I closed the door and exited onto the streets below.

I INHALED, TAKING IN THE SCENTS of Tangier, reminding myself, even as I did so, that it might be the last time I found myself on her shores again. As I moved through the markets, my eyes trailed over the tall mounds of spices, from the brilliant shades of squash-colored turmeric, to the crushed rose petals and overflowing baskets of whole peppercorns. If I were a painter, an artist, this is where I would spend all my time, I decided. There was no better place to observe Tangier.

And then, though I knew it was silly, that it was entirely too sentimental, dangerous even, I made my way toward the Kasbah, toward the tombs and the cliff and the water beyond, one last time. In the end, I could not stop myself.

Standing atop the cliff, determined to take in one last view of Tangier, I was struck by her beauty, by her mystery. I thought of the tale that Youssef had told me. The one about the beautiful woman luring men to their death. Perhaps it wasn’t some mysterious woman at all, I thought now, perhaps it was simply Tangier, Tingis. For in a way I too had experienced a sort of death upon her shores. I had come to her as one thing and was now leaving as another. This metamorphosis, it seemed, was dependent on rebirth, and so death must also be a part of it, the two inherently linked.

I removed the painting from under my arm, gave a quick look around to make sure that no one was watching, and released it into the water below.

Lucy Mason had outlived her usefulness at last—though she had never been particularly useful to begin with, I thought with disdain. Born poor, uneducated, to a family that couldn’t be bothered to care, in the end her survival past the age of ten was a miracle in itself. That she had found a way to survive, in that garage, alone with her father, with the other men, that she had picked up one book and then another, teaching herself to read, to write, to earn a scholarship that promised her something more, something better—it should never have happened. She should have died long ago, just like her mother, another forgotten life, another forgotten death. With no one left to mourn, to remember. I stood for a moment or two longer, imagining the waves as flames of a fire, watching as they lapped, as they drowned and devoured the last and final traces of Lucy Mason.

I moved away from the cliffs, realizing that time had been slipping away from me, that the ferry would soon be arriving. Heading toward the port, I kept my eyes focused, kept my gaze averted as I walked, avoiding those very same spots where only moments before I had walked, eagerly, greedily, hungry for a reminder, a souvenir, of Tangier. I thought of that first day, of the sellers that had greeted me, called out to me, trying and failing to get me to part with my money. I saw them again as I moved toward the port and then—yes, I knew it was him—that very same Mosquito who had pursued me through the streets as I had sought to find Alice’s flat that first day, who had slipped away only moments before I had stood beneath her balcony, watching her from a distance.

He moved toward me now, a smile emerging on his face. “Madame needs a tour guide?” he asked eagerly.

I shook my head and indicated the boat, just beyond.

He nodded in response and opened his jacket, revealing a hidden layer of cheap, shiny bracelets and rings, the kind that would no doubt stain one’s skin green within a few days. “A trinket, madame,” he offered. “To remember your journey.”

I nodded, reaching for my last few francs. “Here,” I said, handing over the coins.

He rewarded me with one of the bracelets.

“A reminder, madame,” he said, smiling. “Of your time in Tangier.”

I thanked him and headed toward the port. As I boarded, I let the trinket drop from my hand into the Mediterranean, though I did not bother to watch as it sank. Letting out a small laugh, I thought of what I had wanted to say to the Mosquito. That the bracelet, or any other of his treasures, was unnecessary. That I didn’t need anything to remind me of Tangier, of her.

After all, I was a Tangerine.

I would never forget.

Nineteen

Alice

IN SOME WAYS, MALABATA PRISON WAS NOT SO GRIM AS I HAD anticipated.

Sitting on the eastern outskirts of the city, it stood, a vast grand building rising up in front of me so that I was immediately reminded of the Hotel Continental. I felt a chill run through me. The two structures could not have been more different, and yet there was something in them that felt strangely familiar, a sense of the imposing stature that radiated from both.

Inside I was conducted through a series of hallways before passing at last into what appeared to be some sort of makeshift cell, held apart from the rest of the prison.

Youssef stood when I entered. “I am so famous now they decided I must have my own room,” he said by way of greeting, indicating his surroundings. He smiled, watching as I assessed the tiny enclosure, the prison within a prison that they had created for him.

I smiled weakly in response, though I suspected he knew the truth. For while Tangier could most certainly be a dangerous place, I had learned from John that most of the criminals within the walls of Malabata were thieves and pimps, the most common offense the smuggling of kif from the mountains and into the city. A dangerous criminal like Youssef would not sit well with either the prisoners or the guards. And so they had cordoned him off, creating a room that held him apart from the rest of the populace, with only one solitary window for company.

I cleared my throat. “I wanted to speak with you, about Lucy Mason.”

Youssef, who occupied the room’s only chair, tipped the frame of it against the wall in what seemed a dangerous balancing act. “You are not the first person to mention that name to me,” he observed, shaking his head with a short laugh. He let the chair fall back onto the ground with a clatter. “I am sorry to disappoint you, madame, but I do not know anyone by that name.”

“She was the woman whom you met, several weeks ago, in the Grand Socco,” I said. He inclined his head, an indication, I thought, that was meant to let me know that he was listening, that I should continue. “You see, monsieur, I am Alice Shipley.”

His eyes widened at this, his eyebrows raising just an inch or two. He remained silent, though his eyes sought, appraised. Finally, he said, “I see.”

“The woman you met,” I continued, eager now to have it all out in the open, “used my name, though I’m not sure why. But I think it was for this reason, because she planned this, all of it, somehow, from the very beginning.” I waited for a response, and when there was none, I said, “So you see, you have to tell them.”

He smiled. “Tell what to whom, madame?”

“The police,” I replied, confused that he did not understand, that he did not see. “You have to tell them what I’ve just told you.”

“That a Tangerine lied to me? Gave me a false name?” He shrugged. “That is hardly news.”

I shook my head. “You must tell them that I am not Alice, or rather, not the Alice that you know. That I am not the one you saw that night—that night when John was killed.”

“Yes, I could tell them this.” He paused. “But why would they believe me?”

I sputtered, confused. How could he not see it? I wondered, that this was not only my way out but his as well, his one chance to clear his name and be free of the shackles that her lies had imposed upon him. “They have to,” I said.

He shook his head. “Madame, let me tell you what the police will say. That you came here to convince me to lie. After all, why would you visit a man in prison you did not know? For what other reason than to ask him to save your life, since his own is already lost?”

I stood, speechless.

“They will twist everything,” he continued. “Your words, your intentions, until they fit their own. This is their way. Nothing will change that. So you see, it is an impossible situation.”

“But, it’s not right,” I said, though the words came out soft, meek. “She can’t get away with it. Surely this place won’t let her get away with it.”

He raised his eyebrows. “This place?”

“I didn’t mean,” I began hastily, anxious to explain. But then I fell silent, wondering if I hadn’t meant exactly that. Tangier. This place. This strange, lawless city that belonged to everyone and no one.

Youssef settled back into his chair. “Let me tell you something a friend once told me. He works at the Hotel Continental—do you know it?”