

Mrs. Fitzroy

Copyright © 2017 Rachael Wright

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781980391715

No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

This is a work of fiction.

Cover Photography from **Shutterstock.com**

Mrs. Fitzroy

Captain Savva Book One

* * *

BY Rachael Wright

CONTENTS

I – 1

II – 18

III – 37

IV – 44

V – 49

VI – 63

VII – 72

VIII – 99

IX – 109

X – 120

XI – 132

XII – 153

XIII – 162

XIV – 175

XV – 191

XVI – 203

XVII – 216

XVIII – 237

Captain Savva: A Solitary Reaper – 255

For Melissa and Rachel

I

JULY 2016

Απ' αγκάθι βγαίνει ρόδο κι από ρόδο βγαίνει αγκάθι.

From a thorn a rose emerges and from a rose a thorn.

John Fitzroy was an attractive man. A man trusted because of his good looks. It was always startling. Goodness lived in those eyes like a refuge with quiet lapping waves.

His face was smooth. Devoid of those pits and red spots, some adults carry as souvenirs of their youth. Broad shouldered with a thin waist and narrow hips. His hair was a dark, shimmering brown as though he'd taken a shower in gold flakes. It glistened as he walked. And his white teeth were straight, as if they'd been measured out with a ruler.

He moved across the world like it was his, as though he'd walked every inch as a child, holding onto his father's hand, stepping on shaking legs, from country to country and jumping over the puddles of the sea. He cultivated this sense of ownership early on, and people responded to it without realizing. They didn't ask questions. They liked a handsome, confident man. He got jobs, loans, gifts, and women. They owed him. You don't have to ask for what is already yours.

He didn't have dreams. He had plans. He didn't have hopes. He had ideas. He was on top of the world, always ten steps ahead ... always with another plan to set in action.

But John Fitzroy woke one summer morning and didn't know where he was. He saw dark outlines of drapes and an oversized armchair and a glint of light that peeked through the top of the window. What was it about this day? The way ahead blurred like a blizzard of night. Blackness curled around him and the road disappeared

Never had he felt this. Never had he been out of control. But ... was he? He was competent. He could twist his mind around an issue and it would iron out under the force of his will.

"We'll see you next time," a valet said as he opened the door of a taxi for him.

The boy had a kind, dark face with thick, black eyebrows and expressionless eyes. John gave him a respectful nod, and swallowed hard, past the dry sandpaper in his throat. The valet frowned as he stumbled into the back seat, his hands shaking.

The cab crawled out from the hotel entrance and made for Heathrow Airport. The cabbie was a delightful man but short on conversation. He stared at the road with a baleful basset hound look: content at the slow crawl of traffic. John leaned back into the seat, which smelled of an exquisite perfume and mint bubble gum. The scent so foreign, so unexpected, he closed his eyes and savored the surprise of it.

The fight through Heathrow's security was like a scene from a film where a schmuck stands in the center and the world moves in madness around him. The VIP lounge was much the same. Everyone going nowhere fast. John sat in a plush leather armchair and stared out the window as a waiter dropped a cup of tea in front of him. He curled his fingers around the thin arm of china, blew over the steaming liquid, and wished for silence. He closed his eyes and let his head rest against the top of the chair, and pictured lying on his back, floating on an endless river, water lapping at his ears, never to wake.

But in the midst of his daydream a waiter touched his arm to tell him his flight would board in five minutes. John said nothing but grunted and threw back the last gulp of tea. He reached down, his back cracking, to pick up his pristine leather briefcase and headed to the frosted doors. The waiter who'd served him mumbled "rude" under his breath as John walked away, but he didn't turn. There wasn't time to care what a scrappy waiter thought of his manners.

On the plane, with more legroom in business class than those poor sods in economy, John once more leaned back and set himself on the river with the warm sun; a weightless body, effortless in the calm water. An older woman with short-cropped white hair sat next to him. She clicked her seatbelt together and produced a circle of muslin. She attached it to a wooden embroidery hoop, pulled out ten different shades of blue floss and set to work. John stared at her flying fingers. Every five minutes he looked back at her handiwork, eager to see the next installment.

In her lap she created the ocean, a bright setting (or rising) sun, a high brown cliff with greenery spilling over it, and the sea, a thousand little French knots: white, cream, blue, turquoise, cerulean, sapphire, lapis, navy, teal, Aegean, peacock, and cobalt. How did she do it, because it looked as though the sea undulated under her fingertips, as if the white knots were salt sprays flung out by the crashing waves and the Aegean knots, the point at which the ocean floor drops away from you and falls into an abyss.

John took a surreptitious look at her, as he squeezed by on his way to the loo, to see her inspiration: to judge its accuracy for himself. But there was nothing. She didn't have a picture or a photograph. It was in her mind, John said, as he looked into the minuscule bathroom mirror, which had a crack like a butterfly in the upper left-hand corner. Was she Greek? Had she stared at that cliff her entire life? Was it burned in her memory as fields of flowers and marble monuments were burned in the minds of others?

He walked down the small aisle and shuffled by her, murmuring apologies, and she looked up with an artist's smile: of the polite 'leave me alone' variety. A smile, which left no question as to its underlying meaning. She tolerated the interruption but did not welcome it. As the plane began its decent over Athens, she moved the hoop, and embroidered a few words at the top, in Greek. An offer to buy the piece flew to his lips, but he choked it back.

The flight attendants let off first class and everyone stood to retrieve their bags; jostling and posturing with much grunting. The woman tucked her embroidery in her leather purse, flipped the white top over it, and rose, her hands clasped demurely in front of her. John craned his head to keep her in sight as the other passengers headed toward customs, but she was lost in the ocean of a crowd.

Two hours later, John arrived in Mitilini, and swayed in the heat. Outside the minuscule white airport stood a black sedan from the hotel. Across the street the Aegean stretched across the horizon like a blue carpet. A little boy ran over and rang a bell at a small white chapel with a red-shingled roof. It pealed across the quiet parking lot as three plastic grocery bags tumbled in the wind in front of him. Four strikes, a long pause, and then the little boy, his white shirt riding up over his bronzed stomach, tugged the rope three more times before his harassed mother clawed at his arm and tugged him back to their white Toyota sedan.

John stood, clutching the door handle awkwardly, unsure why he'd paused, when the chauffeur cleared his throat. He slid into the back seat, staring at the white chapel as a strange weight settled on his chest. The tick-tick-tick of the turn signal reverberated through the car and he swiveled around to stare back at the shivering bell. The scene disappeared into the distance, and all he saw were the crumbling buildings on the right and the endless sea on the left.

The car pulled into the driveway of his pink monolithic home. John sighed and ran his hand through his hair; stiff from the tepid air of planes. She stood there. Where she always stood, a sentinel to his comings and goings, forever watching, waiting. He brushed past her in a fury, grabbed a long drink from the kitchen, snatched an envelope from his desk, flew back out the door, and caught his keys from their hook. She was silent as he tore across the gravel to the garage, slipped into the black and red leather seat of the Morgan, and gingerly backed out the car. He watched her in the rear-view mirror as he eased out of the driveway and onto the road. She hadn't moved. It made him perversely happy to discombobulate her.

Halfway to work, he realized, with a massive sigh, that he'd left the hotel's tax documents at home. He used another house's drive to whip around, flew back down the road, one hand stoking the sensuous body of the car, and basked in the hot, dry air as it glided over and under his hand.

Suddenly, a shiver like skin exposed to a sudden burst of frozen air, convulsed through his body. John's eyes jerked from the road, and he gripped the wheel and waited for it to happen. For whatever it was that his subconscious reacted to. A gnawing feeling, a step out of place, or a misunderstood word filled his mind. He clenched his teeth, frowned, flexed his toes, and studied the road.

The corners came too fast.

He braked, pumping the pedal angrily.

What the hell?

The force of one too-fast corner slammed him into the door and the Morgan's passenger side wheels lifted off the ground.

He stared ahead and pictured what was out of sight. There was no way he'd make the next corner intact. It was too sharp. He viciously slammed on the brakes, but the speedometer only crept higher and higher. The road flew by in a torrent of white marks.

He couldn't jump out. His mind painfully blank, he tried to crank the wheel, to turn the car into the mountain.

Too late. He had lost all control.

He tugged at the emergency brake, his fingers slippery with sweat.

With an almighty crash, the ocean appeared in the windshield. Was he flying over it? Had he stolen James Bond's car? The rocks rose to meet him. The surf pounded them into shards of sand.

"Wait ..." he said, before the car smashed to a halt.

The water lapped against his ears. His body weightless and effortless. Nothing else. But water caught him and tugged, and he blinked and searched for the sun. He stared at the steering wheel, submerged in the sea, a rectangle and then a circle again in the tide. His arms floated lifeless on the surface of the sea. A queer warm, sticky liquid poured down his head and dripped into his eyes.

The car. The cliff. The embroidered sea. The calm river. The stoic wife.

With a groan he looked to see a massive wave forming fifty feet away. Water lapped at his shoulders. Should he shout for help? Should he? Would anyone hear it?

'I don't want to die.'

"I... no..." he managed before a white curtain drifted down and the wave consumed the car and then crawled back like some retreating beast.

Ten Years Earlier–May 2006

Davonna peered out of the window of the second story flat, at the corner of Arneway and Medway Street. London hummed like a great slumbering beast, the snores seeping in through the cracks and the thin weak joints of windows. Umbrella clutching hordes scurried on the faded grey pavement towards the Home Office. She stood, imagining them existing for the sole moment they passed before her eyes.

Davonna pushed back limp brown strands of hair, which had fallen across her pale face, and sighed. Her slim body curved into the window moulding and her pale, sea-green eyes darted from the sky to the street to the people with a startling quickness. Her thick fingers, with their flat nails and rough beds, caressed an intricate silver heart pendant at her throat.

She moved her right foot and fell against the window, and a dull thud echoed like a canon blast around the flat. With a jerk, she whipped around, her pained eyes darting again. The flat was empty; all emptiness about her. She looked at the band on her finger, the simple gold band put there two months ago. There wasn't a flat in Geneva anymore. She no longer strolled through the Palais des Nations. Davonna Wolfe had become Davonna Fitzroy.

She sighed and stared at the dreary London flat, with its bare floors and white walls, and listened to the silence. It had happened so suddenly. Could it be two months ago she was living in Switzerland? Marriage hadn't been a part of her plan. John was kind enough, but the move to Greece, it was so sudden and it would tear her away from everything familiar. But perhaps... perhaps, it wouldn't be bad. Perhaps they'd find the blissful happiness her sister Miriam and her husband Seamus had found together. Perhaps they'd have children and settle, and life would be perfect.

"You ready?"

"Yes," Davonna said, and curled her fingers through the leather strap of her black purse.

John raised his eyebrows dubiously, nodded, and walked back out of the flat. She turned one last time, closed her eyes, and breathed. The air rippled under her nose, full of smells and emotion, it swirled around Davonna's lank hair and across the tops of her beige heels. Was it the spilled pot of chamomile tea by the breakfast nook, the whiffs of change, or the London smog?

Somewhere below a taxi horn blared. Davonna took the stairs two at a time, tripped on the last one, smashing her funny bone against the wall. John didn't stir as she swung herself into the taxi, clutching her right elbow. His hand curled around their passports, knuckles an opaque white. She inched forward to take her passport from John's hand, but a niggle in the back of her mind stopped her. Instead she squeezed his arm and smiled. He patted her hand absently as he dug out his phone and waded through emails.

They stopped at Heathrow Airport and John swiped his credit card before he fled the car. He declined to leave a tip. Davonna grimaced at the cabbie as he heaved their luggage out of the car. His heavily scuffed shoes scratched the steaming pavement and his jacket was worn down, exposing the white batting like an open wound. In the front, Davonna noticed a picture of a large, laughing family attached to the visor. As he unloaded their bags, his back curved with strain. Davonna pulled a twenty-pound note from her pocket and shoved it in his hand as John flagged an airport employee to bring a trolley.

The cabbie tipped his hat to her and muttered a "thank you ma'am" before he jumped behind the wheel and left. She watched him pull away. Perhaps he'd get the shoes repaired, go buy his wife a bouquet of red roses, or he'd pay off a debt to his best friend. Or, perhaps he'd just go to his favorite chip shop and have a pint or two with his fish.

"Let's go," John said. He stood beside a loaded trolley and waved imperiously.

Davonna smiled weakly and followed in his wake.

An hour later they were beyond security, divested of their luggage. They sipped a mediocre cup of tea at the café next to their gate. John pulled out a copy of The Guardian and disappeared behind it. An unflattering picture of Tony Blair stared out beside the title "Revealed: Blair attack on human rights law."

They sat, as the whole world turned around them, for the better part of an hour, before a calm polished voice on the intercom announced that the flight to Athens was boarding first class. John dropped his paper, tipped back his teacup with a grimace, and beckoned for Davonna to follow.

The flight was as uneventful as it could have possibly been. John and Davonna settled themselves into business and listened as economy filled behind them. Silence grew between them. John didn't notice she was there, and Davonna wished she were in economy with the college students and young families and tourists instead of the pretentious professionals who never took their eyes off their newspapers, trade journals, or computers, who surrounded her. Six long hours later, they left Lesvos' quaint answer of an airport.

The air crackled, and the wind blew bursts as though it was brittle and the heat sapped it of any energy. John walked resolutely toward the front of the airport where a young man in a hotel uniform stood beside a gleaming black sedan; as out of place as a skyscraper in the Scottish highlands.

Everything was faded and worn from the sun; even the white paint on the airport had lost its luster. Davonna shaded her eyes, and peered across the rippling parking lot to where the Aegean Sea overtook the horizon and stretched out like a languid swimmer.

"He'll take the luggage," John said, snapping his fingers.

Davonna blinked and pulled her gaze from the shimmering sea. The boot of the car popped open, and she let John take the handle of the trolley.

"I'll drop you off at the house first, I want to work at the hotel for a few hours and make sure the car arrived."

"You don't want to walk through it with me?" She batted her eyes at him and smiled.

He grimaced. "I'm off to the hotel. Get settled; I've seen the house. The garden needs work. After you get the house settled that's the next project."

"Sure."

They drove on in silence. John pulled out his phone and emailed colleagues. Davonna stared out the tinted window and watched as the island slid past. Even the faded rubble of abandoned buildings was bright, colorful; so much warmer than England. Instead of greens and grey, the island was a riot of orange and yellow and the bright cerulean blue of the ocean. The sky was an endless mirror, unmarred by a single cloud. As the car wound around a hill, the houses became more grand, with wide sweeping porticos and twisted columns and massive palm trees which shaded marble façades, and gardens which overflowed with towering white sculptures.

A green hedge appeared on the right side of the road. Davonna caught sight of one particularly grand house before the driver signaled and slowed to turn into the drive. In front of them rose a grand two-story home. It was a sweet shade of pink with red shutters and white moulding and trim. Sweeping marble stairs led to a set of glass doors that protected a recessed front door. Above the glass doors was a small patio. To Davonna it looked like the balcony at the Apostolic Palace where the Pope waved at assembled awestruck crowds.

"There you are," John said, as he tore his eyes from his phone.

"It's lovely."

John cleared his throat, and Davonna jumped.

"Would you take out my luggage, please?" she asked the driver.

The young man looked in the rear-view mirror at John, who nodded.

In less than a minute she was out in the heat, a set of keys in one hand, and sweating. A large black suitcase stood on end behind her. She listened as John told the driver to wait while he checked the garage for his black 1936 Morgan 4. The driver whistled and John smirked. The door to the garage rose and Davonna glanced at it. John ran his hand over the curve of the bonnet, the wavelike fender, and checked that the red and green St. Christopher medallion and the silver Morgan grill ornament were still pristinely attached. He slid behind the wheel and started the car, cocked his head, listened to the motor for a moment, and then cut it. He walked back to the black sedan, tossing his keys in the air.

Davonna turned back to the house. It was so quaint (even in its behemoth state), like it came from a Valentine's Day postcard. But the front garden was in a desperate state. The flowers had overgrown their boxes, and the shrubs were at least three feet taller than they should have been with scruffy, Medusa-like tendrils.

A gust of wind tore up the side of the island, and Davonna caught the handle of her suitcase before it topped into the rocky driveway. She unlocked the glass doors, walked into the warm entryway and stuck the key into the second set of doors.

It was grander and larger than she'd expected. Her footsteps echoed off the hardwood floors. Ghostly shapes of furniture stood in the corners. The house had a peculiar quality about it. Davonna couldn't put her finger on it, but the closest she came was that the house was holding its breath as though in purgatory.

She ambled around, looked in rooms, and got lost. She climbed to the second story and found the master bedroom, a new bed stood in pride of place, sheets, duvet, and pillows stacked on top. A large bay window, complete with cushioned seat, faced the back garden. Davonna unlatched the windows and flung open the red shutters. The back garden was a mass of wild greenery.

Across the garden and beyond a towering stonewall were the immaculate grounds of another property. The house was entirely white marble, which gleamed in the sun, giving off a golden glow. Davonna shaded her eyes, leaning out the window to get a better look. A lone black car parked in the driveway. She squinted. It was possible to make out a figure get out of it; he (it was a he, right?) wiped his brow and then hopped back in the car.

The front doors of the mansion opened. A man and a woman exited. Davonna leaned forward, the man was dressed precisely like John: a blue suit with white shirt and a red-checkered pocket square. It had to be him. The woman beside him wore a white dress, which floated around her legs. She tucked a thick strand of black hair behind her ear, reached out, and pulled John close and wrapped her arms around his neck. Davonna's heart sank. It was him. Regardless of the suit, it was the same black car with the same driver in the same hotel uniform. She collapsed onto the window seat and stared at the couple surrounded by glistening marble. They separated after a long while. John moved in for one last kiss, pumped the woman's breasts, and then sauntered down the steps and into the back seat of the sedan.

The woman in white watched the car drive away before gliding back into the house. The double doors shut with an audible thud. Davonna drew her head from the window and laid on the cushions as the black sedan edged out of sight. What had happened? Who was the woman? Tears streamed across her cheeks and soaked the pale blue fabric.

