, the more her body itched with anxiety over the fear she’d be discovered. It was a bizarre cat-and-mouse game, where she found more stability in the instability of moving around all the time, and less safety the more comfortable she became in her new home.
For the umpteenth time, she wished she’d been able to drop off her clothes and use the services thelavanderíaoffered. But art commissions weren’t a predictable income and now that her savings were running low, she needed all the clothes and money she had. If she’d used a laundry service everywhere she went, she’d have run out of both by now.
A loudcrackresoundedfrom the TV’s speakers right before the announcer’s voice increased in pitch and speed. Hannah glanced up at the screen just in time to see a Braves player slide into home. She subtly pumped her fist before she could stop herself, a simple celebration she’d picked up long ago and still a habit she couldn’t break after all these years.
If the Braves won, there was a certain someone she’d have to answer to tonight, and she’d get to make sweet tea like the kind they had in the United States. It was a simple bet they’d had for the past two years, a way to bring a piece of home wherever they went, and she hoped they’d win because thanks to the Braves’ losing streak, it’d been over a week and a half since they’d had the sugary beverage.
“¿Viste al gringo caminando por el barrio esta mañana?”
Hannah’s eyes widened, but no longer focused on the TV in the corner as her heart froze in her chest. Her fingers stilled midair, clinging to a partially folded T-shirt, while her ears strained to hear the elderly woman’s answer about whether she saw the white man walking around the neighborhood that morning.
“Sí, claro que lo hice. ¿De verdad pensó que no lo notaríamos? Él estaba mirando dentro de nuestras casas.”
Yes, of course I did. Did he really think we wouldn’t notice? He was looking inside our homes.
Hannah’s stalled-out heart kicked back into gear, racing in her chest. Before she could stop to think about how she might be putting them in danger by talking to them, she heard herself asking in Spanish whether they’d called the police.
