Sunrays crack through the sleepy morning sky. My body aching, I pull myself up off the ground. At least the night is behind me and I can start searching for help from people who are trained to offer it.

My stomach groans with hunger as I pull out my map. Hunger won’t kill me—at least, not yet—but Damien might if he finds me again. I’m a threat to his freedom, as he is to mine.

I look up from the map, and my gaze roams the deserted beach. It’s as isolated as it was hours before. Not much of a surprise there; the trash seems to have multiplied overnight, and the smell of dead fish alone is sure to keep swimmers away.

My first step of the day lands my right foot on a broken shell.

“Ouch,” I groan and fall onto one of the boulders to pull the shards from my skin. The damage isn’t as bad as I anticipated—no blood in sight.

I fold up my map and make my way back to the buildings. Everything looks different in the daylight, less threatening.

San Maureo is a charming town full of buildings with white-washed exteriors. It reminds me of Santorini, Greece, a place I visited during my old life as a model. It’s hard to imagine such an innocent place harboring a criminal like Damien Steel.

According to a church clock towering above most of the buildings, it’s 6 a.m. and the sidewalk is already packed with pedestrians, early risers spilling onto the streets to start their day. Shopkeepers fling open their doors or shake out rugs from windows.

The town is bursting to life around me, and yet I feel dead inside. No one is able to see my pain. Surrounded by people, I have never felt more alone.

The cacophony of sounds make my tired head ache. The screeching of tires, honking horns, the yelling so early in the morning—it all hits my eardrums hard. I wish I could turn off the volume or filter out the noise somehow.

My relief is palpable as I turn onto a quieter street lined with mostly closed bars and nightclubs and a few restaurants.

As I try not to step on broken glass, chewing gum, or other kinds of grime on the pavement, I catch a whiff of brewing coffee and delicious food smells. Hunger twists my stomach.

The map, marked by Marissa’s highlighter, leads me past a construction site.

Heeding the safety signs, I cross the street to the opposite side of the steel-framed walls, support columns, and stacks of lumber, distancing myself from sounds much worse than those I left behind. My hands itch to cover my ears, to shut out the clank of metal against metal, the high-pitched sound of a saw, and the catcalls from the construction workers. Who in their right mind would find me attractive in this state?

Dust and dirt shoots into my nostrils and mouth. I succumb to a coughing fit. Once it passes, I wind my towel around my shoulders and hurry away.

Less than two minutes later, I catch sight of the police station, another white building. My lungs almost collapse with relief. The sound of sirens is music to my ears.

A police car is parked on the curb outside the metal fence. Two policemen are sitting in a stationary car, deep in conversation. I’m approaching from behind, so the only view I get is of the backs of their heads.

I’m about to walk past the car to get to the wide gates, which are yawning open to let a police van through, when I change my mind. Talking to the two policemen in the car might save me a whole lot of waiting inside.

A glance into the side mirror of the passenger’s side brings me to a screeching halt and the blood drains from my face.

The shock of silver hair and handlebar moustache are unmistakable. There’s only one police officer present in the car. The man he’s conversing with is Adrian.

Turning my back on the car before Adrian spots me, I give in to my natural instinct to flee.

The possibility that Damien, or his right-hand man, would come looking for me at the police station never crossed my mind. It should have, though. The station is one of the few places I could turn to for help.

Of course he’d have some kind of connection to the police.

Did he tell them his mentally fragile wife has disappeared and he needs help finding her? Did he pay them to hand me over to him like a lost parcel once they find me? Is he inside the station now, a broken husband concerned for his wife’s safety?

Good thing I spotted Adrian first. I need to get away, to get lost among the residents and tourists. I remove the towel from around my shoulders and cover my head with it, the way I do after a shower. My shock of red hair is my most distinctive feature.

I break into a run, the sounds of the morning rush no longer a nuisance. Tears blind my eyes as the realization hits me that without the help of the police, I’m in serious trouble. Where do I go now? Who can I turn to?

Marissa, the voice inside my head whispers. I obey my instinct and find myself back at the liquor store. The store is open, and Marissa’s eyes light up when she sees me enter.

She’s dressed in a white tank top that shows off her abs, and tight black jeans. A pink ribbon still decorates her hair.

Marissa hands change to an old man with a poodle, then walks around the counter to shake my hand.

“My friend.” She gives me a grin that warms my heart. “I think you go to police.”

“Police station is a bad idea.” I glance at the door behind me. “A bad man is waiting there. He’s a friend of the police. Can I stay here for a bit, please? I need time to think.” I don’t know if she understood everything I said, but I’m too flustered to think about simplifying my English even further.

“Here?” Her eyes widen.

“Yes.” I grasp her large hands. “I need to hide.”

“Hide from bad man. Okay. I understand.” She glances around her shop, as though still confused about what I’m asking, but she nods. “Come. Come with me.”

She opens a door on one side of the counter. Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, I step inside.

There’s not much inside the tiny, windowless room but a greasy coffee machine, a battered leather couch, a wooden coffee table, and the smallest TV set I’ve ever seen. The smell of old food and sweat hangs in the air.

“Sit. I give you coffee.”

“Thank you so much, Marissa.” I sink into the couch.

Marissa gives me a smile and proceeds to make coffee. When it’s ready, she pours it into a chipped Christmas mug and places it in my hands.

