Just breathe.

She drew a ragged breath, then another, and walked two steps to the sink. The mirror reflected an exhausted woman with a tear-streaked face and wild hair. She dropped her purse on the tile counter and turned on the faucet. Water ran coldly in the sink, sounding loud in the silence. She dipped her hands in the flow, cupped up a double handful, and slapped it against her face. The water smelled faintly of chlorine. It took a few hard, cold splashes, but finally she breathed almost normally without having to remind herself.

The soap was wrapped in paper. It smelled too sweet, like Grandma Marta’s pink bath bar, a scent that brought memories gushing back, everything Grace had vowed to leave behind.

Tears much hotter than water ran down her face.

Never look back.

For the first time she wondered if Marta had managed that inhuman feat.

With quick, automatic gestures, Grace fixed her makeup and finger-combed her hair. Despite eyes bloodshot from crying, the new woman in the mirror looked more together. She dug out a bottle of eyedrops. They burned worse than tears, but the next time she looked in the mirror her eyes were clear. She smoothed her clothes as best she could, opened the bathroom door, and went out to face whatever came next.

Sultry, thick air billowed through the open drapes. Boats at anchor moved restlessly, reflecting the power of the distant storm even in sheltered waters. She felt her mood lift. Part of her was looking forward to the violent storm to come. She’d always loved storms. They had a freedom she’d allowed herself only once.

With Joe Faroe.

The man who was leaning against the railing, his arms straight, his attention entirely on the view below.

Memorizing everything, no doubt, she thought with a flash of irritation. Where does that man get his energy and focus?

Room service had been uncommonly quick. A handful of plates covered with tin hats sat on the table. An ice bucket on a stand held six long-necked bottles of Corona beer.

Faroe looked over his shoulder as she walked up behind him.

“Better,” he said. “Food will help even more.”

“Stop mothering me.”

He stepped close to her, close enough to stir her hair with his breath. “I don’t feel a damn bit motherly toward you.”

Her eyes widened. “It’s just the wind.”

“What is?”

“The wind reminds you of the time when we were…together.”

“Amada,” he said, breathing in her scent, “there are few things on the face of this earth that don’t remind me of you.”

For an instant she was certain he was going to kiss her. Then he stepped away.

“There’s chicken, steak, and cold lobster,” he said. “Eat.”

He went to the table, opened two bottles of beer, and lifted lids off plates. Three kinds of protein. Baskets of small flour tortillas and a bowl of fresh salsa. He took a tortilla, forked a few bites of roasted chicken into it, and added salsa. Then he folded the tortilla neatly, rolled it in a napkin, and offered it to her.

“Do you have to do everything so well?” she asked, irritated all over again.

“You pay for the best, you get the best,” he said, still holding out the food. “Eat. Like I said before, you’re a high-octane woman and you’re running on empty. If you won’t eat for yourself, do it for your son.”

She took the burrito. A single bite told her that Faroe was right. She was so hungry she was weak.

No wonder my emotions are all over the place.

Quickly she ate the burrito, looked up, and found another burrito under her nose. Lobster this time, marinated in cilantro and lime, so succulent she almost drooled. She dove in and didn’t come up for air.

Watching Grace without appearing to, Faroe ate a few pieces of lobster meat dipped in salsa. Then he made himself a fat steak burrito and added a couple of jalapeno peppers from a separate plate. He grabbed a beer, took the burrito to the balcony, and watched the restaurant.

Grace scooped more lobster into a tortilla, made a defiantly messy burrito, and went out to the balcony.

Four stories below, two workmen were busy inside the restaurant’s high fence. There was a pile of flagstones that the men had lifted out of the walkway.

“That’s another irritating thing,” she said.

“Workmen moving flagstones?” Faroe asked without looking away from the men.

“No. You. You’re always multitasking. Eating and talking and watching, yet still completely focused on the job.”

“Steele would drive you nuts. He’s twice as bad as I am.”

“Are those two men really that interesting?” Grace mumbled around a bite of lobster.

“Short of digging foxholes under live fire, I’ve never seen two men work harder in my life. This is manana-land, yet they’re acting like someone is holding a stopwatch on them. I find that curious.”

Especially when Hector Rivas Osuna is expected to appear at this very restaurant tonight.

Grace leaned against the railing, licked her fingers, and looked down. Anyone who wanted to watch the men would have to be above them. They were hidden from ground-level people by the high wall and heavily decorated wrought-iron gate. Both men were dressed in coveralls and carrying toolboxes. A pickup truck parked in the alley behind the restaurant held more tools.

One workman tilted a large flagstone on edge and braced it with his body so that the other man could dig in the sandy soil beneath.

“They look perfectly ordinary to me,” she said. “You’re just paranoid. You’ve lived in this hellish world too long. Everything sets you off.”

“Could be,” Faroe said.

And kept on watching with the intensity of a hungry wolf.

“What do you see that I don’t?” she asked finally.

“There’s some sort of official decal on the side of the truck.”

“So?”

“Even in Mexico, city or state employees don’t usually work on private property.”

“Maybe they’re repairing a sewer leak,” she said.

“Ensenada’s sewers run the other way, a straight flush to the bay.”

“Remind me not to go swimming here.”

Faroe went back into the suite and returned with his binoculars. He dragged a chair over to the railing and sat down, peering between the rails with the binoculars.

Grace snuck some of Faroe’s beer and waited.

Silence.

“Well?” she prodded.

“Don’t go swimming here.”

She didn’t know whether to smile or smack him. “Do you see anything interesting?”

“They’re wearing coveralls, but one of them is wearing a white dress shirt underneath,” Faroe said. “In short, they aren’t your average dirt-poor Joses living off their brawn.”

He offered her the glasses and the chair. She put aside his beer and sat down. The little binoculars were astonishingly strong and clear. Their power magnified the tremor in her hands, visible proof of her underlying tension. She rested her hands on the railing to steady them.

The two men jumped into focus. They looked too soft to be manual laborers. Sweat ran down their full cheeks. One man was indeed wearing a white dress shirt and a heavy gold wristwatch whose diamonds flashed even in the overcast light. He handled the shovel like he wasn’t sure which end to use. The second man glanced jerkily around the grounds as he balanced the broad flagstone on its edge.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Point made. Shouldn’t we be hiding or something? The lookout is twitching like a flea.”

“He’s at ground level so he’s watching at ground level.” Faroe took a swallow of the beer, which was barely cool now. “He’s an idiot. Anyone with half a brain looks at balconies and roof lines as well. You’d be amazed how many dead idiots there are. Mother Nature’s way of chlorinating the gene pool.”

“You’re just full of good cheer.”

“Thank you.”

“Here,” she said, handing him the glasses. “Even if they’re idiots, spying on them makes me nervous.”