"Why?" she screamed into a pillow and hurled it across the room. She jumped and glowered at the house. The white monolith. A sudden fury overtook her; she'd confront the harpy.

Davonna was halfway across the large hall, her hair streaming behind her, when a knock echoed from the door. Her fury popped. She rushed forward and tugged the doors open. John stood there, his hair windswept, one cheek raised in a smile.

"I thought we'd make use of the new bed," he purred.

Davonna stood frozen, unable to move. Her mind was empty, admonition died on her lips. Her throat was raw. She allowed John to direct her upstairs and into bed. Tomorrow, she thought, as John's lips hovered over the hollow of her neck; I'll confront him tomorrow.

John left Davonna sprawled on the bare mattress. Rays of bright afternoon sunlight warmed her toes. Her mind was quiet. It wasn't important to be angry. John poked his head out of the closet.

"I think we should try to get settled this week. The shipping company called and said they'd be here today."

"It won't be a problem."

"I can't stand the chaos."

"John, I'll handle it," Davonna said, placating.

"I know." He pulled a fresh suit from his garment bag. "Don't you think you ought to get dressed?"

"I was enjoying the moment."

"Time to get to work."

Davonna blinked, hurt, but John just pulled on his suit coat, oblivious. The doorbell rang for the second time. He frowned at her and she frowned at the door. He snapped his fingers at her and she leapt from the bed, as if burned, and pulled out clothes at random from her suitcase. Jeans and a black bra and a long sleeve grey Henley shirt. John rolled his eyes as she wiggled and jumped into the jeans.

They opened the front door. A woman stood sensuously in the enclosed porch, her long black hair tickled the tops of her nipples, which were just camouflaged by a silk dress.

"Hello," John said, waving the woman in. Davonna moved out of the way, her eyes wide with anger and horror. "Davonna, meet our neighbor, Megan Moreau. I met her on my last trip here when I was looking at houses. Megan, my wife, Davonna."

"So pleased to meet you, Davonna."

Davonna lifted her eyes and stared. Megan's skin was the color of caramel and her dark brown eyes shone out of a face that wouldn't have looked out of place in Vogue. The whole effect, the simple construction and long lines, was superb, except for a cloying overpowering scent of perfume, which radiated from her. Even in her anger and frustration Davonna was embarrassed. She still smelled of stale airplane air.

"Please, come on in, Megan, I'd love to show you the house," John said motioning Megan forward. He rounded on Davonna, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Just surprised."

"Pull yourself together," he whispered and strode off after Megan who was eyeing a massive chandelier with interest. "Let's go to the garden?"

Davonna walked in their wake, watching as Megan clutched John's arm, and leaned against him, laughing. John smiled. He stood straighter, taller. It's turning him on, Davonna thought, the woman with the see-through dress, throwing herself at him.

They walked to the back of the house to a morning room; the entire back wall was one massive sheet of glass. John flung open a pair of double doors and led them out on to the terrace, which overlooked the garden.

"Here," John gestured.

"It's a lovely space, I've been jealous ever since I moved," Megan purred. "How about a fountain over there, a walkway there, and a gazebo flanked by short hedges? You'll need a large lawn space, separating it all. We should start very organized, mathematical, and as the garden extends, have it grow wilder, more natural. What do you think?"

"I'm sorry, forgive me, but I'm confused," Davonna said. John and Megan turned to her, eyebrows raised, as if they'd forgotten she was still there.

"Oh Darling, it's my fault," Megan said silkily.

"Megan is an architect of sorts," John said.

"For gardens."

"I've asked for her ideas on ours."

"Oh," Davonna said, picking at the hem of her shirt. It was stifling outside, even in the shade; it was far too hot for long sleeves.

John, shook his head imperceptibly, and then led Megan through the overgrown garden, chattering and laughing. Davonna stood on the terrace. She forgot the shirt soaked with sweat and how it stuck to her back: she saw only John.

Davonna wanted to scream, wanted to pick up one of the concrete planters, perched on the four corners of the half wall, and chuck it at Megan's head. John looked over as he rounded an overgrown section of half-dead rose bushes. His face was a mask. Davonna slumped, the anger melted away. She couldn't tear her gaze away from his eyes. They were blank. Dead and flat, like a shark's. A predator ready to pounce.

Had they been intimate twenty minutes ago? Had he looked into her eyes with love? Was it love? Or was it something else? Davonna sat on the wall, the sun-warmed bricks pierced through her damp jeans. A film of dust and debris from the scurrying winds covered the patio. The white paint on the intricate metal table flaked off in large tumbling chunks. The windows at the back of the house were covered with the same grime, so thick you could only see hazy distorted outlines of furniture. Davonna sighed and hung her head.

"I'll let you know as soon as I've finished the plans. It shouldn't be more than a week, enough time for you to get settled," Megan said, as she and John completed their tour. Her arm was still through his and her face was flushed. She looked alive, sensuous, tempting.

Davonna scratched behind her ear and pulled loose strands of her hair out of her mouth. They fell limp on her shoulders. Megan tore her gaze from John to consider Davonna. Out of the corner of her eye appraising Davonna like a racehorse she was sure would lose. It was disconcerting. There was no humor, no light of interest, but a simple calculated stare. She looked away with a half smirk and allowed John to lead her into the house.

"It was lovely to meet you, Megan," Davonna said.

Neither John nor Megan seemed to hear her; they didn't turn around at any rate. But Davonna was sure Megan's back stiffened and her arm curled around John's.

The front door opened and closed and John sauntered back indoors. He strode through the glass doors and stretched in the sun. Davonna couldn't help herself. The words spilled out before she was conscious of them.

"What were you doing over at her house?"

John looked at her, confused.

"I went to ask her to come over to look at the garden. Why?" His tone was light, but there was hardness in his eyes, flatness, a warning.

"I saw you kissing her."

"Where did you see us from?" he said, craning his head to look at the house above them. "Oh right, the master bedroom. You can't see a thing at that distance. We hugged. Greeks are affectionate."

"I ... " Davonna started. She fiddled with her fingers, twisting her thumbs around each other.

"You shouldn't have been spying," he drawled, turning away.

Davonna stared at his back. The tension was palpable, the air stilled, waiting with bated breath. "I wasn't spying," she whispered.

John rounded on her, crossing the space between them in a single stride. She shrank from his onslaught.

"Let's keep it that way."

Davonna's knees rattled, cold rushed across her forehead and neck. John's hands balled into fists. He leaned over, his breath hot on her face, like a boxer leering at a weaker opponent. He smelled like Megan's cloying perfume. The impeding violence rose and billowed like a storm around them, cackling and booming.

The doorbell went off like a shotgun blast in their ears. John stepped back, blinking, and Davonna let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. John dashed off to the front of the house. When she strode up behind him, the open doorway showed a massive moving truck and four men flitting like bees around it.

John turned towards her as she stood watching, "You can handle this, can't you?"

He tacked them on, those last two words. A cutting remark. Tears welled behind her eyes, but Davonna was determined not to cry. She couldn't let him know he'd won. He smirked, and strode out in the bright sunlight, swallowed by the truck and the workers and the incoming furniture.

"I have an opportunity," John said the next day. They sat at the dining table, boxes and wrapping paper helter-skelter around them. Davonna froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. "The owners of the hotel want to sell and have approached me, to see if I want to buy it."

"That's..."

"I could get loans, but it would be so much easier to use what's in your savings," he said and shoveled a heaping forkful of roast chicken into his mouth.

"My inheritance?"

"Yes. We might have to rent this house and live in the hotel for a while," he said. His eyes glazed over, dreaming already of the future - of his kingdom.

"John ... the account I put the money into ... it's frozen for another twenty years. I can't touch it."

"I'm sure you can get around it. This is our future."

"I'm not sure, John. We don't need it right now ... if it was an emergency." Davonna faltered under the look John gave her.

"Isn't our future an emergency?"

"I don't know that the bank will see it that way."

John stared at her and she quailed. His eyes were flat with suppressed anger. Davonna's heart raced under the weight of his stare. It was as though, in a moment, the air had gone from the room.

"I'll try to call," she said.

"Do more than try."

"What should I say to them?"

"I'm sure you'll think of a way ... that bright mind of yours," he cackled, and left the dining room, padding across the hall to his office.

Davonna stood and took her phone into the library. She dialed the seldom-used number of her London bank.

"Davonna Fitzroy," she said, "I'm calling about a question on my account."

"One moment, Ma'am," a bright Sussex accent said.

Davonna peered out the window at the garden and tried to rehearse her request. What would make the banker override the terms of the account?

"Mrs. Fitzroy, what may I do for you?" The banker's voice was calm and posh, probably Westminster. Davonna took a deep breath.

"I'd like to see if I might get the funds from my inheritance."

It wasn't what she'd planned but she couldn't think, not while John's seething face played in her mind.

"I see," the banker said. Keys clacked away in the background. "Mrs. Fitzroy, I see the terms you agreed on were that the funds would stay frozen until your fiftieth birthday, or if severe financial hardship had befallen your family."

"Yes, I understand," Davonna said. "But we want to invest in a business opportunity and need these funds."

There was silence on the other side of the line and a small, nearly imperceptible sigh. "Mrs. Fitzroy, I am sorry, but I can't release these funds to you. I wish I could give you another answer, but you signed the paperwork. We retain these policies for our clients' protection."

"Yes, but my husband..."

"Mrs. Fitzroy, is something wrong? These policies are on the books for several reasons ... spousal interference being one of them."

"Oh no!" Davonna blurted. "No."

"I see. I am sorry, but there's nothing I can do. If you could give documentation of a dire financial state, the funds can be released."

"Please..."

"Is something wrong, Mrs. Fitzroy?" he repeated.

Davonna shook her head, forgetting he couldn't see her, and blinked herself back to reality.

"Thank you for your help," she said and hung up.

Davonna stood, facing the garden, and saw none of it. Her arms hung and her chest heaved. She turned on unsteady feet and walked across the hall to where John reclined at his desk.

"They won't release the funds, John."

John looked up from his phone. His face darkened and his eyes flattened into slits. "What did they say?"

"I can't access the money until I turn fifty or unless we are in dire financial straits, proven with documentation."

"Well, isn't that perfect," John said, slamming his phone on the desk.

"I'm sorry," Davonna whispered, frozen in place. Her knees knocked together. Her head went warm.

"Don't even talk," John growled, and flicked his fingers at her, as though she was a piece of dirt on the floor.

Davonna fled, went to the kitchen, and sat huddled in a corner. A moment later, John's voice rang out through the first floor. He was on the phone, laughing. It was a strange sycophantic laugh, which rose and fell with nervousness. Davonna sighed and an hour later, no less worried, she retreated upstairs and waited for John to follow.

But he came to bed late, whistling under his breath and fell asleep virtually at once. She couldn't remember the last time it had happened ... a respite from him, from sex. He didn't say a word about the money the next day or ever again. It was as if the whole episode was erased from his memory ... eclipsed or supplanted by something else.

II

JULY 2016

ας με λενε Βοϊβοντίνα κι'άς ψοφώ από την πείνα.

Let me be called Voivoidina even if I'm dying of hunger.

Davonna lay, curled into a ball, and didn't dare move. She dreaded opening her eyes. With a sigh, she propped an eye open and stared at a chink of early morning sun. It lay on the silk pillowcase in one bright bar from a gap in the slotted shutters. She moved her hand and placed one finger in the light and watched as it was bathed in a soft glow. It looked ethereal, longer and shapelier. A twitch, a noise from the house shivered in the air and Davonna shuddered and pulled her hand back under the comforter.

The silk sheets coiled around her legs as she squirmed further under the covers. They moved over her skin like butter, but she didn't notice them anymore. They were silent witnesses, even accomplices, to her pain and suffering. John bought them "to slow the pace of wrinkles and aging." Why had he bothered to spend the money? No one came in and looked at the bed? No one touched the sheets.

There was a public image to uphold. Her face. Her hair. Those were the important parts. A woman's face must always be presentable. Bruises aren't covered by cosmetics. They taint the skin as though they carry residual evil with them ... as though they were a blight, a sickness.

He wasn't here this morning. He never was this early. But his spirit still lingered, as if he had a crony who lived with them, and reported her every movement. Davonna slid her legs onto the floor and shoved her feet into faded, red slippers with worn out soles. Her right knee wobbled, and she gasped in pain.

"Bollocks."

She clamped her lips together, but nothing moved. Did she think it would? Was there a chance he'd jump out from behind the wardrobe? Her pale hand flew to her heart; it thudded away underneath her fingers. Everything was tight, wound around the coil of her fear. It loosened, oh yes, it loosened, but it never unwound.

Davonna's gaze slid over to the large clock, with the Kensington Station face, opposite their bed. A whole five minutes ... gone. There wasn't time to dally over a shaft of light or breathing exercises. She striped off the sheets and plopped them in a hamper by the door. She grabbed her white silk robe, slung her arms through it, and pulled out a broom from behind the closet door.

It never stopped, this morning routine: sweep, dust, wipe, and weed. Ten years of the same and Davonna had timed it to the minute. It had been months since she'd taken a few minutes to relax. The time was precious. Rarer by far than pearls.

After she finished work, the light was allowed in. Davonna padded around the house on quiet feet and thrust open the red shutters. It was as if the sun only rose after Davonna put her fingers against the painted wood, unlocked the latch, and pushed. Or maybe the sun rose because she had come out to meet it, and it greeted her as a long lost lover, eager to fold her into his arms.

She always came to the library last. There were no shutters to open, but a wall of glass, which overlooked the garden. The green grass, cypress trees, and hedges shimmered, as if the colors meant more in the strange moments before the sun came up. She stood in front of the window and closed her eyes. With a tug, she untied her robe and let it fall to the floor in a puddle to expose her pale skin. There were green patches on her thighs and spills of light blue on her lower back and lingering yellow splotches on her shoulder. She looked like a faded patchwork quilt. Davonna knew they were there, she felt them every time she moved or twisted or bent to pick up a newspaper. As she stood and let the library's magic pierce her body, it drove away the chill and pain and the darkness. She stood as a statue, counting off the moments in her mind and watching as the sun shortened the garden's shadows. In a moment, her robe was on again, and she padded from the room. She paused only to caress the spine of a book on a shelf, hidden in shadow, its cover worn, the title on the spine indistinguishable, and went upstairs to dress.

I in a calf-length, white cotton shirtdress, cinched with a black belt, Davonna stepped out onto the road. Although the sun hadn't crested the sea, the air was balmy and thick. It whipped at her arms and pulled at her neat bun. She drew an arm across her face to shade her eyes from the bright sun. There was Mitilini, the cacophony of faded orange and grey and red patterned roofs. Laughter rose from those homes surely, as children jumped on their sleeping parents. In another, a husband made coffee with his eyes half-shut, or perhaps lovers greeted each other without saying a word. She ached to be there among them, listening to the sound of life. John had said this house (if a two story, 20,000 square foot building made a house) was better than any in the village. The wealthy and powerful lived on hills, and the rabble lived at their feet.

With a heavy sigh, Davonna walked on, sticking a wide-brimmed hat on her head, gathering her basket, and starting down the road. It hadn't rained for a few weeks and the ground was stiff and cracked; small stones skirted this way and that under her leather sandals. The dust rose and caressed the hem of her dress. It whipped side to side, a daily dance.

"Κalimera," a boisterous voice said, from the same spot it did every day.

Davonna turned. Ioannis Dukas, their closest neighbor, smiled at her from his front garden. Every morning, without fail, he was to be found there, in a white linen shirt and pressed slacks, reading a book, a pot of tea next to him on a marble pedestal.

"Kalimera, Ioannis," Davonna repeated.

Ioannis smiled as he always did. But was it from friendship or mirth at her accent? She tried, but it was never without its English lilt. She didn't stop to chat. There was never time. But she smiled and wished him a fine day before half lurching forward. What she never saw, after she'd passed his palatial home, was that he walked to the road, cup in hand, and frowned. Then, when she was out of sight, he left to give his wife the report.

It was said in Mitilini that the shopkeepers set their clocks by Davonna. She waited by the pier for the stalls and shops to open. They watched as Ioannis watched, with intrigue, and they spared the time for curiosity. Lesvos never matched the fast pace of London life. They were a content people, who knew, with absolute certainty where they fit within the framework of the island.

Davonna sat on the pier, on the same bench, and looked at the same hills with the same sad eyes. The water underneath her might have been in the Thames last month, it might have slipped under Tower Bridge and lapped against the London Eye. It was a comforting thought, a piece of home. It carried the sounds of cabbies and tourists and busy workers with it, sighing on the breeze. The grey stone buildings behind her with their white windows and trim and orange tile roofs were still, but they hummed with muffled life. Even the one-ton ship's anchor, which rested on its side on the cobblestone parking lot, looked as though it had only thrown aside and would, at any moment be carried away.

"You're early."

Davonna turned, and once more shaded her pale green eyes from the bright sun. A man stood before her, tall with coppery skin and dark brown hair and the kindest most honest eyes: the godlike police officer of Mitilini: Thanos Argyris.

"I can't be," Davonna said, with wide eyes.

"Five minutes, I think. Spiros and Aris commented on it as I passed the bakery."

"I suppose I rushed," Davonna said as she stared out over the sea.

"It's a fine morning."

Davonna was an enigma to Thanos, to the whole town. She had come on wings, arriving one day as though she had always been there. She was quiet, timid even, with a strange look in her eye. Thanos couldn't place it although she reminded him of a child he'd once seen in a faded and dog-eared copy of National Geographic, a refugee from Darfur.

They sat as the water lapped against the pale, white rocks, and in the breeze a pair of swings, half-forgotten like the anchor, swung back and forth, adding their creaking to the sea's delicate symphony.

"I have to go. The bakery will be open."

Thanos' heart sank as he watched her slip on the damp pier in her haste to get away. He looked longingly at her, and everything he'd wanted to say rushed back to his tongue ... he looked heavenward in exasperation. A line of greater white-fronted geese flew over, in mute silence. Thanos sighed and shuffled to his squad car, to dream of Davonna.

