Elena Vasquez

Three months later.

A Sunday toward the end of February the sort of chill that nips, at your knuckles yet still carries the scent of coffee and sizzling bacon as you exit the church.

La Isla Dorada was crowded.

Every table was occupied a queue stretched outside reggaeton gently booming from the speakers as Javier, at last allowed Marco to connect. The Virgin Mary statue hanging above the entrance wore a layer of paint and a small gold crown that someone (Rosa) had swiped from a ...