She studied Joe’s strong jaw stubbled just the way she liked. She looked at the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that crinkled when he laughed, or searched the horizon as he did now.
Emma was about to tell him that she loved him but the words never left her mouth. A sharp blast of their horn jolted her. Joe’s expression switched to one of surprise. An oncoming car had veered onto their side of the road, leaving them no escape from a head-on crash.
“Hang on, Em!”
Joe twisted the wheel, swerving to miss the collision.
“Joe!”
The SUV was airborne with the world churning, glass breaking, metal crunching, sparks flying, as it rolled and rolled before everything went black.
When Emma came to, she was outside their vehicle, facedown on the ground. Her vision was blurred. Something was ringing in her ears. Their horn was blaring.
Tyler was screaming somewhere, but Emma couldn’t see him.
She saw Joe.
He’d gone halfway through the windshield. Emma crawled to him, reached for him and took his hand.
“Stay with me, Joe. Don’t leave me.”
Emma passed out, came to, then did it again and again.
Time stopped.
She could smell gas, burning rubber. Something was hissing, she heard car doors, people running, someone shouting. Someone was checking the wreckage. Everything was hazy.
Emma’s heartbeat thundered in her ears.
“Hurry!” she screamed.
An engine raced.
“Find my baby!”
Emma felt Joe’s pulse stop as people carried her away.
“Get my husband out! Find my baby!”
The air around them spasmed as if hammered by an invisible fist that delivered the heat flash and fireball as the SUV ignited.
Someone rescued Tyler. Emma saw them carry him to safety.
Or she thought she did.
Where was her baby?
Oh, God! Tyler had to be safe. He had to be, because he wasn’t screaming anymore.
Emma was.
2
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
The next day, Gabriela Rosa, a reporter at the Rio Bureau of the World Press Alliance, reached across her desk to answer her phone.
“Alo, Gabriela Rosa, WPA.”
“Eu tenho que falar a—” The female caller’s voice was overtaken by street noise. She was likely using a pay phone.
“Please speak louder.”
“I have to talk to a reporter with your news agency about a big story.”
“I am a reporter,” Rosa said. “What’s the story?”
“Not over the phone, we have to meet.”
“Give me your name, please?”
“I can’t.”
“Perhaps you could come to our office?”
“No. I want to meet you somewhere public. I have documents. This has to get out as soon as possible.”
The woman’s voice betrayed fear and desperation, as if she’d had trouble summoning the courage to make this call, forcing Rosa to make a quick decision. She had nearly finished a feature on crime on the metro. Then she’d planned to visit a detective, but she could skip it.
A good reporter never turned a tipster away.
Rosa would meet the caller but she would be careful.
“Fine,” Rosa said. “We are in the Centro on Rua do Riachuelo near O Dia’s offices. Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“Five blocks west of us on Rua do Riachuelo there is the Café Amaldo. Meet me there at 2:00 p.m. sharp. My name is Gabriela Rosa. I have brown hair. I’ll be wearing sunglasses, a pink shirt and white slacks. I’ll be reading Jornal do Brasil and I’ll have my white bag on the table. I will be alone. Are you coming alone?”
“Yes.”
“Give me your name.”
“No name. I’ll find you.”
“Fine, meet me at two sharp. I’ll give you my cell-phone number in case you must cancel. Do you want to give me a number?”
“No. I will be there at two.”
“Can you give me some sense of what this story is?”
“I will tell you when we meet.”
Afterward, as Rosa finished her feature, she took stock of the empty office. The bureau chief was out of town. The stringer and photographer were on assignments. The news assistant was off. Rosa was alone as she pondered her tip and WPA’s rules for staff called out to meet unknown sources: “Tell people where you are going, who you are meeting and never go alone.”
Rio was one of the world’s most beautiful cities. It was also one of the most violent. Much of its major crime arose from drug dealing and gang wars afflicting the favelas, the crowded shanty towns that blanketed the hillsides overlooking the metropolis.
Rosa, like other news reporters in Rio, was mindful of the risks. Criminals had kidnapped and murdered journalists who threatened to expose their networks. She would not meet her source alone. She called a cell-phone number.