Davonna walked across the grey street, past a pair of grumpy grandfathers arguing about football, and strode to the bakery where a short round man leaned against the wall, pulling on his lip. He drove his fingers into his back and thrust his large stomach out, moaning as his back cracked. The baker, hardly to be mistaken for anything but, looked up in surprise as Davonna cleared her throat.

"Kalimera, you look lovely!" he said, gesturing her inside.

"Thank you, Sprios."

Spiros was a short man with voluptuous, wavy black hair. He sampled the bakery's goods habitually, his white apron tied loose across his ample stomach. But Spiros moved with agility, in and around the cramped bakery, which defied logic.

Davonna took a deep breath to soak in the smells as she walked up to the curved glass display case and the wooden floors creaked under her feet. It was the same every day; the aroma of yeast and cinnamon and the trailing line of flour, which marked out Spiros and Aris' travels. The breadbaskets that lined the back wall overflowed. An intoxicating fragrance of melted Asiago cheese permeated the air, conjuring cravings from thin air.

"Efharisto," Davonna said, thanking Spiros as he placed a large bag on the counter.

He nodded and assured her it was fresh. Before she thought of escape, Aris strode towards her as stealthy as a mouse; holding out a plate.

Aris was the antithesis to Spiros, tall with muscular biceps and a wide chest. Davonna liked to imagine that it was from the kneading. They had it worked out well between them; Spiros took care of the customers and Aris made the bread. Davonna looked at the plain, white plate, the kind that was in constant use in the bakery. On it were four of the most perfectly shaped tiropitas she'd ever seen. The pasty was light and flaky and the feta, Parmesan, and cottage cheese bulged out of the sides.

"Sit and have a bite."

"I ..."

"Sit," Spiros said and moved her to a chair in the back of the store in between two long butcher-block countertops; covered in flour. "There's naught so pressing you can't sit and eat a tiropita."

Davonna smiled in spite of herself. As Spiros left to see to the jingling door, Aris sat in front of her. He crossed his right leg over his left and watched with relish as she took a bite of the pastries.

"It's delicious."

"We don't see you often enough. I told this to Spiros. You work too hard. I'm sure you're lonely, wandering around in a big house all day. And you're always here. Your family must miss you. Why not go to Paris for a weekend? Or Athens?" he said, patting her knee.

While Aris talked, Davonna moved back in her chair; out of his reach. She finished a second tiropita, it melted in her mouth, the crumbling of layer upon layer of flaky pastry, was intoxicating. She longed to close her eyes and drift off to a lounge chair underneath a canopy of wisteria and warm sunshine and a cool glass of sangria, with the lazy sounds of bees and twinkling birdcalls circling around her. But Aris leaned towards her in anticipation. He would wait for an hour if it meant she'd talk.

"The house is magnificent and I've been so comfortable on Lesvos. I can't think of a reason I'd go anywhere else." Aris pursed his lips as Davonna talked and stuffed the rest of the tiropita, unladylike, into her mouth. "Thank you for the chat and the food," she mumbled and fled the bakery, catching up her basket as she whipped around the doorway.

"How is John?" a voice shouted.

Davonna gasped as she turned and saw Aris mere feet behind her. She blinked and blinked again as people moved around them.

"He's fine," she mumbled.

"Are you happy?"

Davonna clamped her lips together and stared. She didn't know these two men ... beyond a casual acquaintance and yet in Aris' eyes there was doubt and concern and pity. Davonna frowned, wondering where it originated. She turned away, leaving Aris behind, his question unanswered, her mind a torrent.

She trudged through the crowded streets and up the winding hill to the house. Aris' face swam in front of her and she wondered why he'd even asked. But in the beating sun her musings were cut short. The basket on her shoulder grew heavier as she trudged up the hill. A rock bounced into her sandal and she wriggled and stretched her foot to eject it. As she came in sight of the house, her head spun and she put her arm out to steady herself on the iron gate. She wanted to swim in the pond at the back of the property. But there wasn't time for such triviality.

So she walked through the kitchen door and started to work. She chopped and seared meat and rolled pastry and mixed crème patisserie, all the time filled with dread.

Davonna woke the next morning, confused why John was still in bed. She watched him, like a dragon, feigning sleep. She scooped up a pile of clothes and fled the room. Downstairs, in the pantry she pulled on faded jeans with holes in the knees, a short-sleeve grey shirt, slipped her feet into wellingtons, and headed to the garden. The morning air was cool and light and pleasantly humid, but its comfort evaporated too soon. The scorching sun replaced it. Even the grass shrank beneath its fiery gaze.

In the unrelenting heat the work was exhausting. A huge pile of debris cascaded over the wheelbarrow, but only one corner, the size of a swimming pool, lay completed. Davonna thought longingly of a long soak in the massive copper bathtub upstairs, pouring in Epsom salts and a few drops of lavender and sliding beneath the silky water.

It was hours before she trudged back through the garden, her shoulders slumped, to eat. She sat at the table and drank glass after glass of water. The sun shone thick and bright through the kitchen windows but the vent above her head blew out crisp, dry air. Davonna raked her hand across her forehead and slumped into her chair, her arms dangling off the sides. Dirt lay caked underneath her fingers and in her nail beds.

"Morning."

Davonna looked. John stood in the doorway, bleary eyed.

"Good morning," she replied. John stumbled forward and when she didn't move, cocked an eyebrow at the teapot. Davonna rushed to the sideboard and slid a cup in front of him.

"I'm on evening shifts this week. I've got to head out in an hour. Make me two poached eggs, will you," he snapped.

Davonna backed towards the stove, filled the pot, and set it under the gas.

"Wash your hands before you touch anything else," he snarled.

Davonna looked at her hands in horror. "I'm so sorry. I've been in the garden."

"I know, the bloody snap of your pruning shears echoed like a bloody anvil."

Davonna swallowed. "I'm ... sorry, John."

"Whatever. I'm sure my sleep doesn't matter to you, but if you've forgotten I am the one who makes the money. I make this possible for you," he said, wagging his arm.

Davonna nodded, turned to the sink, grabbed a scrub brush, and set to work on her hands.

John left an hour later, in an exquisitely tailored suit, his hair combed to perfection. He strode out the front door and walked around the house to the garage. Davonna watched from the kitchen. The Morgan started with a rumble and he eased it from the garage. Its dark, black paint and the red piping on the new black leather seats gleamed in the sun. The top was down, as it always was.

She walked back out to the garden. The sound of the Morgan's engine in her ears, and the impression of John's stare on her back and the sound of his voice ordering her to scrub off her hands. She swallowed and twisted her hands together and wiped her head. The world spun around her and she closed her eyes: willing it to stop. A never-ending sense of failure filled Davonna ... but more than that, failure where failing decides life or death, where any moment might be your last and a cruel torturous end awaits you. The result, at least for her, was a life on the edge with no relaxation, no hope, no glimmer - just the blank soulless eyes of death.

Davonna toiled away under the hot glare of the sun until the light cooled and then light faded altogether. It was so dark; she hardly saw whether she pulled weeds or flowers. She pushed the wheelbarrow towards the trashcans, shoved her load in, and stumbled back to the house.

The house was quiet when she walked back in. She flicked on the kitchen light and stared at the inside of the pantry. None of it tempted her, even though her stomach growled and twisted, and her head was as heavy as a watermelon. She closed the door and trudged upstairs to shower and collapse into bed.

At 3:00 a.m., according to the sickly blue light of the alarm clock, Davonna's eyes flew open. She stared at the ceiling, confused why she'd woken, and then bolted upright; straining her ears. A faint noise came from downstairs; like a muted hammering. A click echoed through the house and the darkness receded an inch as a light turned on. Davonna grabbed her mobile phone and typed in, 1-0-0.

"There's someone in my house," she whispered after the emergency dispatcher answered. They asked for the address and for a door to be opened for the police. "The back door to the kitchen," Davonna said. Her heart thundered in her ears, and the calm young woman offered to stay on the line until help arrived. "No, I'll be ok."

She hung up the phone, and a moment later was embarrassed that she'd called. It might be John. But no, he's working tonight. He wouldn't leave the hotel. The noises had stopped. Maybe it was the house: the shutters clinking against the windowpanes or the air conditioner starting.

She slunk out of bed and pulled on her robe. She clutched her mobile like a lifeline and tiptoed from the room. At the door, she hesitated; if she took the main stairs it would leave her exposed. With a flash of memory, she nudged open a hidden door, to the left of the master bedroom, and slipped into the servant's staircase. The steps were thick with dust and the space was so close, so dark, so suffocating, that Davonna had to force herself not to flee in terror. She gripped the rough handrail with both hands and stepped deeper into the gloom, the dust muffling her footsteps.

On the last step, Davonna pitched forward and stumbled into the door at the bottom with a thump. She froze, her ear pressed at the door, and listened. With the merest hint of a squeak Davonna opened the door and slipped into the darkness of the kitchen hallway. Pale blue moonlight pooled on the floor. It gave the hanging pots and pans an otherworldly glow. She crept across to unlatch the door and waited until she heard the light crunch of gravel. A figure moved out of the shadows. She shrank back, stifling a scream behind her hand.

"Davonna?"

"Thanos?"

"I got the call. There's someone in the house?"

"Yes," she whispered, and pointed through the kitchen and out towards the main part of the house. "The noises came from John's office."

"I'll go check," he said. He laid a strong hand on her shoulder and then slipped from the room.

Davonna sank onto a chair. Her heart slapped in her chest. Her mind raced, and she imagined Thanos as he crept through the house. The burglar might wait behind an open door, spring out, and hit him on the head. Then a shuffling, a small whine, the chink of metal on metal. Davonna turned, cocking her ear. It sounded as if it came from the terrace.

Without warning a resounding crash shook the house. Davonna flew out of her chair and tore out of the kitchen. The door to the terrace swung on its hinges. Thanos, his reflective coat whipping in the wind, sprinted across the garden, darting through the shrubs and trees and across the stretches of lawn. Davonna clutched her robe tight around her and stood frozen with terror; craning her head to see Thanos.

He came walking back, not ten minutes later, gulping air and clutching a stitch in his side.

"There was someone in the house. He tore off across the lawn and scaled the wall into your neighbor's property. I'll go ask if I can search," he said. He sat on the half wall and hung his head.

"No. I'm sure he's long gone by now," she sighed, and motioned Thanos inside.

"Let's make sure nothing was stolen."

Davonna showed Thanos to John's study where the lamp shone. She peered into corners. There wasn't a shard of glass or fleck of dust out of place.

"Anything?"

Davonna moved closer to the desk. There was something odd. She leaned over, what was it? There, on the desk, glinting in the light of the lamp was a used staple. It was bent out of shape and a leg was gone. Davonna picked it up and stared at it before passing it to Thanos.

"A staple?" Thanos scratched his head looking too confused for his own good.

"John keeps his desk scrupulously clean. What is it?"

Thanos frowned at the bit of metal in his hand before he passed it back to Davonna. "I'm not sure. It doesn't make sense. There's a lot in this house worth stealing and nothing was touched."

"Maybe they knew what they were looking for," Davonna mused.

Thanos glanced at her and nodded. "Let's walk through to make sure nothing else is missing."

Davonna scoured the lower level, checking paintings, small bronze statues, even the bar cart in the corner of the drawing room that bore an unopened 32-year-old bottle of Laphroaig. She shook her head and led Thanos to the front door.

"I'm sorry," she said, as she unlocked the door.

Cool, crisp air came rushing in. It smelled of the sea, fresh and yet with an ever-present tang. It ticked Davonna's nose and pushed her forward an inch or two where she was close enough to see sweat pooled on Thanos' temples.

"I'll stay parked outside for an hour or two, to make sure he doesn't come back. I'll file the report tomorrow."

"Do you think he'll come back?"

"It isn't likely, but it's better to be safe than sorry," he said with a sad smile. "Do you want to call your husband and see if he can come home?"

"Oh no. No, he's at the hotel, I don't want to bother him."

Thanos frowned." All right." He turned to descend the steps but paused, looking over his shoulder. "Are you sure you're ok? I'll sit with you for a while, make you a cup of tea?"

"No, I'm fine on my own."

Thanos shuffled his feet as though unsure where to put them. "I don't mind."

Davonna sighed and shook her head. "It's fine. Thank you for chasing him away."

They stood for a moment, staring at each other, both wanting to say something they never would. Davonna was the first to turn away. Thanos stood on the steps outside and stared for a long while at the closed doors.

Davonna walked back through the house, bathed in light, at odds with the oppressive darkness. At the door to the library she turned and strode over to one of the leather couches. She pulled out a red plaid blanket, wrapped it around herself, and stared at the opposite wall.

After the earlier commotion, it was disconcerting to sit alone in the silence and the dark. Her ears perked at every noise. As frightening as it was to sit in the library, exposed, the thought of ascending the stairs, with no way to escape, was infinitely worse. But the house stilled and Davonna with it.

An image of Thanos framed in the kitchen doorway, rose, unbidden to her mind. She smiled and her heart lightened with just the memory. His kind eyes, the perfume of his muscular body, and the ease of existing next to him ... it intoxicated her. She wanted to call him back and fall into his strong arms and leave her prison. She glanced at the floor and shook her head; her eyes heavy with exhaustion and disdain. What use was dreaming when there was no escape?

At 5 a.m., the sky now more blue than black, Davonna heard the crunch of gravel echo from the front driveway. Davonna uncurled her body from the chair. She bit her lip as she stepped onto the floor. One leg was numb and shooting pain exploded up her calf and thigh. She hobbled to the front door and reached it as John put his key into the lock.

"You're awake, are you?" he asked blandly.

"Someone broke into the house last night," she said, and took John's trench coat and briefcase, which he pushed toward her.

"I know, doubtless the local hooligans."

"You know?"

John rolled his eyes. "The police rang the hotel."

"Oh."

"Was anything taken?"

"Not that I saw. There was a staple on your desk. A broken one."

John blanched, rushed to his office, and slammed the door behind him. Long minutes dragged by before the door to the office opened again. John emerged; his face pale.

"What's wrong?"

But John didn't say a word. He looked across the wide hall with blank eyes, then squinted and leaned forward as though he was on the cusp of a decision.

"I'm off to bed," he said, with a stifled yawn.

"All right."

"You should sleep for a few hours. You've been up all night, but use one of the guest bedrooms."

Davonna watched him go with trepidation. Surely her luck couldn't hold this far? The burglar had taken nothing and even though John was shaken, he wasn't angry with her.

"Oh and don't use those bloody pruning shears," John shouted from the second floor.

"I won't."

The door to the master bedroom slammed. Davonna turned, hung up John's coat, and walked to his office to deposit his briefcase. The room was dark, even with the faint glow of the small desk lamp. Davonna put the briefcase on the floor and walked over to the desk. The image of the broken staple flashed through her mind.

What had the person been looking for? Why were they only in his office? Did they find it? What was it? Had they known John was at the hotel? Why were they unafraid to turn on the light? A burglar would have brought their own, a small handy flashlight to get around the house, right? And why was John so flustered?

Davonna slumped against the desk. Her body lay limp with exhaustion but her mind whirled and spun with a thousand questions. The windows in the office faced the small olive grove on the north west side of the house. She walked over and put her palm flat against the glass. She pulled back. The front door was closer. Why hadn't he left that way? Even though it would lead Thanos toward his car, there were innumerable off-road paths to take, where he might escape.

Davonna retraced the steps the burglar must have taken: out through the office and to the back of the house. A shard of light trickled through the slats of the shutters and fell disjointedly to the floor. She stopped at the entrance to the morning room. It wasn't difficult to find, if someone had studied the house.

Unsteadily, she walked around the furniture, her eyes on the doors. The metal handle was cold and stiff. The door creaked, chirping like a hungry baby bird. Davonna frowned at the hinges. She stepped out onto the tiled terrace; the stone cool and damp.

She walked out through the garden. There were huge divots in the gravel where the two men had run. She walked on, keeping one eye on the prints and another on where she placed her bare feet. The prints veered off the gravel and into the grass. On and on the prints continued, to the edge of the property, against the thick stone property wall. She placed her hand against the damp stone; it was a straight line to Megan's home. The grounds were thick with trees and six-foot tall shrubs; anyone could have hid there. Should she go? Should she ask Megan if she had seen or heard anyone?

But as Davonna looked longer at Megan's home with its marble queerly looked more blue than white, a wave of futility washed over her. What was the use? Why bother? With a sigh, she slumped against the wall, wrapped her arms around her legs, and closed her eyes. As the minutes dragged by, the island awoke around her. Golden orioles chirped merrily, cicadas thrummed, and the sky lightened inch by inch.

Davonna lifted her head and looked at her house. Its delicate pink plaster gleamed in the dawn and the greens of the garden shone like a beacon of life. The cool rock and the magic of the morning became a balm.

The crackle of gravel in the distance caught her attention. She looked up and headed towards the house. A white and blue striped police car drove around the side of the house and parked by the garage.

"Kalimera, Davonna."

"Kalimera," she said with a smile.

Thanos exited the car, pulled on his cap and adjusted his thick vest. They stood in an awkward silence before he cleared his throat.

"I wanted to check and see whether the burglar dropped evidence when he ran across the property. Oh and to check on you," he added, blushing crimson.

"I walked the garden, but I didn't find anything."

"That's unfortunate," Thanos sighed. "Were you able to get any sleep?"

"No, my mind never settled."

"Is your husband home?"

"Yes. He got home at five."

Thanos stared at her and forced himself not to roll his eyes. "Please let me know if anything else happens."

"It's just this week that John is working nights. I think someone is ill. He will be home after that."

"Okay," Thanos said. He dithered for a moment.

"Thank you for coming." She smiled, clasping her hands together.

"Sure... take care, Davonna."

