Four days later
Zoe glanced up as the door of the parlour opened and she smiled in greeting at the young woman standing there, looking slightly nervous. She was short, a bit awkward in her body, with long, dark hair and a trim, prim little skirt. No high heels, no figure-hugging clothes, very little makeup. She looked oddly angelic: innocent, kind, almost untouched.
Zoe looked down at her own tight jeans, tugged her mini t-shirt down over her pierced navel, knew she couldn’t hide the ink on her lower back. The woman stepped into the parlour, and Zoe wondered if she’d ever seen a woman who looked less likely to get a tattoo, in the whole of her life. But if this was who Zoe thought it was, then she wasn’t there for a tattoo, anyway.
“Maria?” Zoe set down her fifth coffee of the morning,