The bell at the front of the shop tinkles as someone walks in. Marissa holds up a hand to tell me she’ll be right back, then walks out the door, closing it behind her.

I take a sip of the hot, sweet coffee, a cloud of steam warming my face. I lower the mug to the coffee table to give it time to cool.

Through the wall, I hear Marissa talking to customers, straining my ears for Damien’s or Adrian’s voice. I’m hoping Adrian didn’t see me at the station, but I can’t be one hundred percent sure. For all I know, they followed me to Marissa’s store. When none of the voices sound familiar, I allow myself to relax and take another sip of coffee. Marissa’s store is my safe haven for now.

Marissa is away for over fifteen minutes, but she pokes her head around the door from time to time to check up on me.

My coffee mug is now empty and my stomach is groaning with hunger. Casting a glance around the room, I spot a half-open bag of donuts. My mouth waters, but I clasp my hands in my lap. I won’t steal from the one person who can help me.

Marissa returns to the back room, wiping sweat off her brow. “Sorry. Busy, busy.”

“That’s okay.” I jump to my feet, my towel unraveling from my head and falling onto the couch. I need to talk to her before more customers show up. “Marissa, I need to go to Guadalajara... to the U.S. consulate. They will help me.”

“Consulate, yes. No consulate in San Maureo.”

“Yes. But there should be one in Guadalajara. It’s a big city. I need to go there today.”

“You need to take train. Five hours long.”

“Yes, yes. That’s what I want to do. But I have a problem.”

“Big problem?” She folds her arms across her chest. “The bad man is killer, yes?”

“Yes.” I nod quickly. “I need to get away from him. But I don’t have money… no dinero.”

“No dinero.” She places a finger on her chin. “Big problem.”

“It is. But look, I have this jewelry.” I slide the diamond ring from my finger and point at the bracelet on my ankle. “I can sell it for money. Do you know where I can find a jewelry store?”

I repeat my entire dilemma and possible solutions several more times until she seems to understand and pulls out a phone book. She disappears to the front to make some calls.

My heart flips with excitement when she tells me the owner of a large jewelry store will come to take a look at my pieces in about an hour. She convinced him I have an expensive ring in my possession. I hope she’s right.

The baby-faced man arrives after two hours, during which I almost bite off all my nails. His round body is squeezed into a cream linen suit that’s too small but looks expensive, as does his leather briefcase.

After a brief greeting, he asks for the rings. In an attempt to break the ice, I compliment him on his good English. He tells me in a tourist town, English is a necessity. He holds out his hand.

Feigning confidence, I drop the diamond ring as well as the wedding band into his hand.

He frowns at the wedding band through his magnifying glass.

“This is fake.” A shadow flits across his features as he hands it back to me, probably thinking I’m wasting his time.

“How about the diamond?” A knot is forming in the pit of my stomach.

He says nothing as he studies the diamond ring, now clean of dirt. Then his entire face creases into a smile.

My shoulders drop as tension melts out of them. “Do you like it?”

“This is a good diamond… very good. I’ll buy it from you.”

“How much?”

“I’ll make you an offer.” He jots down a figure on a piece of paper. It must be in pesos. I look at it, perplexed.

“How much is that in U.S. dollars?”

The smile disappears from the jeweler’s face. He glances from me to Marissa, and then pulls a phone from his pocket and opens the calculator app. He types in a few digits and shows me the figure displayed on the screen. The amount is more than I expected, but I still don’t trust him, and he knows it.

We eye each other for a moment before he breaks contact and uses his phone to go online. He shows me the current exchange rate.

It sounds about right, so I nod, then proceed to negotiate for a larger amount. I have a feeling the ring is worth more than he’s offering. He doubles the amount and refuses to be pressed further. I accept the offer, and he places a pile of notes in my hand. The money should be enough to get me to Guadalajara, perhaps even back to the U.S.

Next he eyes my ankle bracelet. I ask him to remove it. He does so with a wire cutter from his briefcase. Seeing how his eyes glint when he holds the piece of gold, I tell him I’m not selling it. I need some kind of insurance on me. Maybe I’ll get more for it in Guadalajara.

He tries to talk me into selling the broken bracelet, but I refuse. Defeated, he gets to his feet.

Before he walks out, I ask if I can use his phone to call the U.S. consulate, or to at least send an email since he has access to the Internet. I tell him I lost my phone, and I don’t want to use any more of Marissa’s credit.

“Sorry, no. This is a business phone.” He stomps from the room.

My throat is thick with emotion as I flop onto the couch, my fingers wrapped around the wad of cash. I’m a huge step closer to getting out of this town and away from Damien.

Marissa comes to sit next to me. She looks pleased. I peel off a large note and press it into her calloused hand, payment for her kindness. Tears fill her eyes as she pushes the money into her cleavage.

“Gracias, my friend.” She squeezes my upper arm.

I place a hand on hers. “No. I’m the one who’s thankful.”

During her lunch break, Marissa leaves me inside the shop and goes to get us both something to eat, as well as a pair of second-hand jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie. On her way back to the store, she also finds out for me exactly when the train to Guadalajara departs.

When the time comes for me to leave for the train station, she notices my knife. She takes it from me, then gives me a pen knife instead.

“Small, for hiding.”

I nod my gratitude and tuck the small knife into my back pocket.