She watched him go. The car rumbled over the rock, pulled out of the driveway, and turned left toward town. What was it like for Thanos, to drive the island while everyone else slept? What did he do during those long hours? Did he pack a lunch (dinner?) or did he get snacks out of a vending machine? What did he do when he got home? What did his home looked like? Did he want to leave Lesvos? Did he want more out of his life? Did he have someone to go home to? There wasn't a ring ... but was there a woman? What was it in his eyes when he looked at her? Did he know what she'd daydreamed about in the early hours; curled on the couch in the library.

Davonna blinked, a thick ray of sun broke over the horizon and lit up the gravel driveway. She turned and looked at the house, did something catch her eye? Then ... there in the large circular window where the staircase was, a figure moved. She shaded her eyes. It was John. He stood there, unmoving, watching. She waved, but he just stood there. She couldn't make out his expression. Did she have to? How long had he been there? Had he heard the gravel as well?

A rush of fear clutched at her heart. He'd watched. He must have. He'd seen Thanos come back. He'd seen Thanos blush and shuffle his feet in embarrassment. He knew. He had to know that she'd been daydreaming of Thanos. And then she blinked, and the window was empty. But it didn't matter, she couldn't move. The threat of what was sure to come was enough to bind her to the rocky drive.

Davonna walked inside, her hand brushed against the cool wooden kitchen table. She stopped mid-stride. She frowned and stared ahead and looked around for what had made her pause. On the far counter, flapping in the light breeze, lay a folded dog-eared newspaper. She blinked, as though caught in a net, which dragged her mercilessly backward, backward and down into the past.

Davonna sat on a metal chair, on the terrace of Galvin at the Athenaeum, an expensive London restaurant, that overlooked Green Park. A goblet of sparkling water perched on top of a wrinkled copy of The Times.

The paper's headline blared like a foghorn: Wife Kills Husband in a Spiteful Rage. It had been a cold-blooded, month-long trial. She wasn't a beautiful woman, the woman on the page. What once must have been her youthful comeliness had been sucked from her, as if from an ancient ritual, leaving behind a dry husk.

The story screamed from the pages of every newspaper in London. People flocked to it, like moths to a flame. It was intoxicating to know what the police knew, to dig into another person's life, and to comment on what you saw there. The murderess was from good stock, distantly related to the royal family. The paper threw it in, to get a jab at the posh snobs. They couldn't control the black sheep of their families either.

Davonna Wolfe leaned back in the chair and stared at the paper. It ruffled on the table, its pages flopped in the breeze; in the wake of cars and black London cabs. The woman in the paper: she'd claimed her husband was abusive. Decades of torment. The thin cord, which bound her to reality; snapped. She couldn't take any more.

The public was with her. Who wouldn't be? Davonna rolled her eyes and flipped her hair out of her face. She looked at her thin silver watch and sighed. Two more minutes and he'd be late. Ten more and he'd be inexcusably late. Fifteen and she'd leave.

The time passed with dizzying monotony. Ten ... Eleven ... Twelve minutes ...Thirteen ... Fourteen and then, around the corner, he came, with a swagger in his shoulders like he owned the street. Davonna smiled and her stomach squirmed like a pubescent girl's. He sat in the chair next to her, John Fitzroy, the handsome hotel manager. He was tall and muscular, but not overtly so. Just quietly strong, she decided.

"You look stunning," he said, and leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Davonna caught a whiff of his cologne, it smelled expensive, exclusive.

He sat next to her, perched in the chair in the comfortable way that the aristocracy has bred into them. Davonna wasn't able to fake the superiority or relaxation, which came naturally to John. But she didn't know how many men stared as she sat, her back against the metal of the chair, one arm casually on the armrest. She wore a supple Burberry trench coat, tied around her waist. Her hair rippled out in soft curls behind her. She might have thought herself plain, without a gleam of seduction in her eye, but she was entrancing on and by her own.

"Lady Carlisle checked in this afternoon, she's being given an MBE by the Queen. It's why I'm late, she invited me to tea. I knew her son at Eton."

"I haven't heard of Lady Carlisle," Davonna said. "But I haven't been in the UK for a few years."

"Oh, never mind her," John said with a grin. His teeth were brilliantly white, and straight as soldiers. "You can't imagine how horrified I was, running along The Mall, worried that you'd left."

"You had one more minute."

"How fortuitous," he said. "I am so glad you stayed."

"It's polite, after what you did for me at the hotel."

"I have to confess," he said as he colored, "... I was happy to have an excuse to come and talk to you."

"Well: here I am."

John frowned and stiffened as his eyes caught the flutter of the newspaper's pages from a wisp of a breeze.

"What are you reading?"

"Oh, it was on the table," Davonna said, and pushed over the copy of The Times.

"It's horrid."

"Yes."

They stared at each other for a moment, the face of the older society woman gazing unseeing at the sky, between them. Davonna laughed first, a nervous giggle.

"I'm so sorry, I haven't done this in a long time."

"What do you mean?" John said, a faint glimmer in his eyes.

"Been out on a date. I work so much. I never have time. Maybe I'm not that interesting."

"Come on," John said, and offered his hand. "Let's go."

Through the afternoon and evening they strolled across London. At eleven they exited a playhouse on Shaftesbury Avenue. John pulled her close as a throng of late-night revelers threatened to tear them apart. He guided her into a nearby pub and offered to get drinks. A three-piece band played in the corner. The guitarist and singer, in jeans and a corduroy vest, was singing The Drunk Scotsman, tapping his foot on the black, wooden stage. Davonna settled into a red faux-leather upholstered booth, which overlooked the busy street.

The pub smelled of home; the cheap leather of the bar seats, the beer, and the battered fish and chips. John broke through the crowd, like a ship out of a storm and Davonna chuckled as a drunk staggered in front of him. He grimaced as he sat.

"Cheers," he said as he handed over her wine glass.

"Cheers."

The bubble popped and the smells of a lively English pub and the warbling tones of a questionable singer dissipated in the dry Greek air. Davonna's fingers brushed the old paper. There wasn't a headline about a husband killer. They were just stories detailing Greece's solitary struggle through depression and bank closures. A picture of an old grandmother, white headscarf, sunbaked wrinkled face, stood next to a wall of colorfully depressive graffiti.

A shudder, premature tears, rattled Davonna. She shook and swallowed those tears. Those memories. Those long lost dreams.

III

καμήλα δεν βλέπει την καμπούρα της.

The camel does not see her own hump.

John's week of night shifts flew by in a haze of exhaustion. Davonna only slept for three hours at a time. She woke in the night, dreaming of broken doors, and Thanos' face bathed in shadow, and the stone wall at the edge of the property collapsing, stone by stone. John crept around her like he knew, a strange sinister smile, which turned her stomach to jelly.

In a haze, she tripped through her normal errands in town; the basket filled with produce, bunches of flowers, a small bag of chocolate, and a damp package of steak. She looked up at the road through the flopping brim of her hat, diminutive rays of light filtered through the gaps in the weaving. An uncomfortable tickling sensation, the way bread crackles and shrivels as it burns, broke over her back and her bare calves as she wove her way out of Mitilini, past the cobblestone streets of the marketplace which reeked of lavender and piss and sweat.

She pulled the brim of the hat lower on her neck and trudged through the dirt. The reddish brown particles even seeped in through the cracks of her house as though determined to reclaim the land. As she walked it settled onto her calves, onto the gold buckles on her leather sandals, and in between her toes. It ground across her skin like sandpaper. It grated on her mind. The handle of the basket dug into her palm. The old calluses rubbed against it.

She looked up from the road and the scraggly pale green grass, which grew alongside in haphazard bands. A lone bougainvillea, the seeds must have blown from a house years ago, stood sentinel along the road, its long trailing arms of luscious pink flowers swinging in the breeze.

The island was enchanting if you had the time to enjoy it; to sit on a lounge chair with a heavy book and a sweating glass of tea and naught on your mind except sunscreen. But with every step, Davonna's shoes displaced small rocks with tiny chinks, and the house grew ever closer. The sun shrank behind a cloud as if it recalled its warmth to a place of happiness.

Davonna hurried as she passed in front of the gates to Ioannis' home; no more than a white blur. The hedgerow clicked and rustled in the breeze. A thick stone pillar rose from the green leaves. On it hung, pride of place, a sign so none might wonder where they were: La Chambre des Rois.

The bright, late morning sun glinted off the gilt placard and threw a haze in Davonna's eyes. She moved passed it with a shudder. She hated the name. Hated that it was written in gold. Hated that it was in French. But as the house loomed, Davonna swallowed, swallowed it all, so she felt nothing. Hate didn't exist. Misery didn't exist. She just was. A blinking corpse.

There wasn't the time for placards or house names. She didn't think beyond the endless line of chores, which swelled before her. It took too much energy to cry, worry, or imagine different.

The house was silent as she walked into the kitchen. She placed the basket on the table and emptied it. The flowers went to the dining room, the Louis XIV entry table, the bathrooms, and the desk in the office. The chocolates into a silvery 1900s tin in the library. The steak and vegetables into the coolest corner of the refrigerator. The bread into a glass fronted cabinet, which smelled of heaven.

Three o'clock came with indecent haste. As it did every day. Davonna's shoulders slumped forward. Was it finished? Dinner simmered ... how much longer did it have? Fifty-three minutes. Enough. They say the mind plays terrible tricks and none greater than time speeding up to welcome home an executioner every night.

He arrived at a crawl; the tires eked ahead at a snail's pace, but fine dust still wrapped itself around the Morgan like a lover and the pebbles played around the tires like an orphanage of children. John drove into the garage, craned his head left and right, and checked to make sure the Morgan wouldn't hit anything. It never did. The only other car in the four-car garage, a black BMW sedan, was parked ten feet away. Davonna stood where she always did, to the left of the open door, her hands clasped demurely in front of her. The dirty, pungent white dress was replaced by one of blue silk. She couldn't be the woman who walked to Mitilini. That woman had ruddy cheeks and a spring in her step. This woman looked and moved like stone. Davonna sighed and took one last free breath. She drew in and savored the hint of gardenia on the air and the peace and the easy quiet.

John closed the Morgan's door as though he was tucking in a newborn. He walked towards her, the garage door slid shut behind him, his chin lifted and a swagger in his shoulders. John was a man secure in his position. He was the owner of a fine hotel and a fine home and a fine car. But he made his wife quail. Behind the Savile Row tailored suit, the chiseled jaw, and the blue eyes, lurked something sinister. He didn't walk but strutted across the gravel, a hint of a grin played at the edge of his mouth.

"Is it ready?" he said as he breezed by.

She was silent, taking a last glance at the sky. A faint streak of clouds huddled on the horizon like sheep returning home.

Davonna turned and stepped indoors. A quiet thud echoed through the house as the oak doors swung shut behind her. She followed John as he threw off his trench coat and dug his wallet out of the pocket of his suit. He walked towards the dining room with its mahogany table and oval-backed Louis XIV chairs. He sat like a king; ready to be served.

It was ready. It was always ready. John never ate past six thirty and had only one glass of wine in the course of the day. Physical perfection was paramount to him and he would never allow his body to use his evening meal to make fat while he slept.

Davonna slid behind a fake wall and pushed in a cart laden with the first and second courses. She placed these in front of John and sat across from him.

"Your thighs have thickened. The silk stresses the problem."

"Yes, John," Davonna said, her head tilted demurely.

"Those thin models the Americans use, I'm sure, would love to have your curves."

Davonna was silent. She picked at her salad, and when she brought John his main course, she did not serve herself.

If John noticed, he said nothing. He was in full swing about the abysmal governance of England by the Conservative party and the deplorable fashion choices of Theresa May; which, in his opinion, only cemented her obvious inability to govern. He was sufficiently knowledgeable about British politics to talk endlessly on the subject. All he desired was a "yes" or occasional nod at a proper point. Anything more would have been unwanted.

Last, Davonna brought out an unopened bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and a victoria sandwich and placed them both in front of him. John opened the wine and poured a glass. She smiled and stole a glance out of the window. The sky was empty, and the sun hung easily, the pale light sifted through the leaves on the olive trees and hedgerows, which surrounded the house and the petals of the crown anemones, and lined them in soft halos.

John rose abruptly, wiped his face one last time, and tossed his napkin on the seat. Davonna waited until he'd gone through into the office before she too stood. She wheeled the cart back through the hidden door and cleared the table. The dishes clinked together; the joyful noise reverberated through the dining room like the gongs of a bell. The kitchen, it was cool and quiet. She slipped off her heels as she walked in, luxuriating in the coolness of the stone floor and the respite of her domain. She tied the blue cotton apron with frayed ties around her waist was as comfortable as a plush hotel bathrobe.

She left her sanctuary reluctantly. She counted off the minutes it took to wash the evening's dishes and put the kitchen to rights again. It was always the same, one half hour, enough for John to finish his glass of wine and plan his week. Davonna slipped her feet into the beige stilettos and tapped her way back to the office. John met her at the door, reeking of cigar smoke, placed a hand at the small of her back, and pushed her ahead of him, up the stairs.

The staircase curved to the left, and emptied into a vast corridor, which looked onto the main hall. John led her to the master bedroom's large walk in closet, without a word. Davonna shrugged off the blue silk dress, her stomach rumbled, but in a strange way she cherished the sound; the denial. The pain made her seem alive.

She pulled off her spanx. Unclasped the thin clasps of the La Perla bra. Tugged the lace underwear off, and stepped out of the closet, naked. She walked to the bed where John waited, his foot propped on the corner of the bed. He stood at a jaunty angle. Secure in his power. Whatever he had said earlier about her legs, he gave the impression they were pleasurable enough and nodded at the bed.

It happened every night. Some nights were worse than others. If the meal wasn't satisfactory enough. If Davonna skulked. If she had, against all rationale, gained weight. If the house wasn't spotless. If an act or word was wrong or perceived to be wrong ... John's wrath and punishment rained down. She could nearly trick herself into believing she loved him while the sun shone, but at night during the humiliation, her heart wept.

Tonight was easy enough. John only shoved her into different positions, wrung her neck, and took bites of her breasts. Two times. It took an hour. He was a creature of habit. Davonna curled around her white, silk pillow afterward. She didn't dare to massage her neck or cradle her stinging breasts, but she looked at the writing desk her grandmother had given her, tucked into the opposite corner of the room. The older woman stared out of a faded photograph in a simple silver and mother-of-pearl frame. She was lordly in her own right, with shrewd black eyes, curled hair, and, in her carriage, there was a resemblance to the Queen.

It was only after John had finished and gone to wash and tinker around in his office that Davonna could bear to look in her grandmother's eyes. It was too easy to let the tears slip out, to betray her. Betrayal, she'd done it once and not been able to get a full night's sleep for a month.

Davonna fell asleep as the light faded and twisted in shivering beams across the floor. Though naked, in between the light silk sheets, the fan twisting uselessly overhead, she was sweating.

She woke as cool air blasted from the vents. She waited for the familiar shift and tilt of John as he flopped into bed. Sometimes he'd roll over, and if he were in a good mood, he'd throw an arm around her. For a moment Davonna let her guard slip and sigh and dream that John was different—that he was better. The air conditioner droned on, but John didn't come.

She stared at the ceiling and pondered different scenarios. Maybe he'd fallen asleep in his chair. He'd blame her for it and complain about a sore neck. Or maybe he was in the gardens. Or tinkering on the Morgan. But the fear of being blamed, of the abyss of punishment, forced her forward. She stood, blood thundered so loud in her ears she couldn't hear her own mind. She grabbed her nightgown and slipped it over her thin body, which shone pale in the half-light.

In the hall outside, she peered over the bannister. Except for a whistling breeze outside, the island was asleep. Davonna crept across the landing and down the red-carpeted staircase. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a small movement and stopped next to the large circular window that overlooked the garage. She leaned so close that the tip of her nose touched the cool glass.

A single light shone in the garage window. Was it the bulb that hung over John's workbench? She strained, and by twisting around, she could see a hazy humanoid outline as it passed to and fro. It was John, wasn't it? Morgan parts were delivered to the house every week, but John never did the work himself. Or was it the burglar, back again?

As she tried to hoist herself on the window ledge, the light died. She fled, her stomach churned, and slid back into bed. It didn't matter how many deep breaths she took, her heart galloped and sweat trickled under her armpits, itching to insanity. Was the burglar back? Had he met John in the garage? Was he alone?

She strained, listening for the sound of the back door or the pad of John's feet on the staircase. The house was as quiet and still, and it taunted her with its silence. She lay in bed and tried to prop her heavy eyelids open. She wasn't awake to hear the faintest echo of rattling glass in the kitchen door, or the soft tread of stocking feet on the stairs, or the creak of the floorboards as the silhouette of a man filled the doorway.

John stood unmoving, his eyes fixed on the bed, and the soft curve of his wife's body underneath the sheets. Davonna wasn't awake to see him stroke his chin, frown, and then, with a grin, strip off his clothes and slip noiselessly into bed. Davonna wasn't awake to see John send a text: "Tomorrow at lunch" to an 'Athena.'

The moon slipped out from behind a cloud and bathed the room in a silvery glow. It fell upon the flare of redness on Davonna's neck, on the lank hair sprawled on the pillow, on the thick muscles of John's arm, which were, for once still and unassuming.

IV

Κι ο άγιος φοβέρα θέλει.

Even a saint needs to be 'threatened'.

Davonna woke clutching her neck. She winced as the pain radiated from her throat to her skull. It was a torment. It flared with every tiny movement, when she twisted or bent over. It was a constant reminder of John, of his presence and his power. As if she needed another.

She crossed to the window and gazed across their property, quiet and peaceful. A breeze ruffled the dangling wisteria, but it was only a trickle from the sea. The garden was draped in shadow, but the light crept onward like an advancing army. There was nothing. No sign or hint of the strange goings-on of last night.

Davonna sighed. She walked to the closet and buried her nose in a thick wool sweater. Memory flooded her mind like a tidal wave. The sharp tangy smell of sheep, the air of rocky Scottish hills underfoot, where she once roamed and laughed with her sisters. A freedom birthed by an easy childhood.

