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“Almost there,” the driver says.

The road narrows even more. Walls rise on either side. White, peach, blue, stone, with gates set into them. I catch pieces of views between houses: ocean, sky, red-tile roofs, green hills folding down toward water.

The cab slows in front of a white wall with a blue door and a small tiled sign beside it.

Casa Sirena.

The letters are hand-painted, blue on white, with a little mermaid curved along the bottom edge. Pretty.

My pulse starts up again.

The driver stops. For a second, neither of us moves.

Then he turns halfway around. “Here.”

“Yeah.”

I open the door, and heat rushes in.

The street is quiet except for a dog barking somewhere above us and a scooter whining down the hill. The ocean glitters below, not close but present, like the whole city is leaning toward it.

The driver gets my suitcase from the trunk. I pay him too much because I do not know how not to. He seems pleased, which confirms it.

“Gracias,” I say, my accent probably hurtful.

The cab disappears around the bend, leaving me on a steep street in Puerto Vallarta with my backpack, my suitcase, and a white wall that may just represent the dumbest decision of my life.

I look at the sign again.

Renny’s house.

Maybe my house.

Maybe a place I have no right to be.

Sweat runs down from my temples. The suitcase handle is warm in my palm.

Somewhere behind the wall, a latch clicks. A man steps out, older, neatly dressed in lightweight pants and a short-sleeved button-up, keys in one hand, polite uncertainty already on his face.

“Mr. DeLuca?”

My mouth goes dry.

“Yeah,” I say, and tighten my hand around the suitcase handle. “That’s me.”

He smiles politely. Not warmly.

“I am Rafael. I manage the property.”

He holds out his hand. I switch the suitcase handle to my left and shake. His palm is dry. Mine is not. Fantastic first impression.

“Clint,” I say.

“Yes. Mr. Clint.”

“Just Clint is fine.”

“Of course.”