he asked later, after he had taken her up two flights of stairs in the nondescript apartment building they had reached after a dizzying half-hour drive that left her unsure exactly where in the city they were. They were standing in the combination kitchen/living/dining room of a small, sparsely furnished apartment. It was as modest as the building itself, with ancient appliances and outdated furniture and not a single personal effect. No one, it was safe to say, would find her here; the stairwell rung with at least three different languages and the windows were strung with laundry hung out to dry. The Civic was parked in the parking lot of a dry cleaner several blocks away; Chelsea didn’t expect to see it again. “Just sleep,” she murmured. She’d been drowsy in the car during the drive, made mute by the enormity of what had just happened. Ricardo didn’t press her to talk. As always, he intuited her need and acted accordingly. “The bed is made up,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her to the only other room in the apartment.