But the happy memories dissolved into nonbeing and she was left with her chores. If she'd known what would come, years ago, she would've never complained when her parents asked her to make her bed or set the table or empty the dishwasher. She would've done it with glee, if it could've spared her this future. Davonna walked through the house hunched over, grasping her throbbing neck, and saying silent apologies to her parents.

She walked into it. The closed kitchen door. Taped to it; a piece of garish yellow paper. 'London Conference: July 17-25.' He was gone then, off early to catch his flight. On the back was a list. Line after line of complicated, deviously long chores. 'Complete by the night of the 24th' was written in thick block letters at the bottom.

She walked into the kitchen, tacked the note on the corkboard, and slumped into a chair. Light still hadn't permeated the house. She tugged at her shirt, running her thumb over the curve of the hem, and stared at the list. If she did three tasks a day, she'd get it all done.

With that exhausting thought, Davonna put the kettle on, pulled out a teapot, and trudged upstairs. The double doors loomed like monoliths. But she walked towards them, swallowing the pain. She stopped on the threshold and stared at the crisp folded corners of the comforter. Why had she come here? Why was she staring at the bed? A memory whispered in her ear.

'I'll always take care of you ... Just the way you are, that's how I like you ... My Queen, My Love."

John's voice echoed around her mind. A husky muted whisper pressed against her neck. He'd promised. He'd been calm and kind. They walked the busy streets of London, arm in arm, laughed at the wind, ducked under awnings as the rain fell sideways, collapsed against each other in glee.

He'd always be this good to her, he said, as she writhed in pleasure underneath him. She'd heard it. Smiled at the thought of a lifetime of his attention and love. But the noose tightened. The hard glint in his eye as he shoved her into the bed. The night the boeuf bourguignon was dry, and he'd punched her and she careened into the corner of the kitchen counter, and blood pooled under her fingers. The move to Greece afterward when there was nowhere to flee. Nothing to dull the pain. No one to break the solitude of instability. The countless nights of duty as she let him do what he wanted. Of laying with her face to the open window and dreaming; dreaming of peace.

It didn't matter. Well, it did. But it couldn't matter.

And the bed. The bed was always there under her. The white albatross. The final torture.

Davonna shook her head and fled to the closet. There on the ottoman were her work clothes, folded. There was a black sports bra, worn out tennis shoes, and grey cotton pants with ground-in grass stains on the knees. It was the massive gardens that John wanted tackled first; they hadn't done the required work in March.

Outside, the sun beat mercilessly on her bare arms. She plopped on the wide brimmed hat, slipped through a small gate near the kitchen door, and went to gather the tools from the garage.

She kneeled on the edge of a rose bed and dug out the deleterious of the fall. Dirt worked its way into her gloves like a naughty child and she beamed. She slipped them off and plunged her hands into the warm soil. It was glorious, the smell of the damp earth as it squirmed between her fingers. She wanted to kneel at the edge of the flowerbed and knead the earth, but John's voice played over and over in her head and his condescending face loomed in front of her. 'You're wasting time, get to it.' Davonna wiped the dirt off her hands and ran back for her tools.

She weeded the cobblestones of the gazebo. For two hours she trimmed the hedgerow by the road, a trail of sad green twigs followed as she lugged the rest to the trash. Then she harvested the lavender and laid it on the table to dry.

Her arms shone like beacons as the sun rose and the shadows shrank to pinpricks, and promptly turned red. The noonday sun was oppressive. The flowers wilted and Davonna gasped for breath like a fish. It was torturous to move. The heat loomed like a solid wall. She sat on the edge of a fountain, just beyond the gazebo, and trailed her hands in the cool water. But she couldn't relax. John's presence followed her everywhere. She wouldn't put it past him to have cameras in the house and the garden or spies in the village.

She smiled. Smiled to fool him. To fool herself. Beaming in spite of him, she walked to the gazebo and the large cooler of water, took a long drink, applied more sunscreen, and walked back to the weeds.

Davonna collapsed in bed on the night of July 24th, without taking off her clothes. She lay, sprawled on the comforter as twilight fell across her thin body. Cuts ran up the length of her arms from the roses. There were bruises from carting off branches, and thick lines of sunburn.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the copper pots burnished to a rosy glow, the glistening stone floor warm, and bright white walls; there were small, thick check marks beside every task on John's list along with the date and time she'd completed it. Tomorrow's dinner marinated in the refrigerator. Even with John's unspoken threat of repercussions, as the days passed, slivers of his presence seeped out from the house and she read in bed, if she wasn't too exhausted. She even sung in the shower.

Tonight though, his glare and quick hands came back on the white caps of a flood. He peered over her shoulder, watched as she burnt the first victoria sponge. She took the burnt cake out to the bins in the garage and shoved it under last week's black trash bag. Her shoulders slumped as she crossed the kitchen threshold.

By the time the second cake had baked, the soles of her feet ached with pain. Would he expect more from her? Would he burden her with so many tasks she could never finish? Would he even care? Would he notice how well they were done?

She went upstairs to bed and drew her pillow under her chin. Her eyelids twitched back and forth, shuddered. John tore the veil and entered her dreams.

She stood in the driveway. The house was in shambles. The front door thrown open, the massive cement vases lay in a hundred thousand shards on the steps. A bomb dropped through the ceiling.

Worry. Dread. Paralyzing terror. They ripped through her and she trembled and knew death was coming. John strode through the debris, his eyes a pair of slits. She tried to turn. Tried to scream. Tried to run. Her feet wouldn't move; molded into cement bricks. John came ever closer, his eyes now bottomless pits.

He raised his arm, and in his hand was a thick metal rod, something he'd used on the Morgan. She couldn't scream, couldn't raise her arms, and the rod barreled down.

Davonna woke. A long piercing wail cut through the night and the dream lingered. She fell with a sob back onto the bed, curled into a ball under the sheets, and cried herself to sleep.

V

Κακό σκυλί, ψόφο δεν έχει.

Bad dogs die hard.

Davonna stood on the marble steps to the left of the glass doors and watched the driveway. Her watch beeped once to mark the hour. A breeze ruffled the potted purple gladiolus and St. John's Wort. Her leg tapped the marble underneath her. Her eyes swept the hedgerow for a tell tale trail of dust from an oncoming car.

He came like a whirlwind. The taxi flung gravel so far that rocks pinged off of the cement vases on the steps. He rushed into the house; the car drove off, at a snail's pace, as though the driver was relieved to be divested of his passenger. He thundered up the stairs to the bedroom. She looked at her feet, the red painted toes that peeped out of her leather sandals. Sweat trickled off her forehead and soaked her blue cotton dress with the embroidered hem, but she didn't move.

She racked her brain for what had set him off. There must be something. The never-ending toil in the garden was an age ago, as though her work no longer mattered, and being alone was just a dream. And any minute he'd fly into a rage and it wouldn't matter that she'd done everything. Her shoulders slumped, and she dreamed of burying her head in her hands and curling into a ball and never move again.

She turned as the heavy footfalls fell behind her. John flew by: a blur of blue and white, across the drive to the garage.

"I'm going to the hotel," he shouted.

Davonna stood, rooted to her perpetual place on the left side of the door, and studied him. He looked radiant as though the cooler London air had seeped beneath his skin. His eyes shone, full of a strange fire.

The Morgan backed out of the garage. The bright afternoon sun glinted off the silver wing mirrors and the black bonnet shimmered in the heat. With a muted rumble it crawled across the driveway. Davonna walked out to the circular lawn in the middle of the drive, her sandals padded on the warm grass. She frowned, and her fingers shook at her sides, but John didn't spare her a glance as the car crept toward the road. His hands clutched the wheel, his knuckles white, and his eyes shone straight ahead. In another moment the Morgan disappeared, its bumper whipped around the hedgerow and up the hill to the hotel.

As she turned to step into the house, Ioannis strode up to the open gate, smiling as Davonna waved him in. Their closest neighbor, he always seemed close at hand whenever she was outside. He didn't walk like John. His was a calm, assured, a kind saunter. He was everything that women loved in a Greek man, but it was his openness and laughter, and the lines around his eyes, which made Davonna smile.

"Such a charming afternoon," he said.

"It is."

"Was that John I saw pull away?"

"Yes, he's been in London this week."

"Ah, no rest for the wicked?"

"I suppose."

"My dear, I'd like to ask you a question," Ioannis said, his tongue flicked out over his lips. "You've worked too hard. You're tackling too much on your own. With a property this size, you need a part-time gardener. I'm happy to send ours over two days a week."

Davonna blinked and tore her eyes from the gate at the end of the drive. "I appreciate it, Ioannis. Just a few tasks I left too late which got out of hand."

"Davonna, those weren't 'simple tasks.' Why hasn't John hired someone?"

"Because I c ... can do it myself."

"Does he want you to get heat stroke?"

"I didn't get heat stroke, Ioannis, don't be dramatic."

"Davonna, you're thinner since you walked past the house last week. You're pale. You're working far too hard. Give yourself a break."

Davonna barely suppressed a huff. A break? When was the last time she'd had a break – freedom from John or catering to his needs? She ran a calloused hand through her hair.

"I'm fine. Please don't worry."

"I do worry. You're alone far too often."

"He's an important man, he's busy."

"Too busy to take care of his wife?"

"No."

"Well then, I'll send my gardener over on Wednesday.

"Ioannis, please..."

"I insist. He'll come after John leaves. Aside from the work, no one need ever know he was here."

"I didn't say yes."

"You didn't have to," Ioannis said. He lifted his dark freckled hand and squeezed her arm.

Davonna smiled. There was comfort in Ioannis' care and concern, and relief that he'd watched her. There were a few times over the week she'd very nearly collapsed. At least Ioannis would have come when he didn't see her walk by his house on her way to town.

Davonna lifted her hand and placed it, for the smallest part of a moment, on top of Ioannis' larger one, calloused and strong.

"Thank you."

"We care for you, both of us."

"I know she sent you, tell her thank you."

"Come over for dinner tomorrow," Ioannis said as he backed down the stairs.

"I don't..."

"Think on it." Ioannis waved as he walked away.

Davonna smiled. He left, so she didn't have the chance to say no. She snorted with mirth; Ioannis' wife was a lucky woman.

Davonna turned to walk inside, dreaming of the break Ioannis had mentioned, maybe she would read. At the door, she turned to see Ioannis standing at the gate. His hand rose in salute and she raised her own. He turned left, swallowed by the wall of green. A thick wave of loss rolled over her. She blinked back tears; the darkness had receded for a moment. For a moment, the bliss of Ioannis' company filled her mind and lightened her heart. And now—now it came back... reality.

She couldn't open a book. There was always something, more to do. It was like this every day: protect yourself for when he comes home. Because the nights were infinitely worse when he wasn't satisfied.

Davonna slunk back through the house with a mournful sigh, brought out cleaning supplies and rectangular scrubbers, and buffed out the small black spots on the baseboards. Her mind drifted. Was there a way to make the madman happy? But a stubborn black scuff caught her attention and Davonna slipped down, down into her prison.

She worked through the house, ferreting out any corners where dust and discoloration hid. It became microscopic guerrilla warfare; pouncing on spots and dust with an unwarranted ferocity. As the clock struck four, Davonna stumbled upstairs and tried to make herself presentable. Ioannis was right. She was pale and gaunt. Her face was a white mask and individual grooves stuck out of her sternum.

In front of the mirror, the reflection galled her. She didn't even have energy to stand unaided, but stood propped up against the cabinet. Had she eaten today? And water? How much had she drunk? Her shoulders plummeted forward and the whole of her life stretched out in front of her: waking every morning saddled with John's demands; trudging to town too afraid to talk to anyone; baking and cooking and washing until her fingers bled; and laying underneath him while he stripped away the last shreds of her dignity – her sanity.

This wasn't supposed to happen! Who could she blame? Who was it that had stuck her in this hellhole? Was it a great cosmic joke? Was it comeuppance for a perfect childhood?

Davonna looked at the clock that hung on a wall in a discreet corner of the bathroom and flew into action. She rifled through the long line of dresses in the closet and pulled out a black broderie anglaise dress and a blood-red belt. Her chest heaved with fear and exhaustion. One moment she pulled the black straps over her shoulders and dragged mascara through her eyelashes and the next she rushed from the bedroom, heels in hand. But on the landing, her entire body froze, terror drug its claws through her. She shuddered and fell to the floor, her arms spasmed even as she clutched them around her knees.

She stared at her knees willing them to move, to unbend, but they were rigid as planks of steel. Memory after memory flooded through her fragile mind. Life was going to end ... somehow or other he'd planned it. She'd never get out of this house or out from under him. Her life was to be a long slow death of misery.

As sudden as it came, the fit left. She could heave herself off of the floor and pad down the stairs to sit by the window and wait.

He was driving home.

He was tired and ready for dinner.

He'd had a long day.

He wouldn't want a smile.

What would he want?

Davonna tried to orient herself to John's mood, to intercept it, to mitigate it, to prepare. It wouldn't be so severe if she managed it. She wouldn't say anything to set him off. She'd be prepared for every eventuality. She was lost in her own mind for so long she had missed the tolling of the grandfather clock in the hall. With a great start, which sent her flying from the chair and out the door, Davonna realized: he was late, more than a half-hour late. What if she hadn't been outside to greet him?

She stood, straight-backed, though she swayed every few moments, in front of the house; her hands clasped demurely in front of her. She concentrated on the strange delineation of the emerald green hedgerow and the brilliant cerulean sky. If she peered long enough, there was the barest hint of a suggestion that the two colors merged and became one.

She stood on the front steps, as patient as a cat, as the sun stretched towards the sea, when it happened. The silent grounds exploded with a cacophony of sounds and emergency lights from police cars. They surrounded the house, cut it off from the rest of the island, circled around the drive, and cast the house in garish shades of red and blue.

Davonna drew forward and a man, in his fifties, strode through the gravel to her. He wasn't in uniform but looked as though he'd just come from his dinner; there were flecks of pastry on the lapels of his suit coat. His beard lay thick on his cheeks and his skin was brown. He wasn't much taller than she was, but his eyes were tender and inquisitive and his thick brows knitted together as he reached out a hand. His lips moved but Davonna couldn't hear what he was saying. He stood for a moment, waiting, and then waved his arm, as though swatting at a wasp, and within moments the lights disappeared and only one car remained in the drive.

"Kalispera, Madame, I am sorry to have to tell you this," he said haltingly, "But your husband's car — it careened off a cliff along the route from the hotel to your home. We had divers in the water, but I am sorry to say... he is dead."

"He... what?"

The policeman blinked at her, the muscles around his dark eyes contracted in pain. "Madame, he died. The collision with the rocks and water; it was too much."

"He died?" Davonna shrunk. Her mind reeled as if she had been thrown off the cliff with him.

"Yes Madame. He died. We'll get the car out as soon as possible. I understand this isn't the best time, but we will need to talk to you... get a statement regarding your husband's movements over the past few days."

"But I don't know!"

"Sorry?"

"He's been in London for a week, at a conference. He got home at two, but left five minutes later for the hotel. To work."

"How did he get here?"

"By taxi; from the airport I assume."

"And how did he leave?"

"His own car."

"A vintage Morgan?"

"Yes, a 1936 Morgan 4."

"We will come by tomorrow, Madame," the policeman said and walked away.

"Wait!" Davonna cried out and rushed forward. "I want to see. I want to see where he died. Will you take me?"

He looked askance at her, studying her face, her dress, her crazed eyes.

"Come along, Madame. I'll take you there myself."

Davonna climbed into the nondescript black sedan. The older policeman sat beside her, brushed off the errant flecks of pastry, and a young private took the wheel. The house slid by and the car turned onto the curving road. It was strange, she knew John drove this nearly every day, and yet she couldn't remember the drive at all.

Ten minutes from the house, the car slowed, and the scene swung into view. A ten-foot long section of the steel girding lay twisted in the road. Police cars, with more flashing lights, blocked off the road, and blue and white tape flapped and snapped and whipped in the wind. Small rocks lay over the road as though dislodged in some wild careening.

Davonna opened the door. The air swirled around her, whipping the black dress tightly around her legs. There were so few trees here, where the wind whipped the shore. She tripped on the rough road, tottering in stilettos. With a great huff, she tugged the skirt, drew its folds in one hand, and freed her legs. They stood out pale and thin among the sun-bleached grey road and the dark blue police uniforms.

The policeman she'd shared the car with held out his hand. It was clammy and full of calluses; there was a dull gold wedding band on his ring finger with a chip on it. Davonna took his proffered hand; torn between apprehension and gratitude.

They walked across to the obliterated girders and the ominous gap between the ones that still stood. Davonna took hesitant short steps, a deathlike grip on the folds of fabric in her hand. Time slowed to a crawl, it seemed to take an eternity just to cross the road. The small stones of the pavement poked mercilessly through the thin soles of her heels and she tottered, falling against the policeman's loose blue suit coat. As they neared the gap, she stopped and looked around at the pale faces staring at her. But the man whose hand she held urged her forward.

He took her up to a girder, that wasn't mangled and pointed to the surf below. At the Amali Cape. Jagged rocks lay here and there in the undulating water as though giants had thrown them pell mell. There among the rocks, the waves crashed and broke over the bonnet and poured in to the shell of John's metal love, drowning the glass fronted instruments and the brand new leather seats: John's Morgan, his obsession. His grandfather's pride and joy, thrown like a child's model car, in the heat of a tantrum. It was twisted and exposed as the tide pulled back for a moment, the wheels at odd angles from the body. Davonna couldn't tear her eyes from the car, from the damage wrought on such delicate workmanship. She peered further over the edge of the barricade. A stone dug into her palm and she winced.

She couldn't see him, couldn't see whether John's body was still in the car. Had he suffered? Did he know he would die?

"He's not in there," the man with the kind eyes said. Davonna looked blankly back. "My men pulled him out."

"He's dead."

"Yes. No one could have survived."

Davonna looked at the car. He was right. The fall alone, without a seat belt, would kill him; regardless of the sea and the rocks which waited at the bottom.

"Where is he?"

"We took him to the morgue. You must identify his body."

