He swept his laptop from the counter where it was charging and squeezed next to Jane on the couch. He launched a search engine and entered Rosalinda once more.
Jane ran her finger down the display. “A TV show, restaurants, people, a brand of tortillas. Do you think one of those Rosalindas could be me?”
“Only one way to find out.” Rob clicked on the first Rosalinda, which turned out to be a politician in Texas, the smile on the middle-aged blonde’s face promising more school funding and better infrastructure.
He went through all of the names, but not one of the Rosalindas matched Jane.
He slumped, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling. “What else do people tattoo on their bodies?”
He could feel her gaze on him, assessing him in a way that heated his blood.
He rolled his head to the side. “What?”
“Do you have any tattoos, Rob?”
“No.” The word came out in a burst and Jane reeled back.
“Not a fan of inking your body, I guess.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to snap at you.” Rob shoved a hand through his hair. “I was constantly pressured as a kid into getting the gang symbol tattooed on my arm. Both of my brothers had them. My refusal was kind of like a magical talisman in my head that assured me if I didn’t get the tattoo, I’d never join the gang.”
Jane squeezed his thigh. “And it worked.”
“I’ve been tattoo-free ever since and probably always will be.”
“But if you were a tattoo kinda guy, what would you get? What do your friends have? Your girlfriends?” She removed her hand from his leg and tapped her fingers on her knee.
“I don’t have any girlfriends. Do you think I’d be running around with you, having you spend the night here, if I had a girlfriend?”
“You wouldn’t be if I were your girlfriend.” She brushed her hands together as if resolving that issue. “Tattoos.”
If she were his girlfriend? He liked the sound of that and he didn’t even know who she was.
“My buddies who were in the military have military tattoos, insignia, animals, stuff like that. The women, not my girlfriends, tend to have flowers, maybe little sayings, hearts.” He shrugged. “Places?”
“Are there any towns called Rosalinda?” She flicked a hand at the keyboard. “We could go through each state. Rosalinda, Alabama. Rosalinda, Arkansas. Rosalinda, Arizona, of course.”
“Rosalinda, Mexico.” Rob clutched the sides of the laptop.
“Why Mexico?” She licked her lips and clasped her hands between her knees.
She knew.
He coughed. “Well, you speak Spanish fluently. Rosalinda is a Spanish-sounding name. We’re close to the Mexican border.”
“And I know El Gringo Viejo.” She pressed her lips together in a straight line. “I’m not sure I want to know how well we’re acquainted. Could he be my...husband? There weren’t any pictures of him online.”
Rob swallowed a lump in his throat. “There are no pictures of him. Nobody knows what he looks like.”
“But with a name like that, Viejo, he has to be old...older.” She interlaced her fidgety fingers. “People do have May-December relationships, though, don’t they?”
He placed his hand over both of hers. He couldn’t help it. “What made you think he might be your husband?”
“Because of the story I told you about escaping an abusive ex. Remember, we talked about kernels of truth.”
“And remember you told me the only flicker of recognition you felt was when you said you were an art teacher.” He stroked his thumb across the smooth skin on the back of her hand. “In all our years tracking El Gringo Viejo, nobody ever mentioned a spouse or partner for him.”
She jabbed her finger at the monitor. “Enter it.”
He typed Rosalinda, Mexico in the search engine and hit Return.
Jane leaned into his space, the ends of her hair tickling his hands still poised over the keyboard. “There’s the TV show again. Maybe I’m just a big fan of that telenovela.”
Rob eked out a breath. “Doesn’t look like there’s a town called Rosalinda, at least not one that rates top billing on this search engine.”
“Rob.” She grabbed his wrist. “There’s an art gallery called Rosalinda. Right there.”
He followed the direction of her trembling finger and clicked on an article from an online art blog that teased the name Rosalinda in the blurb.
He read it aloud, as Jane seemed to have been struck mute. “‘For funky art pieces in a variety of media, some created by the gallery’s owner, visit Rosalinda in Puerto Peñasco, better known to the gringos as Rocky Point. The proprietor and artist, Libby James, is knowledgeable about the...’”
Jane dug her nails into his flesh. “That’s me. That’s who I am—Libby James.”
Chapter Eight
“Libby James.” She said the name again, feeling it on her tongue, her lips, the roof of her mouth. “I’m Libby James.”
Rob’s arm went around her shoulders, and she leaned into him. “That’s amazing. You remember. You can go to the police now, tell them about the accident and the men threatening you.”
She stiffened. “I don’t remember. I just know.”
“You just know?” His arm sagged halfway down her back. “What does that mean? You don’t remember your life as Libby James? Your association with El Gringo Viejo?”
She hated to disappoint Rob. He’d sounded so hopeful, so relieved that he didn’t have to worry about her stabbing him in the gut while he slept.
Pounding a fist above her heart, she said, “I feel it here. I had that flash of recognition, that same flash I felt when I told you I was an art teacher. Don’t you see? I am an artist, maybe I even teach others. The tattoo on my back is the name of my gallery.”
“Maybe we can find out for sure.” Rob placed his hands on the laptop’s keyboard and typed in Libby James.
If Rob expected her face to pop up next to some biographical entry on her, he was hiding his defeat well.
Rob tapped his thumbs on the edge of the keyboard after his fruitless search. “I guess Libby James keeps a low profile.”
“It makes sense,
