“I know you,” he said, as she was leaving. “You’re married to that old guy. The comedian. What do you need a fake Canadian ID for?”
“You don’t know me,” Paris said. “And if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”
Thirteen days later, an email from Stuart said her new Canadian driver’s license, credit card, and burner phone were ready. She was in Tacoma ninety minutes later, where she paid him the rest of the money.
“The limit on that Visa is only a thousand.” Stuart handed over her ID. “So don’t go crazy. It’s activated and good to go. The birthday on the driver’s license is the PIN for the card. Makes it easy to remember.”
She looked at the ID. It was her picture, but the name on it was Victoria Bautista, which was fine by her.
“Thanks,” Paris said. “And if anyone ever asks…”
“You were never here.” Stuart rolled his eyes. “Lady, this is my business. If I tell on you, you’ll just tell on me, and that benefits nobody.”
“You’re smart,” Paris said. “But you’re too young for this kind of work. Be careful, okay?”
“You ever need a passport, it’s fifty large,” he said with a grin. “It takes three months, so plan ahead. You got my email.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, and she would.
The following weekend, she left her iPhone at home on the nightstand and made the three-hour drive north to Vancouver. At the border, she held her breath as a Canada Border Services official checked her Paris Peralta passport, but it was fine, like always.
She arrived at the Pan Pacific hotel in the late afternoon and valet parked. At the registration desk during check-in, the hotel exchanged her US cash for Canadian. From there, she headed straight down to the conference level to sign in for the convention, where she put on her attendee badge. She ate dinner at one of the on-site restaurants, and signed the meal to her room.
Before she went to bed, she put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, called the front desk to request complete privacy for the weekend—no housekeeping or turndown service needed—and then tossed and turned the rest of the night.
Early the next morning, she locked her Paris Peralta passport and driver’s license in the hotel room safe, and caught a taxi to the airport. She didn’t want to use the credit card she bought from Stuart until she had to, so she paid the fare in cash. Two hours later, at Vancouver International, “Victoria Bautista” boarded a domestic flight to Toronto using only her driver’s license. She landed at Pearson International at eight Friday evening, where she used her brand-new Visa to rent an economy car from Enterprise.
She reached her aunt’s house in Maple Sound just before midnight. She drove halfway up the long hill, cut the lights, and then drove the rest of the way in the dark. Before she reached the top, she stopped and did a three-point turn, so the car was facing downward in case she needed to make a quick getaway. She left the key in the ignition and the driver’s-side door slightly ajar, then grabbed the small knapsack she brought with her.
She was eighteen when she left Maple Sound, and she hadn’t bothered to say goodbye. The day after her high school graduation—which she didn’t attend—she cleaned out the empty coffee canister above the fridge where Tita Flora hid her grocery money from Tito Micky. Then she swiped the gambling winnings Tito Micky hid from Tita Flora from the bottom of his fishing box in the toolshed. Last, she plucked out the roll of bills Lola Celia kept stuffed in a sock at the back of her underwear drawer, money the old woman was saving to pay for her yearly flight back to the Philippines. All that, combined with five years’ worth of cash that she’d pilfered little by little and stashed in her hiding spot, came out to twelve thousand dollars. Severance pay for five years of babysitting, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry … and Tito Micky.
The only thing she didn’t touch were the kids’ piggy banks.
She stood in the dark and stared up at the two-story house, backlit by the moon over Lake Huron. All the lights inside were off. From somewhere nearby, an owl hooted, and she could hear the sounds of small animals rustling in the bushes.
She never thought she’d see this place again.
An older Nissan Altima was parked at the side of the house where Tito Micky’s wood-paneled station wagon used to be, but her aunt and grandmother would have only needed one car to get to the wedding. The pond looked the same, as did the tree swing and the toolshed. But the brown porch was now white, and there were hydrangea bushes all along the front of the house. Whatever. Tita Flora could pretty this place up all she wanted, but it would never fully cover the ugly that lived inside it.