"And the car?"

The policeman paused; he accepted a black windbreaker from a passing private. "They'll get it, tomorrow at the latest. Don't want to risk it being pulled out to sea."

Davonna nodded and turned around, but if she hadn't, she might have noticed the queer look he gave her. The way his brows furrowed together, and a light kindled behind his eyes. He was a man on a hunt.

The wind grew broader and wilder by the moment as towering clouds of black and grey built on the horizon. A policeman's cap tumbled across the road. It tumbled momentarily against the brown weeds at the edge of the road, but the wind buffeted it still, until its irate owner snatched it up and shoved it through an open car window. Davonna stood in the center of the chaos, silent, as the world swirled and tumbled around her.

"Madame." The private who had driven her to the broken, obliterated barrier, touched her elbow. He yelled across the wind. "Captain Savva asked me to take you home. You can identify the body tomorrow."

"My husband."

The private blinked and appeared to remember, "Ah, yes, your husband. My apologies."

It wasn't the captain's car they drove back, but a white cruiser with a blue stripe on the side. He ushered Davonna into the back, onto a hard plastic seat and separated from the front by an inch-thick plastic divider. The vehicle smelled of disinfectant and there were small bits of fluff left over from the cleaning towel.

The police tape was lifted as the car edged through the mass. On the other side, the wind grew quiet and the private seemed to relax. He pulled to a stop. Davonna looked up to find the house looming over her. The door shut, the planters intact, and no John in a fiery temper.

The car door opened and Davonna stepped out, placing her foot carefully on the loose gravel. She walked straight to the house, shutting the door with a snap.

Inside, the house was a tomb. Davonna faced the hall, her gaze on the light that spilled from John's office. The door was cracked open six inches. Just enough to send a shiver down her spine. She moved toward it, sure she'd find John at his desk, irate. The police had it wrong, and they were the reason she was absent when he came home. She would explain how it had looked so like his car, dashed to bits on the rocks.

Walking toward the open office door was the bravest thing Davonna Fitzroy had ever done. How could she prove that John wasn't alive? How could she prove where she had been when he'd arrived home? How could she save herself?

The click of her heels on the floor echoed like the tolling of the bells in a churchyard as a black veiled procession moved underneath. Her heart pounded and her throat closed around the lump of fear. She stretched out a quivering hand, touched the cool wood, felt the grooves, and pushed.

The door swung inward. For a moment she saw John's tall muscular frame rise from the chair, his eyes flashing with anger, his top lip curling into a snarl, and the terror froze her, body and mind. No shove or punch came and she looked around. Her breathing eased. The sense of death slipped away. The desk lamp was on. Everything else was as it should be. It was quiet. It was still. It was wrong.

She backed out and pulled the door closed. She walked through the house: to the kitchen where dinner warmed in the oven; to the library where the books gave the air a musty magic fragrance; to the morning room and the wall of windows that overlooked the darkening sky; and then upstairs where she barreled through the double doors, gathered what she needed to sleep and bathe and took it all to a bedroom at the opposite end of the corridor.

She drew a bath, sprinkled in lavender oil, and slipped beneath the warm water; her dark hair spilled out in tendrils on the surface. She washed her face and dragged a pink rose scented soap bar over her body. Davonna stood and water streamed from her naked body. She wrapped a thick white towel around her torso. She brushed her hair and pulled on silk pajama pants and buttoned the shirt. Davonna collapsed onto the bed and listened. Nothing stirred. She thought about taking the food out of the oven, but before she could move, a deep sleep claimed her, and dragged her off to a quiet land.

Strange dreams clung to Davonna's mind. She dreamt of John, of the waves that turned red and blue and crashed into walls, of seeing his face distorted by the shifting waves. Before dawn, when night's grip was tightest, she woke, and stared, utterly confused, at the ceiling. She couldn't remember this room. The sheets weren't silk. There was no Bonheur du jour desk in the corner. A faint whiff of lavender rose around her, undulating on the air, and she remembered the bath. The whole mind-numbing episode paraded through her mind.

She sat on the edge of the bed and gasped for breath. Was he gone? What was there? She sat for so long that the sky lightened to a pale blue and the warm outlines of the hills and coast were visible.

With a long sigh, she stood, walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stripped off her pajamas. The warm water and the constant flow of it massaged the tension from her tired back. She stayed there, her back to the tiny droplets, and tried not to think.

The kitchen reeked of onion and burnt steak when she walked in. She pulled the roast from the oven, which had turned off long ago, and wrinkled her nose. It reeked. She prodded the kitchen door open with her foot and stepped outside to throw the contents of the pan in the trash. The morning was cool and quiet, a light breeze rippled through the hanging wisteria and the perfectly shaped lavender bushes and the leaves on the olive trees.

Davonna smiled: such perfect peace was rare in the world. She would have happily stayed out in the garden, if not for the steady drip of fat, which made a puddle on the rocks. Davonna scurried inside and put the pan to soak in the sink and fell to her normal chores.

The hall clock chimed ten; she was in the kitchen curled in a chair, clutching a cup of tea, when the doorbell rang.

"Hello?" Davonna said, opening the door to the captain who drove with her to the Morgan. He looked drawn, his dark eyes were dull, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with a frown. His suit was a study in crisp lines though, his tie tied as expertly as to make a former Greek prince jealous.

"Kalispera, Mrs. Fitzroy. I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself last night; I'm Captain Alexandros Savva. If it's all right, may I ask you a few questions?"

Davonna smiled and pulled the door open further. "Come to the kitchen, I made tea."

The captain looked askance as she led him to the back of the house, his eyes darted this way and that as she led him onward. But he smiled when he sat at the wooden table and Davonna put tea and a fresh scone with generous helpings of clotted cream and raspberry jam.

"This looks delicious."

"I bake a batch every day."

Savva took a bite of the scone, cream oozed out the sides and a stream of raspberry jam slid onto his pinky finger. He licked if off and hastily wiped his hand on a white cotton napkin; folded under his plate. Davonna smiled, pleased, but Savva took only one more bite before he cleared his throat and began.

"Mrs. Fitzroy, when I asked if you could tell me more of your husband's movements, you said he had been away for the last week and had only returned yesterday for a few minutes before he left for the hotel."

"Yes, a conference in London. The hotel knows where he stayed."

"You don't know?"

Davonna frowned, "My husband didn't disclose his travel plans."

"Do you find that odd?"

"Do you?"

"I do. My wife likes to keep an eye on me," he said, and had the grace to blush.

"My husband didn't like to be tied down. He didn't want me to interrupt him at work; if there was an emergency, I'd call his mobile."

"I see," Savva said, he took out a pen and small notepad and made notes. "And when he came home, yesterday afternoon, did he talk to you?"

"No, he didn't. I heard the taxi pull in, I walked outside to greet him, but he ran inside and then ran back out five minutes later, got into the Morgan, and drove to the hotel."

"Why?"

"I don't know. He is ... was a private man. I didn't like to smother him. He was home at the same time every day, that's how I knew something was wrong. He's never late."

"How was your relationship? I apologize for asking ... but your marriage..."

Davonna's mouth went dry. As she looked at his inscrutable face, a sharp gust of wind blew through the kitchen door, sending it snapping off the back wall. They jumped. Savva scrambled to shut the door, but the chill wrapped around Davonna, gripped her chest with its long tendrils, and on its wings, John's voice whispered threats. She bit her bottom lip; the cracked skin underneath split.

"Our marriage was fine. Happy even."

Savva nodded. "What did you do while your husband was in London?"

"I set myself a list of chores. Our grounds had gotten out of hand. We had left it too long. It's there, what I did," Davonna said, pointing to the list behind Savva.

Savva swiveled in his chair and looked around. He stood and peered at the paper. "This looks like a man's handwriting."

"I asked John to write it for me. I wanted to make sure I didn't forget anything."

"Was he in the habit of making you lists?"

"He didn't make the list. I did. He wrote it."

"This is extensive, I'm surprised you got it all done."

"It was touch and go," Davonna said, with a wry smile.

Savva was quiet. He looked from the list to Davonna and back again, a frown spread over his weathered face. "Forgive me, but you are handling this well, in fact, I don't believe I've ever seen a bereaved spouse handle such tragedy so well."

"It hasn't sunk in yet. This morning I woke and couldn't remember where I was or what had happened last night. I found comfort in my normal routine."

Savva nodded. "May I take the list?"

"Of course."

"I'll have someone come and escort you to the morgue tomorrow for the identification."

"All right," Davonna said, her voice shook.

"Yassas, Mrs. Fitzroy." Savva said, and rose and thanked her for the tea and scone.

Davonna led him back through the house. He complimented her on the cleanliness and elegance of the rooms, but she could only nod her.

She shut the door on Savva and fell back against the wood, her chest heaved. The morgue, when she saw John's body... would it all become real?

VI

Μονάχος, μήτε στον παράδεισο.

Alone, not even in heaven.

Clouds gathered on the horizon, ominous and dark, as Davonna lay in bed; still and silent. The wind grew to a mild roar, and through the window the olive grove swayed and whispered as their leaves flashed in the weak light.

Davonna rose, hesitantly, from her warm cocoon, and made for the shower. She stood there; her arms crossed over her breasts, the spray of water on her back, and watched the droplets make their way down the long pane of glass. She couldn't take her eyes off them and the long, predetermined dance they took. One small one at the top might outlast the waterfall from the showerhead but fell, bowled over by a larger drop.

She stepped out onto a bamboo mat and swathed herself in a thick towel. After rushing through dressing, she left the bathroom, taking great care not to notice the woman in the mirror, and escaping to the library. John never had much use for it. He wasn't a wide reader but considered, in a very Victorian way, libraries to be a great sign of wealth even if the owner never read a page.

Davonna walked around the room, her hand outstretched so that her fingers might just brush the leather and soft spines of the books. They reached out to her as friends; alive in the pages, they recognized her presence. The air of the library crackled with the most exquisite magic: the power of words to transport a reader beyond her circumstances, beyond self, beyond pain. Davonna closed her eyes and gave in to the pull of the books and just as it seemed she was going to tip over, a sharp, assured knock rattled the front door.

The spell broke, and Davonna stopped, her arm hung at her side, and she left the library. The private who had driven her home from the accident stood at the door, hat in hand, looking at the ground. His eyes darted to her face and then fell back. Davonna wanted to smile, to assure him, to comfort him, but she didn't have the words.

"Captain Savva sent me to take you to the morgue, Ma'am."

"Thank you, I'll get my coat," she said, and turned toward the closet. She put on a seldom-used trench coat and stepped out of the house.

"Do you want to lock it?"

"My husband had the key with him," she said blandly.

As they pulled out of the drive, Davonna turned so she wouldn't have to watch the private frown at her every few seconds. Mitilini swung into view. The car curved around the crowded streets with ease. She stared at the locals as they set out signs and produce and opened windows and smiled at each other. They existed in a world beyond her; further even than they were yesterday when John was alive.

"Here we are, Ma'am."

Davonna looked. The car had stopped in front of Mitilini's hospital, whose white walls and pale red roof shone: even in the weak sunlight. A nurse met them as they walked through the doors. The hall, even at this early hour, bustled with patients and concerned family members. The private grabbed her arm, as the milling crowd threatened to tear them apart, and led her through a swinging door. Staircase after staircase led them deeper into the bowels of the hospital. Davonna wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

Captain Savva stood at the far end of a long corridor, conversing with an older man in blue scrubs. Savva's companion was tall, with a perfect round stomach and a hairline, which receded to the far back of his head. His eyes were deep set and Davonna couldn't decide whether they were benevolent or judgmental.

"Let me introduce, Dr. Leventis, Mrs. Fitzroy. He'll do the autopsy on Mr. Fitzroy."

Savva stepped forward to usher Davonna through a small door. Dr. Leventis walked towards the first gurney in a line of four. Davonna was carried irresistibly forward, to the shape of the white sheet. They told her he was under there: dead on a slab. A slain monster.

Savva was silent as he motioned to the pathologist to remove the sheet from the dead man's face. Davonna shrunk back. His face, oh his face, mottled by the ocean, a ragged cut across his forehead. She bolted, fell against a frigid steel rubbish bin, and was sick. Neither Savva nor Leventis moved but stared as she heaved again and again. When it stopped, and the bin was full of vomit, she fell against the wall and rubbed bile off her lips. John's body loomed above her like a pagan sacrifice.

"Is this your husband?" Savva asked.

Davonna turned her gaze to him. Gaping. Had he not seen? "Yes," she whispered. It was still John. It was his stiff smirk and high forehead and strong jaw.

But it was more than the fact it was John's body that she trembled. Surely Savva and the doctor, they knew, they could see how she shrank from him, that she didn't dare touch his body. She rose, pulled a paper towel from a dispenser on the wall, wiped her mouth, looked at the two men for a long moment, before she wrenched open the morgue's door.

The private drove her home in silence. The expression upon Dr. Leventis and Captain Savva's faces replayed in her mind. She couldn't quite place the meaning of the glint in Savva's eyes—and it frightened her.

The city had grown crowded and noisy in the few minutes she'd spent in the disinfected halls of the hospital. The car crested the top of a hill, and the sea stretched out far into the distance. A small, capsized boat was being dragged ashore by the coast guard and a fishing boat. More dead bodies for the morgue. Davonna hung her head. So many frightened people, now dead in the merciless sea.

"Have a good day, Ma'am."

"My name is Davonna, or Mrs. Fitzroy; I'm not royalty," Davonna snapped.

"Yes, Ma'am."

Davonna slammed the door.

Davonna woke; the sheets swathed around her, and listened to the silence. The room fell in and out of focus and she frowned, desperate to remember what had happened yesterday. It was a blur, except for the terror of seeing John's face and the sharp, sickly smell of the morgue.

She cradled her head in her hands, trying to force the image, the memories, to leave. The room turned in circles around her, morphing into the shivering hospital corridor. She left the bed, shoulders hunched, and crept to the kitchen where she curled in a chair, and wrapped herself in a thick plaid blanket. A chill swept through the room, rifling the towels hanging on the stove.

Memories of the past two days flooded back. The look on Savva's face popped into her mind, her fingers twisted around the frayed ends of the blanket. What was he thinking? Why did he ask about the list John had written? Had Thanos been there at the barricade that night, among the flashing lights and black-coated policemen? Would he tell her what they'd found?

She froze, a steady crunch, crunch, crunch, echoed from the driveway. Davonna paled and catapulted from her chair to shrink against the wall. He was here. He was back. But being caught there, shivering in the corner, forced her from the chair and she escaped the kitchen, into the crisp morning air, the plaid blanket flew out behind her like a cape.

A short man in jeans and a white half-buttoned shirt stood in the driveway, pushing a cart full of tools. His eyes flew open with astonishment and his cheeks bloomed red as Davonna careened to a halt ten feet in front of him.

"Who are you?"

"Kalimera," he said. "Kostas. I am Mr. Ioannis' gardener. He said you'd be expecting me. I am to help with the garden."

"Kostas?"

"Yes."

Davonna studied at the short dark haired man. He couldn't be over five-foot-five but he stood tall and confident. His clothes were old but clean and well maintained.

"May I?" Kostas said, motioning towards the garden. Davonna stared, as though she hadn't heard him. "Mrs. Fitzroy?"

"Yes, sygnómi, I'm sorry, go ahead. Please tell Ioannis I said thank you. No, I mean thank you, for coming."

"My pleasure," Kostas said. He tipped an invisible hat to her and pushed the wheelbarrow towards the back of the garden.

"Efharistó," Davonna shouted an apology.

Kostas turned and smiled with a dismissive wave of his hand.

She watched him go, and when he turned the corner and vanished from sight, she ran to the library, curled into one of the leather chairs, and watched him from the windows. He moved quickly for a middle-aged man, but he didn't hesitate as he worked, he knew instinctively what to do.

Davonna sat for so long she could feel the slow pulse of blood in her legs. She watched Kostas move around the garden. He pursed his lips now and then and Davonna imagined him whistling a tune. He looked calm, at peace even.

How strange it was, to sit, with only a pane of glass separating, and watch another human. He was as distant from her as it was possible to be. Kostas didn't have his spouse's death or a lifetime of worry hanging over him. He was content. Wasn't he?

Davonna frowned and wished herself in the older man's shoes—better a happy but poor man, than a prisoner in a gilded cage. Then, as Kostas knelt by a long row of English roses, Ioannis walked across the gravel driveway and waved. Kostas rose, and the two shook hands. Davonna sprung from her seat and scurried to the front door.

"I'm glad to find you looking better," he said, embracing Davonna on the threshold.

Davonna smiled but did not ask him inside. She stood on the step, hiding her shaking hands behind her back.

"I am better."

Ioannis gave her a weak smile as if he didn't completely believe her.

"Will you come for dinner tonight? It won't be grand, we don't want to overwhelm you."

"I will."

Davonna fought the urge to close the door. They had nothing more to talk about, and Ioannis appeared to sense that she was uncomfortable, and so hurried home. As she watched him stride down the road, she wilted. John would know. He'd know men were at the house. Her breath caught in her throat. John—John was no more. But the worry, the cloying fear, and the way she couldn't move—it consumed her. She sank, onto the cool floor, wrapped her arms around her legs, and keened. He was so close. Wave after wave of torture broke over the sad, thin woman, she had become, and she shattered into a hoard of jagged pieces.

The walls collapsed around her, and reality left. Everything she'd constructed; the chores, the timetables, the walks into town, they were meaningless. What was real? What did she know? Davonna wiped her eyes, tried to calm her hysterical breathing, to soothe her heart. John's car had gone over the cliff two days ago. The police had been in her home. John's body was in the morgue—the frozen, mauled face.

Haltingly, as sap seeping from a tree, Davonna pulled herself from the hole.

At six-thirty Davonna poked her head out of her front door and scanned the drive. Her hand shook, and she clutched her small leather purse like a lifeline. The air was thick and warm and the thin cotton wrap dress stuck to her legs and arms. She hesitated, listening, tasting the air. A bystander might have mistaken her for a deer, her darting eyes and slow creeping movements, sniffing out danger.

