Chapter 1

It was late afternoon on Spain's Atlantic coast, the sun turning golden in the lower layers of atmosphere over the water. At the ocean's edge ran a seawall, not a barrier of rocks but a solid stone wall that broke the gentle surf. A section had been cut away to let water feed into a bathing pool, a dark-watered rectangle about half the size of a swimming pool, submerged stone benches cut all around the sides.

It was like something an ancient Roman city builder might have created, both simple and decadent. Egalitarian, as well. There were no fences, and locals seemed as welcome to come here as the well-heeled vacationers. Sunbathers came in to cool off, and children swam, darting across and back from one bench to another, like birds changing roosts in an aviary.

Genevieve Brown had brought me here, Gen who'd once been my partner in the Hennepin County Sheriff's Department. On the job she'd been measured and cautious, and I'd expected the same from her here. But she'd taken the lead, stepping down onto a bench and immediately from there into the center of the pool, tucking her knees to let the water cradle her cupped body as her dark, shoulder-length hair made a cloud around her head.

Now Genevieve sat next to me on one of the benches, her face tipped up into the sun. Her skin seemed already to be turning a warm, creamy brown. Genevieve was of southern European extraction, and while she'd never been a sun worshipper, her skin would tan in the weakest early-spring rays.

"This is nice," I said, raising my face into the late-afternoon sunlight. Already the salt water was drying on my face, tightening the skin. I wondered if my face would have a faint salt glaze, a shimmer under light, if I decided not to rinse in fresh water afterward.

"You're overdue for some good times," Genevieve said. "Last year was . . . difficult."

It was an understatement. Last spring Genevieve's daughter had been murdered, and last fall I lost my husband to prison. At the end of that extraordinarily bad year, Genevieve had quit the Sheriff's Department, reconciled with her estranged husband, Vincent, and gone to live in his adopted home of Paris.

We'd talked about me coming to visit, of course, almost from her first transatlantic call in December. Five months had passed, though, before I did. Five months of snow and subzero temperatures, of heating my car's engine with an extension cord and myself with bad squad-room coffee, of the double shifts and extra assignments I'd volunteered for. Then I'd taken Gen up on this invitation, to meet her down the coast.

"Have you heard anything about the Royce Stewart investigation?" Gen asked, her voice casual. It was the first she'd mentioned it.

"I heard a little about it early on, in December," I said, "but then nothing happened. I think it's stalled."

"That's good," she said. "I'm happy for you."

I hadn't told Genevieve about the investigation into Stewart's death, much less that I'd been suspected of the murder. That was curious. If I hadn't told her, who had? She'd said she wasn't in touch with anyone else from her old life in Minnesota.

"Who told you I was under suspicion?" I asked.

"Nobody," Gen said. "It just stands to reason."

A small drop of seawater fell from my wet hair onto my shoulder. "Why does it stand to reason?" I asked.

"Because you killed him," she said.

I looked quickly at the trio of women sitting at the other end of the bathing pool, but they gave no sign they'd heard.

Quietly, I said, "Is that supposed to be some kind of a joke? I didn't kill Royce Stewart. You did."

"No, Sarah," Genevieve said softly. "It was you, remember? I would never do something like that." Her eyes darkened with pity and concern.

"This isn't funny," I said, my voice low and stiff. But I knew this wasn't some mean-spirited joke on her part. Her tone communicated nothing but compassion. It said that her heart was breaking for her friend and partner.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but someday, everyone's going to know what you did."

Copyright © 2005 by Jodi Compton