the longing. Clearing away one more obstacle from her path.
Then she saw the police car parked in front of the gates.
Sofia leapt from her van and raced through the gates. She crossed the silent courtyard to where Simon stood on the broad porch fronting Harold’s office. Simon’s haughty demeanor was gone, his armor shredded by what he observed.
The agent’s name was Consuela Martinez. Officially she was part of the Mexican drug task force. But she also served in a number of informal capacities. One of which was rounding up young survivors of la violenza . She and Harold spoke softly. A little girl stood between them. Martinez held the girl’s hand. In the agent’s other hand was a sheaf of documents.
Simon’s gaze looked haunted. “The little girl is an orphan?”
“I assume so,” Sofia replied.
The child looked shattered and so weary she could scarcely hold herself erect. She was probably nine or ten years old. She was also extremely beautiful. Her features looked sculpted from alabaster. Not even her exhaustion or tragic shock could erase the magnetic quality of her loveliness.
Simon said, “I thought Pedro said the violence does not touch here.”
“No place in Mexico is totally safe. But OJ is so isolated, it escapes the worst. So far.”
“OJ?”
“Ojinaga. It’s how we call it.” Sofia watched Harold stoop down in front of the child and pull a strand of Red Rope from his pocket. Sofia’s eyes burned at the memory of other times. Red Rope was Harold’s favorite remedy for childhood traumas. “Agent Martinez is based a hundred miles to the west in Juárez. Such a beautiful girl should not be placed in the state orphanage system. They can disappear, you understand? So she brings them here. When she can.”
The shadow in Simon’s gaze defied the sunlight. “Is this what happened to you?”
“We were younger than this one. I was six, Pedro three. Our parents were mistaken for members of a rival gang. Or so we heard later. At the time all we knew was, they were gone. Without Harold . . .” She could not keep the desperation from her voice. “Do you see how important it is not to bring danger to this place?”
Simon watched Harold rise and sign the documents held by the agent. “Why does he want me to stay?”
“That is not the question you need to be asking. Whatever Harold is thinking, you need to lookat that little child and realize what you could bring down on this place.”
Simon’s shoulders slumped further. “Soon as I get my passport, I’m out of here.”
“I spoke with Enrique. He is on his way over. Hopefully he can help.”
“Okay. Great.”
Sofia studied the man standing beside her. Something about Simon left her wondering if he, too, was an orphan. Vasquez had never spoken about Simon’s family. Sofia resisted the urge to ask him. She did not need to know anything further about this one.
Relief flooded her at the prospect that Simon would soon leave them for good. But Sofia was too honest not to admit that she also felt regret. Which was absurd, really. She knew all his bad habits. And yet, standing here and observing him at his weakest, she could not help but feel a sense of the other side, the one that Vasquez had talked about endlessly. The intelligence, the promise, the fire in Simon that had almost been extinguished and yet might still burn brightly again. If only . . .
If only she could banish those thoughts. She said the first thing that came to mind. “When I was seventeen, I ran away.”
He jerked out of his own sorrowful cave. “From here?”
“From here, from Harold. I was in full teenage rebellion. And this place has so many rules. I argued with everyone.”
“I can’t imagine that ever happening,” Simon said dryly.
“Harold wanted me to grow up and take over the orphanage. He had it all planned out. And some days I was content with that. Other days, I could have screamed with the frustration of feeling so trapped.”
She stopped,
Then she saw the police car parked in front of the gates.
Sofia leapt from her van and raced through the gates. She crossed the silent courtyard to where Simon stood on the broad porch fronting Harold’s office. Simon’s haughty demeanor was gone, his armor shredded by what he observed.
The agent’s name was Consuela Martinez. Officially she was part of the Mexican drug task force. But she also served in a number of informal capacities. One of which was rounding up young survivors of la violenza . She and Harold spoke softly. A little girl stood between them. Martinez held the girl’s hand. In the agent’s other hand was a sheaf of documents.
Simon’s gaze looked haunted. “The little girl is an orphan?”
“I assume so,” Sofia replied.
The child looked shattered and so weary she could scarcely hold herself erect. She was probably nine or ten years old. She was also extremely beautiful. Her features looked sculpted from alabaster. Not even her exhaustion or tragic shock could erase the magnetic quality of her loveliness.
Simon said, “I thought Pedro said the violence does not touch here.”
“No place in Mexico is totally safe. But OJ is so isolated, it escapes the worst. So far.”
“OJ?”
“Ojinaga. It’s how we call it.” Sofia watched Harold stoop down in front of the child and pull a strand of Red Rope from his pocket. Sofia’s eyes burned at the memory of other times. Red Rope was Harold’s favorite remedy for childhood traumas. “Agent Martinez is based a hundred miles to the west in Juárez. Such a beautiful girl should not be placed in the state orphanage system. They can disappear, you understand? So she brings them here. When she can.”
The shadow in Simon’s gaze defied the sunlight. “Is this what happened to you?”
“We were younger than this one. I was six, Pedro three. Our parents were mistaken for members of a rival gang. Or so we heard later. At the time all we knew was, they were gone. Without Harold . . .” She could not keep the desperation from her voice. “Do you see how important it is not to bring danger to this place?”
Simon watched Harold rise and sign the documents held by the agent. “Why does he want me to stay?”
“That is not the question you need to be asking. Whatever Harold is thinking, you need to lookat that little child and realize what you could bring down on this place.”
Simon’s shoulders slumped further. “Soon as I get my passport, I’m out of here.”
“I spoke with Enrique. He is on his way over. Hopefully he can help.”
“Okay. Great.”
Sofia studied the man standing beside her. Something about Simon left her wondering if he, too, was an orphan. Vasquez had never spoken about Simon’s family. Sofia resisted the urge to ask him. She did not need to know anything further about this one.
Relief flooded her at the prospect that Simon would soon leave them for good. But Sofia was too honest not to admit that she also felt regret. Which was absurd, really. She knew all his bad habits. And yet, standing here and observing him at his weakest, she could not help but feel a sense of the other side, the one that Vasquez had talked about endlessly. The intelligence, the promise, the fire in Simon that had almost been extinguished and yet might still burn brightly again. If only . . .
If only she could banish those thoughts. She said the first thing that came to mind. “When I was seventeen, I ran away.”
He jerked out of his own sorrowful cave. “From here?”
“From here, from Harold. I was in full teenage rebellion. And this place has so many rules. I argued with everyone.”
“I can’t imagine that ever happening,” Simon said dryly.
“Harold wanted me to grow up and take over the orphanage. He had it all planned out. And some days I was content with that. Other days, I could have screamed with the frustration of feeling so trapped.”
She stopped,
Similar Books
