Early the next morning, Rico packed a small suitcase with clothing and threw some toiletries into a backpack before making his way downstairs. He put the bags in the trunk, jumped into his car, and set a course for Santiago on Google Maps. After the seatbelt clicked into a place, a black cellphone on the passenger seat caught his eye. Rico picked it up and flipped the device open. A small piece of paper with numbers scribbled on it fell onto his lap.

Odd.

Ricardo looked around, checking for signs of anything that looked amiss. Everything seemed to be exactly as he'd left it. A chill crept into his fingers. He locked the car, inhaled, and punched the number into the phone. With each ring, his breathing grew shorter. Troubling thoughts flooded his mind. Was someone watching him? Had he finally been found out?

"I was wondering if you'd figure it out," said the voice on the other line.

"What do you want?" Rico answered, breathing heavily.

"Don't you know?" was the amused-sounding reply.

"Who are you?"

"We've met before."

"Then tell me your name."

"Take a guess, Mr. Torres."

Rico exhaled in relief. "Detect—"

"Call me Vera," she interrupted.

"Vera. Was breaking into my car strictly necessary?"

"I didn't break into your car: you left the window slightly open."

He sighed. "Right."

"Regardless, you can reach me at this number."

"Noted."

"Don't call unless it's case related. Is that understood?"

"Yes, but weren't you supposed to be heading to—"

"There's been a change of plans. You'll be flying solo on this one. But I have confidence in your stalking abilities."

"Forgive me, but I wasn't—"

"It's called a joke, Mr. Torres; I am allowed the odd one. Now then, you should be on your way."

"Fine," he shook his head.

"And one more thing; memorise the number and—"

"Burn the paper," Rico finished the sentence.

"Fast learner."

"I always aim to please."

"Call me later," she said and hung up.

Never gotten a woman's number that way before, but can't say I'm upset. Not even a little bit.

* * *

It was midmorning by the time Rico arrived in Santiago. A light rain fell from clouded skies, landing on the clay-tiled roofs. Mists from verdant mountains nearby had tumbled down the slopes and into the quaint village, covering it in a hazy shroud. With each metre, the houses seemed to inch closer, crowding the road as though they were alive. The effect sent a chill down Ricardo's spine. Perhaps it was just the product of an untamed imagination. Or maybe this town held more secrets than one.

Dismal weather conditions, along with streets that lacked human life, did little to quell the growing unease of the situation. Was this even the right place? There was no sign at the entrance that indicated as much. Though, it could've been missed due to the piss poor visibility.

The car rolled up the bumpy, cobbled street as Rico frantically looked around. Two church towers appeared in the distance, hovering above the fog. On his right, an archway stood over an intersecting road which seemed to lead out of town. A flash of colour—a sign of life—caused Rico to slam on the brakes. Down the hill, a woman wearing a red shawl that covered her from head to feet walked towards the woods.

Immediately, he jumped out of the car, hurried under the archway and down the slick, water-drenched road.

"Disculpe (excuse me)!" he called.

The woman didn't turn around. Ricardo wrinkled his brow.

I could've sworn she was closer just a second ago. Maybe this fog's messing with my eyes.

"Excuse me!" He stepped forwards "I just want to ask for directions—or can you tell me if this is Santiago."

"¡Señor!" A child's voice cried from behind him. "¡Tu carro! (your car!)"

Rico spun around. Horror grabbed him like the piercing talons of a condor. His car had begun to roll down the hill. He glanced back; the woman was gone.

Where'd she go?

With moments to spare in short supply, Ricardo sprinted up the hill, ran around the front of the car, hopped in and hit the brakes. He breathed a sigh of relief as it stopped rolling. Rico pulled over to the side of the road and engaged the emergency brake before exiting the vehicle.

Rico walked over to where the little boy holding an umbrella stood.

"Gracias," he panted.

"De nada (you're welcome), señor."

"Where is everybody?"

Just then, the church bells pealed. The little boy gestured to the towers.

"Of course," Rico blurted out.

"It's a big feast day in the village for a local saint: San Jacobo. He was the parish's longest serving padre (priest.) So everyone's at la misa (the mass)." His face suddenly turned red. "Well, almost everyone. Don't tell anyone you saw me because I'm supposed to be home sick," he said in a low voice.

Ricardo pulled an invisible zipper across his lips. The little boy smiled.

"One question for you, jefe."

"Si," he nodded.

"Did you see where the woman in the red shawl went?"

The boy's face turned bone-pale. "Gotta go," he said and bolted. "And remember, you never saw me!" he yelled before rounding the corner.

Strange kid.

Atop the hill, a stream of people poured out of the red brick colonial church. Black umbrellas popped open as people descended the steps in front of the imposing edifice. Rico decided waiting for someone to come along was the best course of action. Soon, he met a gentleman who looked to be in his early sixties named Manuel Ramos. Ricardo introduced himself as Pablo Lopez. 'Pablo' explained that he'd come to their fair village to paint it for an art exhibition back in the capital.

"Oh yes," said Don Manuel, "artists always stop by to paint Santiago. That's one of the reasons we try to preserve things as much as possible. I'll show you a few places you might like to see."

"Muchas gracias, Señor Ramos. Muy amable (That's kind of you)."

"De nada—call me Manuel. When you're done, you must come by our restaurant for lunch. Mi doña (my old lady) makes the best Ajiaco (chicken and potato soup) in town."

Rico beamed. "You had me at lunch."

Manuel proceeded to show Rico around some choice vistas of the town and where he could find their restaurant. Fortunately, the rain had slackened off and patches of blue appeared in between the dark clouds.

Before Manuel left him at a hill that overlooked the whole area, Ricardo inquired about the road under the archway.

"Where does it lead? Anywhere worth seeing?" he asked, pointing to the mist-cloaked forest beyond.

"Eh, the old manor's back there," Manuel replied. "It's nice, but I'd stick to the village—the trees and this fog will make it hard to see anything. Won't do your brush too many favours," he said with a nervous chuckle.

"That's fair. Well, thanks again, Manuel," he extended his hand.

"Oh, it's nothing; I'll leave you to your work now. If you need anything, just stop by the restaurant."

Rico nodded, and with that, Manuel made his way down the winding path back towards the town.

The artist scanned the scene. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the fresh, rain-kissed air. Shades of vibrant green coloured leaves and grass from mountain to valley. The lush foliage surrounding Santiago made its clay roofs and white buildings stand out all the more. Together, village and nature united to form a breathtaking sight.

I could get used to this. Life's slow and simple here. Maybe this is the change of pace I've been needing. The Lake used to have this effect on me...

The memories of what once was made his heart heavy enough to sink several ships.

"It's stunning, isn't it?" said a sweet, soft voice.

Rico whipped his head around. A beautiful, young woman with pale skin and long, ebony black hair stood before him.

"Perdón (sorry)" she held up her right hand. "I didn't mean to scare you," she squeezed the red shawl draped over her slender shoulders.

It's her...

"You didn't—it is—" Ricardo shook his head quickly, attempting to steady his mind. "I'm sorry." He smiled. "I thought I was alone, that's all."

"That's fine." She beamed. "So, you're a painter."

"Uh, yes. I try to capture all of this—" Rico gestured to the landscape—"on a humble canvas for people to gawk at and hopefully pay me money for."

She laughed.

"Would it be rude of me to ask your name?"

"Not at all. It's Joana—Joana Herrera."

Damn. This is going to be harder than I thought.