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cut through traffic. It was like trying to do a breaststroke through the mangroves that lined much of the Indian coast.
    Shiloh checked on her pursuers. A grin tugged at her lips. Stuck. Jammed in gridlock traffic, they couldn’t get through. She had to switch clothes and identities. Seizing the chance,she hurried beyond the Santa Maria church and into a clothing shop. Although the religious structure across the street bore a crucifix, the sanctuary catered to every religion—a haven for all.
    Voices nudged her farther into the shop. She feigned interest in the saris and cholis . Her fingers caressed the silk. The lightness of the material made her wish she could buy something. Satin, crepe, blues, purples—oh, the greens! She lifted the faal of one and traced its intricately delicate pattern between her fingers, attention trained on the door. Men moved into view.
    She slid her hand over a rack of less ornate garments. Once again she admired a teal one and let the crepe fabric drape across her arm while she assessed the threat.
    A short, round woman shuffled toward her. “You like try?” A bindi of pink crystals ending in a teardrop focused attention on her chocolate eyes.
    Telling this woman she didn’t have money would alert her to Shiloh's predicament. An American wandering the streets without money? “ Kai kimmat ?” Asking the price should stay the woman's suspicions. When the seller revealed the cost, Shiloh shook her head. “Sorry.”
    “Trade?” The woman pointed a bejeweled and henna-tattooed hand toward Shiloh's hemp bracelet that sported a pearl embedded between two shells.
    Her heart caught. Khalid had made it for her on their first dig in the Caribbean. Opening her mouth to decline, she stopped as sirens pervaded the busy street. A man shouted, “She came this way.”
    Shiloh had to change clothes. Now. She gritted her teeth and agreed to the exchange.
    The woman lifted the teal sari and choli from the rack and held out her palm.
    Stomach knotted, Shiloh slid off the bracelet. “I’ll come back with money,” she promised herself and the woman, who took the bracelet and shoved the clothing toward her.
    Had she done the right thing? The exchange hardly seemed fair, and now she was without the only gift that tied her to Khalid. What have I done ?
    Shiloh snatched a pair of sandals, too, then rushed behind a curtain and changed. A breeze danced around her bare mid-section, making her feel half-naked. Even in America where fashion applauded peeking midriffs, she’d always worn conservative baby doll T-shirts.
    “You there! Have you seen a girl, an American?” The thick Marathi words spilled through the warm structure.
    A sliver of space between the two tapestries gave Shiloh a clear view. Outside, the two imposters chasing her stood talking with an elderly man.
    Sari wrapped around her head and mouth, she slipped out. The woman bustled toward her.
    “ Bindi .” She gripped Shiloh's shoulder and stuck a jewel to her forehead, then appraised her. “ Aap khubsoorat hain !”
    Beautiful? Since when? Heat crept into her cheeks.
    “Dhanyavaad,” Shiloh mumbled her thanks. She hurried to the side of the shop where a narrow opening afforded her a clear escape. A knot of bodies swarmed the church entrance.
    Behind her the woman's shrill voice rang out, soon followed by irate Hindi as she ordered the police out of her shop, declaring they were cursing her profits.
    Shiloh fled down the tight passage and up a flight of red-painted stairs and entered an open door. Darkness consumed her. She stepped to the side and waited for her vision to adjust. To the far left, candles swayed under a gentle breeze. An aged woman in an orange sari knelt before an altar and poured oil over an idol.
    Shouts came from the alley. “This way. A man saw her.”
    Tugging up the sari, Shiloh strode to the altar and knelt. Perhaps the police wouldn’t take notice of two women kneeling before the round-bellied Buddha. She lifted a