21
Angela
We reappeared on a quiet, tree-lined street, right next to the thick adobe wall I’d seen on Google Street View. From what I could see, there didn’t seem to be much traffic here, whether by car or on foot. Yes, I heard the faint, hushed murmur of cars off in the distance, but where we stood, we might as well have been the only people around.
Not for very long, though. A few yards away, a heavy gate of age-darkened wood swung outward, and a dark-haired man who looked as if he might be somewhere in his late thirties or early forties peered out at us. “You are Angela and Connor Wilcox?”
We nodded. I didn’t bother to correct the stranger, to tell him that I was going by a hyphenate these days. Judging by the no-nonsense set of his mouth, I guessed such a pronouncement wouldn’t go
