Adrianna was seated across from him at the small terrace table, their light continental breakfast only picked at. Behind her, Devlin watched the people hurrying along the Prado, the steady line of “camel” buses jammed with morning travelers on their way to work. Cuba was beautiful and sensual, just the way the tropics were supposed to be, he thought. And it was constant chaos, the very antithesis of everything he had been taught to expect. It was the sultry Caribbean with a touch of madness. “No, I don’t trust him,” he said. “I feel like we’re being manipulated into something, and I haven’t got the slightest idea what it is.” Adrianna stared down into her coffee. “I don’t care about any of that, Paul. I just want to find my aunt. Just find her body and see that she’s buried.” “I know that. I want that, too.” She looked up at him, as if questioning the truthfulness of his words, then looked back into her coffee as if the answer might be there. Devlin reached out and took her hand.
