Page 117 of Hit Man

“I’m an architect and I can tell you quite honestly the lines of this house are beautifully done. Exquisite, in fact.”

“You’re intelligent and perceptive. I like that.”

I frown. Do I share my troubles with her? I quickly weigh the pros and cons. “Señora, can I ask for your advice?”

She claps her hands together and nods.

“If someone misled you into believing you were hired for a job, a pay-to-work position much like an internship except with your life savings involved—”

She holds up her hand. “Don’t tell me. He robbed you blind.”

I blink. She’s quickly guessed what I was about to say. And her English is impeccable.

“What would I do? I’d kill him.”

I choke on my tea before swallowing it back. A woman with a sense of humor.

“You’d like to create homes like mine?”

“I love your hacienda. But my goal is to help the poor by offering affordable housing. Perhaps with a less expensive stained-glass window like yours. Everyone should have something beautiful to come home to.”

“An idealist?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“Me, too.”

I smile. “How so?”

“The world is ruled by men who do nothing but run numbers. Who has the biggest army, the best weapons. Who can outcompete whom. Who is the best liar. Women don’t get the same respect.”

I nod in agreement.

“Ever wonder what your life would be like if this all changed?”

“I voted for Hillary,” I say, flippantly. There’s a harshness in her tone that’s unsettling.

“I like you, Aubrey. For helping my baby. And as I’ve just discovered, we have something in common.”

I smooth out the wrinkles on my skirt. Self-conscious of how I look, like someone who’s spent far too much time driving about Mexico. Especially compared to the classy señora. “We do?”

“Sí. We’ve both been cheated out of money by some dirty, disloyal man with a misguided sense of machismo, who undervalues the abilities of a good woman. What happens to men who think with their dicks?”

I’m so shocked I don’t know whether to laugh or draw back in fear. Her aggressive manner is so contrary to proper, polite teatime etiquette—or what I imagine it’d be.

“My ex thought with his dick,” I offer with a weak smile. “What happens, Señora?”

She sips her tea, then sets the empty cup down on the tray.

“They end up as manure.”

She stands and pats me on the shoulder. “Once again, I thank you for taking care of Sylvester. I am in your debt. You’ll stay the night. A car can pick you up in the morning and return you to the airport. And I have your passport. As you know, there is no customs office at the airport so you won’t be going anywhere without it.”

Isn’t that the truth?I think yet I politely reply, “If it’s not too much of a burden. Thank you.”

“I have packing to attend to so we’ll have an early dinner. Will you stay and have tea with my son? He’s so looking forward to it. Afterward, someone will show you upstairs to the Blue Room. I encourage you to explore the grounds . . . except the shed. I kindly suggest you stay away from it while my staff attends to a dead animal that’s passed away. Too many beautiful things to see instead of that ugliness.”

I wrinkle my nose. No shed, it is. “Thank you, Señora, for the invitation to explore and spend the evening. I’ll be leaving Mexico with pleasant memories.”