She walked down the steps, the heavy door shut with a thud. The gravel crunched under her thin sandals. Out beyond the road, the sea stretched far into the horizon, its deep, blue waters calm. The coast of Turkey was just visible in the distance, as the waves broke upon the pebbles like a waltz.

Ioannis' gate appeared in the hedgerow, an intricate piece of curvaceous steel. The long drive swung upwards to the house like the curve of a lover's open arm. Davonna stopped and looked at her feet, which were thick with dust. She sighed, her shoulders slumped forward, and she trudged up the drive. The smell of Ioannis' garden, the bright gardenia and intoxicating orange blossoms, floated in a haze around her. It did not dissipate, as if a barrier kept it there, forever floating on the wind.

Before she could raise her hand to knock at the large double doors, they flew open and Ioannis stood there in a crisp white shirt and a broad grin. He pushed his dark wavy hair out of his eyes and grasped her by the shoulders.

"You look tired, Davonna. Come. Come in, out of the sun," he said, and pulled her into the cool house.

She looked around, sheepish. The walls were bright white and the floor-length shutters were all thrown open; it was hard to decide where the home ended and outside began.

"Davonna, you remember, my wife, Theodora."

"Yes, from town," Davonna said, referencing when they would walk side-by-side, silent, into town.

Theodora walked through a side door and stood by Ioannis. It had been years since she'd stood this close to Theodora, and she hadn't changed. Theodora was tall, with lanky, carved-from-marble, legs. And though she was in her late sixties, Theodora had a young woman's figure with full hips and a small waist. And her eyes were the expressive probing instruments of a strong woman. They were deep and penetrating, and they weren't satisfied with just seeing; they read and learned and understood. Davonna dropped her gaze, unable to look over-long in their searching light.

"It's wonderful to see you again, and thank you so much for inviting me. I appreciate it. I haven't been out recently."

"How did you find Kostas?" Ioannis said, as Theodora led them, over shining wood floors, into the dining room.

"Oh, your gardener, yes, he's efficient. Fantastic."

"He said you'd done well, last week, on your own."

"Efharistó."

Theodora stood behind a chair at the head of a long table, burdened with platters of food and bottles of wine and flickering candles atop thin, gold candlesticks. A large, ornate chandelier hung above the table and cast slivers of undulating rainbows around the room. Davonna smiled in spite of herself. It was a room where one felt warm and welcome. A river of love ran through their home.

"Please, sit," Theodora said.

Ioannis and Theodora smiled, their bodies turned towards her as they moved dishes and platters around and plied her with wine.

"How are you, Davonna?" Ioannis said, after they had eaten much of the main course and the topic of olive harvests had been exhausted.

Davonna set down her fork with a clatter, "I'm well."

"Have the police treated you well?" Theodora said.

"In their own way. I don't think they like me."

"What do you mean?" Ioannis said, as he leaned over to pour more wine.

"The captain, he's curious—no, suspicious. But I'm sure it's nothing."

"Why?"

"He looks at me as though I've done something wrong."

"You don't have to worry about it. I drove by the site today; they got the car out of the water. Any day now they'll be able to confirm that it was accidental, and the Morgan went off the road."

"I've seen him drive that road countless times, and I never saw him drive recklessly. He babied that Morgan. What could have happened?" Theodora said.

"I'm not sure," said Davonna.

"What would he suspect you of?" Ioannis said.

Davonna didn't answer, looking beyond them, churning her napkin around her fingers. Ioannis and Theodora shared an invisible conversation, and though they tried to make small talk, Davonna looked away: feeling as though her clothes and skin were peeled away to show the shriveled thing underneath. After a chocolate raspberry tart for dessert, Theodora excused herself, pleading a headache.

"I wish you would tell me what I can do for you," Ioannis pleaded, after Theodora left.

"The dinner was perfect. It was just wonderful not to have to cook."

"You're welcome as often as you like."

"Oh I couldn't impose, and John might think..." Davonna broke off.

"John's dead, Davonna, and I can't imagine he'd want you at home alone, to suffer in silence."

Davonna couldn't bring herself to look at Ioannis much less disabuse him of that notion.

"I only meant..."

"Was he harsh with you? Did he ever hit you?" Ioannis put his hand on her shoulder.

For a moment, it felt as if secrets would tumble out of her grasp, like a child holding too many wooden blocks. Her whole life wrenched open and Captain Savva would know why she didn't mourn John, as a good wife should.

"Oh, no! I'm in shock. Thank you for the lovely dinner, Ioannis, I must go." Davonna threw her napkin onto the table, fled the dining room, caught up her purse, and burst out of the front door.

Ioannis trailed her but paused at the open door. As she bolted from the property Theodora came up behind him.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing good."

Davonna turned down the lane and walked the short distance home. She pulled the heavy gate closed behind her and glared at the pink house, so forlorn, so empty. What was this? John's death ... what did it mean? What was there to do? She stopped and leaned against the gate as evening fell and the house became little more than a pink monolith. The wind changed, blowing from of the east.

VII

Ο κακός το πρωί, το βράδυ χειρότερος.

The bad of the morning, becomes worse at night.

Savva's morning was off to a poor start. The toaster went kaput in the night, and when he tried to broil bread in the oven; it turned into a slice of black tar in under a minute. Mumbling to himself about the unreliability of modern appliances, he pulled into John Fitzroy's hotel, as a silver Bentley was pulling out. It careened around the corner, screeching in the still air, and barely missed his bumper.

"Blasted menace," Savva growled.

Sergeant Stelios Booras, who sat typing on his phone in the passenger seat, inhaled and crossed himself. Savva drove up to the large and grand entrance and rolled his eyes at the uniformed men (or were they boys?) who stood at attention. One strode up to the car as Savva stepped out.

"Checking in, Sir?"

Savva scowled through bushy eyebrows. It was just a boy who stood before him; youthful roundness clung to his face above coat hanger shoulders.

"Captain Savva, Lesvos Police Department, young man. No, I am not 'checking in.'"

"Ah, well, I'll park your car if you wish, Sir."

"You'll leave the damn car there," Savva said. He slammed the door, plunked the keys into his pocket, and strutted past the surprised valet. "Stop lagging, Booras."

Sergeant Stelios Booras was a tall thin man, all eyes and elbows, with dark skin and a strange middle part in his hair, which didn't suit him. It annoyed Savva. He wanted to shave it every time he looked at the man. But Booras was the least irritating of the sergeants at the department and so he was what Savva requisitioned.

"Are you checking in, Sir?"

Savva stopped in front of the concierge desk. A young woman with garish blonde hair smiled blankly at him, her fingers poised over a hidden keyboard. Booras leaned ungainly against the counter; his legs dangled underneath him like uncooked spaghetti in a pot. Savva rolled his eyes.

"Captain Alexandros Savva, Lesvos Police and Sergeant Stelios Booras" he said, pulling out his warrant card. "We have an appointment with Mr. Goldstein."

The woman, her name card said 'Katerina' in both Greek and English, took a small step back, her eyes watered. "Mr. Fitzroy's business partner is here."

"Business partner? I thought Fitzroy was the manager here," Savva said. He ached to jab Booras in the side. How could his sergeant fail to tell him John Fitzroy owned the hotel?

"No, Mr. Fitzroy bought the hotel not long after he came here. Ten years ago, Sir," Katerina said.

"Fine. Good. Let's speak to this Goldstein."

Booras shifted against the counter and locked his considerable legs underneath him like a pair of car jacks.

Katerina picked up the phone. "Mr. Goldstein, two police officers have arrived to speak with you," she paused. "Yes, Sir," she said and turned back to Savva. "Mr. Goldstein asked me to take you back to his office."

She walked around the counter and motioned them to follow. Savva threw Booras a look of waspish irritation. Down a short corridor Katerina pushed open a door, painted to blend into the wall. Beyond they found themselves in a hallway portioned off into what looked like a break room with half-drunk coffee in white cups sitting on a Formica table. Four offices filled with a variety of disturbingly large giant split-leaf philodendrons in half-ton pots, extended in a line from the break room.

"Through there," Katerina said, pointing to the office at the end.

"Thanks," Booras said.

Katerina blinked and smiled before opening the door and heading back to her post.

"Yes, thank you," Savva said. He rolled his eyes at Booras. "Follow my lead or I'll have every single one of your stripes."

"Yes, Sir."

"Right," Savva said, and pounded on the door.

"Come in," a crisp voice said.

Savva opened the door to a large room. In it were an ornate conference table, a couch, two tufted leather chairs, and sitting center stage, the desk. He wondered whether it could be called a desk. It looked like a good copy of Louis XIV's roll-top writing desk at Versailles, which he'd seen in person during the year he spent at the Université de París. The wood panels covered by ornate gilded filigrees, were an array of caramel and honey. The desk shone with an effeminate refinement, burnished and glowing in the morning sun.

A man rose from behind the desk. "Anthony Goldstein."

He was unmistakably a decade younger than Savva, with slicked salt and pepper hair. He was trim and wore a well-tailored black suit. His steel, grey eyes shone out of a face as lined as a neglected Renaissance painting.

"Captain Savva and Sergeant Booras from the Lesvos Police Department." Savva shook Goldstein's proffered hand.

He held it a moment longer and started at Anthony Goldstein's face. There was ... a tug or a prickle of memory in the back of his mind. But he couldn't place it. Had they met?

"I can't say it's a pleasure, meeting you under the circumstances, Captain. John Fitzroy was an excellent business partner, and good friend."

Savva nodded; there was a rustling at his right. Booras was fishing out a notebook and pen and flipping to a blank page.

"Sorry, Sir," he mumbled.

Savva looked back at Goldstein. "How long have you known Mr. Fitzroy?"

"Over nine years. The former owners were selling. They wanted to move to Provence and retire. John and I bought the hotel, and he managed it. I'm rarely here. I'm based in Athens and run my other interests from there. But we talk at least three times a week, and I'm out here three or four times a year so John and I can meet. John was brilliant. He was at the Royal Horseguards Hotel before he took the job here."

"What are your other interests in Athens?"

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that. I own a construction company, a few apartment complexes, even a few bookstores," Goldstein said, as though books were a purity that absolved him.

"How was your relationship with John? Any problems or disagreements?"

"Not one. John is reliable and works miracles with our guests. He is, was, quick to suggest any improvement the hotel might make to better serve our guests. He worked above and beyond what was expected. His service was impeccable."

"Have you had the occasion to meet his wife, Davonna?"

Goldstein leaned back. "No, I can't say I have. I invited them to my home when they were next in Athens, but they never made the trip. John didn't talk about his private life. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, just curious, Mr. Goldstein," Savva said. "Had you noticed any change in Mr. Fitzroy? Temperament, habits, work?"

"No, I didn't. He was impeccable as always. John was in London for a week right before he died. Did something happen there?"

"You didn't notice a change?"

"No. He was in good form. He looked forward to being back in London for a while. He mentioned he missed it."

"I see. Well, we won't take much of your time, but we would like to interview the staff that John worked with regularly. To get a better picture of him if you will."

"Yes. Why don't you stay here, in the office? There's more space in here, it's private, and I have work to do at any rate. I'll round them up and send them in one at a time," Goldstein said, rising from his chair. Savva stared at it. It was an ugly thing, all steel and black leather. "What happened to him?"

"I can't speak to that, it's an ongoing investigation," Savva answered, looking up from the chair.

"But you are investigating," Goldstein ploughed on.

"We investigate every suspicious death. Sometimes they are what they appear to be and other times they are not. Hence the investigation."

Goldstein bristled. Booras looked from Savva to the frustrated hotel owner. But Savva sat, unruffled.

"Gentlemen," he said, excusing himself.

"He's not happy with you, Sir," Booras said as he closed the door.

"First rule of policing: it doesn't (usually) matter one jot whether an interviewee is 'happy' with you."

"Usually?"

"Well if you need something from them, it's not constructive to antagonize them."

"And Goldstein?"

"In his case, I couldn't resist. He's holding something back," Savva said. He stroked the beard hairs under his bottom lip. "Make sure you take good notes-name, address, mobile number, how long they've worked here, etc."

"Yes, Sir."

Savva moved over to the conference table and sat in an uncomfortable chair. His eyes were again drawn to the hideous chair behind the baroque desk. The pieces clashed obscenely with each other: like the breaking waves of modernity against the perceived nobility of the past.

"Oh and Booras, I want you to check on this Anthony Goldstein. Why did he go into business with Fitzroy? What are their financials like? With the recession and Syrian refugees, how often is the hotel filled?"

"Ok."

"I want to know these two inside and out."

"Do you think he was like Goldstein said?"

"What do you mean?"

"The model partner who took initiative and "worked miracles with the guests?'"

"Maybe. Perhaps that's what Goldstein saw."

"Sir?"

"What?"

"I've heard the lads ... in the squad room..."

"Get to the point, Booras."

"They've only ever seen John Fitzroy when he's leaving the island. Maybe twice down at the shops. He had that flashy car, it wasn't hard to miss."

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't like to mix, unlike his wife. I've seen her dozens of times. She always buys local. Thanos knows her."

"Thanos?"

"Yeah, he's another sergeant."

"So what? She's nice?"

"She seems to be. Thanos said she's always polite, well-spoken."

"I'm not sure it's relevant, but I'll keep it in mind."

There was a knock on the door behind them. In walked a middle-aged man. The day manager.

"Let's start with your name, mobile, address, and how long you've worked here," Booras said.

The day manager was portly. The buttons on his pinstripe vest and white shirt were under immense strain, most likely from recent weight gain. The day manager had little to say about John Fitzroy. John was professional, courteous, always willing to cover. The night manager had a pre-existing condition; fibromyalgia, which made it difficult to stand for long periods of time and John wouldn't hesitate to come in when he couldn't work.

Savva dismissed the day manager with a heavy sigh. Booras wisely didn't say another word. The employees passed through the office-turned-interview-room like a droning metronome. The next three were women. The social media and human resources manager spoke well of John. Two concierges were near tears. John was kind and attentive and always ready to answer questions. He drove them home when their car was in the shop. Savva dismissed both with a growl. Booras stared at the wall and prayed for a quick release from the stifling room.

The head valet came in next: an older man with a proud bearing. He stood erect, as Savva slouched in the chair, and extended his hand as though he was being introduced to The Queen. He had another story altogether to tell.

"John Fitzroy was a devil."

Booras blinked. He hadn't even managed opened his mouth to ask for contact information. Savva leaned forward with a devilish grin on his face.

"Please go on, Mr...."

"Just Giorgos," the valet said. "I've worked at this hotel for almost three decades. I've seen everything. I understand it better than my own home. John Fitzroy sauntered into this hotel like a prima donna. Every single boy who works under me was subjected to cruel remarks, like they were dim or unworthy of the job or lacking in decorum. Now I'm not blind, they're boys, you can't expect them to be perfect all the time, but they do a decent job."

Booras stepped in. "Before we proceed, could I have your contact details?"

Giorgos frowned but gave them. Savva studied the man as he related the necessary information. He was disdainful of Fitzroy, to be sure, but he wasn't incensed. Just frustrated. Upset at the treatment of those whom he managed.

"Where did Mr. Fitzroy park his car?" Savva said.

Both Giorgos and Booras looked at him in confusion. "In the staff garage, it's in a separate part of the parking garage, underneath the hotel."

"Are there cameras?"

"No. There are where we park the guests' cars, for obvious reasons, don't want to get sued by a sneaky owner who blames the hotel for a scratch or dent that was already there."

"There aren't any cameras at all?"

"Just the entrance, which all the cars go through. But not our section of the lot."

"Any from the hotel to the garage? Can you access it by elevator?"

"Yes, but only staff. Every car is valeted. There are cameras in the lifts."

"Thank you. We'll need a copy of that footage."

The three men talked for a few more minutes. Giorgos had little more to say, other than to refer them to his valets who'd confirm John's treatment of them. Savva asked Giorgios to find the security tapes for the cameras leading to the garage for the last two months.

Savva and Booras interviewed the final staff members, valets, confirming Giorgos' story.

Savva leaned back after they finished, stroking the wiry beard hairs under his lip. "Well that was interesting."

"More like confusing." Booras colored, unaware he'd spoken out loud. "I meant nothing by it, Sir, only that they gave conflicting reports."

"What does it mean to you?"

"Well, I suppose, it means John Fitzroy was a lot of different things to a lot of different people."

"Or, boiled down, he treated his inferiors badly."

"So where does that leave Mrs. Fitzroy?"

Savva rose, stroked the beard again and headed to the door. "Where, indeed."

The strong unrelenting east wind blew out by morning, and when Davonna stood, still wrapped in her white robe in the library the only evidence of the gale were orphan leaves, broken bits of branches, and a thick film of red on the lawn. Davonna turned from the window and picked up the mobile phone on the end table.

"I'll be there in an hour," she said.

She trudged upstairs. On came the makeup, up went the hair, down came the thin black dress, and then she was ready. She hesitated on the threshold of the garage, staring at the black BMW, fingering the keys in her hand. She shook violently. How far was it to the hotel? Ten miles? Too far to walk. But something shifted in the house, and her breath caught in her throat. She whirled around, sure that John was standing right behind her, breathing on her neck, ready to pounce.

It was a miracle she made it in the car. As she sat, the leather seats curled around and enveloped her. She hadn't driven in years, and the gearshift stared out at her like a needy lover. It took a few tries to get out of the garage. She sighed at the thought of the steep hills along the way.

Davonna eased the sleek car out of the drive and within minutes passed a temporary barrier of steel where it should have been rock. There was nothing else to recommend it as the site where John had died. The site passed in a blur although the BMW slowed to a whisper of speed and time no longer followed any rules.

The hastily erected tape, strung across the gaping hole, was still on her mind as she pulled into the grand, circular drive of the hotel and stopped just beyond the doors. A valet swept down the immense marble stairs, flanked by massive palm trees. The tails of his suit coat whipped this way and that.

"May I take your bags for you?"

