Bowman, a thirty-six-year-old real estate developer from Dallas, had come to Costa Rica with his wife and daughter for a two-week holiday. The trip had actually been his wife's idea; for weeks Ellen had filled his ear about the wonderful national parks of Costa Rica, and how good it would be for Tina to see them. Then, when they arrived, it turned out Ellen had an appointment to see a plastic surgeon in San Jose. That was the first Mike Bowman had heard about the excellent and inexpensive plastic surgery available in Costa Rica, and all the luxurious private clinics in San Jose.

Of course they'd had a huge fight, Mike felt she'd lied to him, and she had. And he put his foot down about this plastic surgery business. Anyway, it was ridiculous, Ellen was only thirty, and she was a beautiful woman. Hell, she'd been Homecoming Queen her senior year at Rice, and that was not even ten years earlier. But Ellen tended to be insecure, and worried. And it seemed as if in recent years she had mostly worried about losing her looks.

That, and everything else.

The Land Rover bounced in a pothole, splashing mud. Seated beside him, Ellen said, "Mike, are you sure this is the right road? We haven't seen any other people for hours."

"There was another car fifteen minutes ago," he reminded her. "Remember, the blue one?"

"Going the other way…"

"Darling, you wanted a deserted beach," he said, "and that's what you're going to get."

Ellen shook her head doubtfully. "I hope you're right."

"Yeah, Dad, I hope you're right," said Christina, from the back seat. She was eight years old.