Davonna frowned at the young man. "I'm here to collect my husband's things."

"And your husband is?"

"John Fitzroy."

"Oh, Mrs. Fitzroy, I am so sorry. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you."

"Not to worry. Just point me in the right direction."

The valet smiled and ushered her over to the front desk. "Mrs. Fitzroy," he said to the female concierge with a strange stare.

The woman straightened. Something passed over her face that Davonna couldn't place. "Mrs. Fitzroy, let me call our other owner, Mr. Goldstein; he can show you to Mr. Fitzroy's office."

"Thank you."

She stepped back and sat on a beige chair, which faced a colossal black marble fireplace. Davonna tried not to stare at the sumptuous decor. She tried to act as though she'd been here many times, although the staff knew she hadn't. The hotel was a riot of color. The ceilings and door lintels in each room were gloriously painted with orange and red and white and blue. They drew the eye like fresh flowers in a dead room.

"Mrs. Fitzroy?" a voice said, over her shoulder.

A handsome man, in an expensive suit, stood at her side. "Yes?"

"I'm Anthony Goldstein, I'll show you to John's office. I've found empty boxes, you are free to pack up what you want, and then a valet will come and take it to your car."

"Thank you."

He led her through a camouflaged door in the ornate woodwork and into the office. She stooped in the doorway looking at the desk, which commanded the eyes' full attention. It was like a living, breathing thing, the legs, carved into imitations of a dancer's grace. Anthony Goldstein backed out of the office without a word and shuffled down the corridor to pour a generous cup of coffee.

Davonna tore her hungry eyes away from the desk, back to the office. There wasn't a picture of her anywhere. She pulled over a box, which sat on a chair, and took the frames from the walls. Diplomas. Certifications. A photo of John on the sweeping hotel steps with the president of Greece. Framed sheet music for 'God Save the Queen', the items clinked precariously against each other in the box. Davonna sat behind the desk.

The chair was too large for her, but it was comfortable. She rolled the top open, her fingers grasping the handle like an ocean buoy. Anything at all might have been in there. She squinted at the opened desk. Her fingers shook from where they hung, suspended in front of her body. The air was full of possibility. But... pens, pencils, paper, business documents, paperclips, and nothing else. She slumped back and stopped breathing. The camouflaged door to the offices burst open, and she looked up in terror. He'll find me here. But it was only two women speaking. Davonna slumped further back in the chair and strained to hear their voices.

After a while it wasn't necessary. They stood in the break room, the sound of coffee being poured echoed through the hall, and spoke in carrying whispers, confident they were alone.

"I can't believe Athena," a soft voice said.

"I can. She's an utter cow," came a lower voice.

"She's been carrying on these past few days as though it was her husband that died. Honestly, he was a decent boss, but the man was a player."

"They'd been together for months and she barely can keep it a secret. No wonder she's sobbing."

"Did you see his wife arrive?"

"No, did you?"

"No, but David did. He said she pulled up, pretty as you please, in a brand-new BMW, and said she was here to collect John's things. David had no idea who she was when she pulled up; he asked her if he could take her luggage."

"I overheard John talking to Athena once. She's domineering. John said she controlled the money, what he ate, when they had sex. On and on. Athena was in tears by the time he finished. He said he would leave her, but it was difficult. She was a big shot interpreter with the UN before they were married."

"Why on earth did she leave that?"

"She didn't want to work anymore."

"Huh, must be nice. I wish I didn't have to work."

"Surely there's more to it though," the soft voice said.

Davonna held her breath, leaning forward, desperate to hear more.

"What do you mean?"

"Well she's never been here. If it was like Athena said. She'd have come to the hotel just to lord it over him and make sure he was in line."

"Maybe she didn't have to."

"And he fell straight into Athena's arms the first chance he got?"

"Manipulation can work wonders," the low voice said.

"Could he have killed himself? Was it that awful?"

The girls fell silent as though they'd dropped dead. The door swung open with a great creak.

"Athena, how are you?" the soft voiced girl said. There was a silence and then a huff.

"I'm fine. I don't know what everyone is going on about today."

"You don't have to hide from us. Your secret's safe," the low voice said.

"Fine," Athena confessed.

The three women were silent and Davonna stood up, and tiptoed closer to the office door. It was as if they were waiting for a dam to burst, for someone, the right someone to talk first.

"She's here."

Davonna shook.

"His wife you mean?" Athena asked.

"They saw her arrive."

Athena took a deep breath, and said with venom dripping from her tongue, "She did it. I think she did something to his car. John was worried about how she'd been acting lately; how he thought she knew about us and was plotting. He didn't want to go to the London conference because he was afraid of what she'd get up to alone in their house. He was sure she was having an affair, with their neighbor or a cop in the village. It was horrible. She was horrible. If I have to look at her..."

"Are you going to the police? David saw her; he said she didn't look like much. Pretty, but too thin," the soft voice drawled.

"Anger does that to you. All that time controlling someone else's life. It makes you ugly. I will go to the police. I'll tell them what I know and how I know it. She'll get what's coming to her," Athena seethed.

The other women were quiet. Davonna did something then, which she bitterly regretted later, although it felt good and wonderful then. She threw her body off the ugly uncomfortable steel chair and stepped into the corridor and turned the corner of the break room. Two of the young women had dark curly hair, within an inch of the same height, and then there was the third, obviously Athena. Davonna recognized John's type.

Athena looked as though she'd stepped from the pages of Vogue, even the blush of anger and the heat in her eyes added to her beauty. For a moment, Davonna had surprised them, and they were silent.

"He lied to all of you. I'm sorry." Davonna aimed her last comment at Athena whose nostrils flared. Davonna fled, the image of their surprised, angry, guilt-ridden faces trailed after her. She hailed a valet, told him about the boxes, and then hid in the comfort of the black car.

She stared out through the rearview mirror, waiting for the lean, gorgeous form of Athena to come bursting out the doors of the hotel, to scream and berate. Guests arrived and valets took cars away and finally the valet came back with two boxes.

She forgot that the car was a manual, and the car sputtered and died under her, lurching forward. Her heart jumped in her throat and she glimpsed the boy's hidden laughter. She collapsed against the steering wheel, thinking about all the jokes and laughter, which would echo throughout the hotel this afternoon: the ridiculous wife who couldn't even drive a car.

She passed the spot again and looked at the tape. But it flew by and she had to concentrate on shifting again. The road wound around the hill and soon she pulled into the drive where the house still stood. As empty as it was when she left.

Inside, with the door locked behind her, Davonna stumbled to the kitchen and, through watery eyes, poured a glass of red wine. Athena's words drifted over her. Athena would go to the police, but moreover, they would believe what she told them. After all she'd done for John, how she'd groveled and served and debased herself, he'd lied. He had used a grain of truth and twisted it beyond all recognition. She had become the monster. Tears fell down her cheeks, and she curled into one of the cushioned chairs and cradled her wine.

John came to her then. Dinner wasn't ready. She looked like a common housewife. She'd been to his work and taken down his mementoes. She'd talked to men who weren't her husband. She'd been happy with Ioannis and Theodora.

He towered above her. Deep cuts and shallow scratches mauled his face. He leered at her like a gargoyle. A rabid beast. He hit her. Hit her again. Tore at her clothes. Yanked out fistfuls of hair. Wrapped his fingers around her throat. Davonna jerked. She almost slid out of the chair. Sweat lay thick on her face. The wine glass lay shattered on the floor; a dark red stain morbidly covered the grey tile floor, drip, drip dripping from the black dress.

Davonna blinked in the morning light, confused why she was jolted out of sleep. The doorbell reverberated through the house like an insistent woodpecker. She jerked out of bed, grabbed her robe from the floor, and hurtled down the stairs. She arrived at the door, panting, to find Captain Savva.

He looked askance at her and mumbled that he'd wait in the drawing room while she dressed. Davonna hesitated, but he didn't move, so she scurried upstairs. She twisted her hair into a loose bun on top of her head, pulled on an oversize cardigan, and looked in the mirror. There were dark bags under her eyes; and those eyes were black pits. She lost track of time, until she remembered Savva downstairs, she hurriedly left the bathroom and the sad excuse for a face. He stood by the window, which overlooked the drive, his hands clasped behind him. He turned as she came in, his face a mask of social nicety.

"I heard you drove to the hotel yesterday," Savva said, as she sat on the tufted beige sofa across from him.

Davonna blushed; Savva stared so intently as though she was a model that he was obliged to sculpt. "I collected John's belongings."

"Yes." Savva broke off and sat in one of the twin, pale blue silk Louis XIV oval backed chairs, which faced the sofa.

"What can I do for you?" Davonna choked.

Savva sat. He stroked his chin, leaned on the delicate arm of the chair, and peered at her. Davonna could hear the question coming. Athena had been angry; more than angry. She'd been furious. She believed the lies John told her. Maybe she'd been looking forward to John's 'divorce' so she might be the mistress of La Maison des Rois. But Athena's sparkling house of cards was gone and all that remained was bitterness.

"Tell me about your marriage, Mrs. Fitzroy."

Davonna froze. A chill wind blew on her back and without turning around, without a glance, she knew it was John. He was standing behind her, his hands around her neck, his strong body pressed hard against hers. In moments she'd be dead with finger shaped bruises around her neck. So she said what John wanted her to say.

"We were happy," Davonna managed. She winced, as Savva frowned.

"Indeed."

"We slept in the same bed. We ate dinner together every night and we had regular intercourse. Can you say the same for yourself and your wife?"

"I ... that's neither here nor there."

"In many circles that's all you need to constitute a happy marriage."

"It would depend on why you spent that time together."

"Out of love," Davonna said. She walked a tight rope: if Savva had spoken to Athena his mind would be spinning with new theories and ideas and ways to catch her in a lie. "Have you pulled the Morgan out of the sea?"

Savva looked up, distracted. "Yes we have."

"Have you found anything?"

"Not yet. Our technicians are still going over it."

"So you can't tell me why he died?"

"No, I can't. An ongoing investigation you realize."

"But you must have ideas? Cars don't plummet off cliffs without an explanation."

"There could be many reasons. He could've been distracted, he could have been impaired, or the vehicle was faulty."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I," Savva said, and he shook his head as though he was sorry for the thoughts inside of it, and he looked blearily at Davonna. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"You didn't. I haven't been sleeping well."

"I'll be in touch," Savva said. He pushed hard on the chair to propel himself up.

Davonna rose, aware in some part of her mind that she must walk him to the door, and yet she wished he would stay a little longer. It was terrible to stay cooped in this house with ghosts who haunted every corner.

"His funeral..." she said.

"I'll let you know when we can release the body."

The body. Of course.

"If you remember anything, call the station."

Savva left then with the weight of his order in the air. It didn't sound like an order at first. At first it sounded logical as though he was a parent speaking to an excitable child. There was Athena after all and all the staff at the hotel and their testimony would hold weight.

Davonna turned to watch him close the door. He walked to a waiting car, another man in the driver's seat. Savva was strange. There was something in his eye; shrewd and intelligent. He was a man who came prepared for every answer to every question. She sighed and pulled the cardigan close around her body. Words tumbled over and over themselves in her mind. Savva's order. Athena's words. The two nameless girls; prattling on and on about someone else's life as if they knew.

But were they right? Was there truth in what they said? John used to say it was her fault. Or else he'd make sure she felt that way, when the dinners came out burnt when they were first married and he flew into a rage. She'd paid for her mistakes in full. She'd never intended to manipulate anyone. Could she have taken advantage of him? But didn't she do the work of four people, whom wealthier Greeks just hired? Maid. Cook. Gardener. Whore. What a resume.

Davonna walked back to the kitchen. The last job: the whore—she relished that the dark nights were gone. Even if his memory still lingered and tormented her, she was at least free of his body. But what would Captain Savva think ... if he ever found out?

Savva pulled the door closed behind him and slumped forward with relief. To breathe the free air ... to be outside instead of in that strange house with Davonna Fitzroy whom he couldn't understand. He walked to the car, shuffling his feet in the rocks and stroking his beard. As he put his hand on the handle of the car door, something made him look up. A noise. A movement. Something. In the driver's seat, Booras looked up from his phone, frowning. Savva waved him off.

He scanned the horizon, what little he could see of it through the tall hedgerow, and his eyes fell on the monolithic house to the north. It bordered the Fitzroy property. Perhaps the owners saw or knew something. He mumbled something indistinct to Booras and set off up the road.

The long red brick herringbone drive stretched out in front like a trail of dried blood. Expensive, but then everything on the property was, from the white marble of the house to the sloping gardens and the tennis courts just visible from the drive.

It was too hot to walk even a short distance, but Savva was too confined, too hemmed in, at the Fitzroy house. How glorious to be alone for five minutes, to let his mind wander along quiet paths. Sometimes it was too much, always having to talk to someone, admonish underlings, or plead with the bosses for more overtime. He thought longingly of taking his father's old boat out on the Aegean for a day of fishing. Perhaps he'd even be able to persuade Shayma to come; she needed a break. It had become overwhelming for her... surrounded by the constant trauma of Syrian refugees.

"And who might you be?"

Savva jumped back in astonishment. In fact, he barely contained an unmanly shriek. The door flung wide, and there stood a distracting woman. He hadn't knocked, or scraped his feet. She must have watched him walk the entire drive.

"Captain Savva, Lesvos Police Department," he said, recovering his wits and producing his warrant card.

The woman didn't even look at it. She smiled though, in a sickly, sweet-candy-seller way. Savva was never a handsome man, even in his prime, and therefore never on the receiving end of one of these types of smiles. He smiled back balefully. She was beautiful, in a too-much makeup, skimpy dress way.

"And you are?"

"Megan Moreau," she said, extending her hand.

Savva shook it although he was sure she meant for him to kiss it.

"A pleasure," Savva said. "I was wondering if I might ask you some questions about your neighbors, John and Davonna Fitzroy."

"Do come in," she said silkily. She led him to a large front room with outstretched sweeping windows and an overwhelming mass of gold. Savva blinked in the brightness. "Now what may I do for you, Captain? Oh dear, that's no good; what's your name?"

Savva sighed. "Alexandros."

"Oh yes, meaning 'the defender of men'; is it applicable to you?"

"I doubt it. I've always thought my mother was a snob."

"Why. It's common enough." she replied

"She enjoyed the history behind it."

"Alexandros the Great."

"Precisely," Savva said. "I'd like to ask you questions regarding the Fitzroy's."

"Fire away, Alexandros," she said, leaning back against the plush cushions of a gold damask chaise.

"How well did you know the Fitzroy's?"

"Oh, for ages. I introduced myself when they moved in. John was lovely."

"And Mrs. Fitzroy?"

"Dowdy. I could never stand her."

"Were you on good terms with John Fitzroy?"

"Oh, yes, darling, we were having an affair," Megan said.

Savva blinked. "I see," he said, recovering. "And did Mrs. Fitzroy know?"

"No, she didn't. John and I had been seeing each other off and on since they moved here. Nothing serious. I don't go in for that stuff nowadays. Just sex. Glorious sex. The string-less, no 'please take out the trash dear' sex."

"Are you sure that Mrs. Fitzroy didn't know?"

"I'm not sure. From what John said she was an absolute terror. You know the type; whiny, ungrateful, always spying."

"But she didn't know about the affair? You're neighbors."

"Yes, well, between the two of us, we kept it a secret. John didn't come over every day. Good Lord, did you think he did?" Megan said with a smirk. "I can't handle a man around that much. No, it was usually twice a week or when he had a long lunch."

"I see, and how was Mr. Fitzroy in the months preceding his death?"

Megan took a deep breath and shifted against the couch. "You know I still can't believe he's dead. It's horrible."

"Yes, I can imagine you're cut up about it."

Megan frowned. "John was distracted. He had a lot going on at the hotel and Davonna was being her usual self. It was the last couple of weeks I noticed a change. He was overly vigorous during sex, not that I minded. It was just different. And he didn't talk much afterwards and wouldn't stay for tea. But come to think of it, for the last six months, we saw less and less of each other."

"Why, do you think?"

"I don't know, do I?" Megan snapped. "If I had to guess, I'd say there was another woman."

"Another woman?" Savva asked. "Another, another woman?"

"Yes, another mistress. I've been through this before. My first husband had a whole string of them. Not one after another, but a host of them at the same time. It was a wondrous relief to divorce him, and take his money and then live in the glorious media spotlight with my head held high playing the strong, jilted wife."

"I see," Savva said, holding back a sneer of disgust.

"Anyways," she continued. "I'm sure he had another woman, my guess is someone from the hotel. They have the pick of the good-looking island girls. Good wages."

"Yes, thank you. Well, if you think of anything else, please call me," Savva said, handing over his card.

He turned and walked out of the room. Megan flipped the card around her fingers, concentrating hard. His hand was on the handle of the door when he heard footsteps behind him. Megan walked towards him, a frown on her face.

"By the way, Alexandros, dear, why are you asking about the Fitzroy's?"

"It's routine."

"Ah..." she said. "Well I've remembered something. It couldn't have been more than two weeks ago. Davonna had a policeman come round the house. In the middle of the night."

Savva contained an eye roll with great difficulty. "Did she?"

"Yes she did. He stayed for a while before he came out to his car and stayed parked in the driveway for the better part of an hour. Then, a few hours later, he came back! Now what do you think it was about?" She looked at him as though she'd produced irrefutable evidence for something. What was she trying to prove?

"And you think this was..."

"I think she was having an affair."

Again, Savva couldn't stop his eyes from rolling. "Ms. Moreau, the night you are referring to, the Fitzroy house was burgled. The sergeant assigned to the call, submitted his report before the end of his shift. He even chased the intruder out of the house and onto your property."

Megan's face colored unattractively under her thick, cakey foundation. She blinked. It was one moment's hesitation, but Savva recognized its importance.

"Might I ask what you were doing up so late as to notice a police vehicle at the Fitzroy house?"

"Oh, I'm a night owl. I enjoy getting work done when the house is quiet."

"Yes, I imagine quiet must be scarce for you," he said. "Did you tell Mr. Fitzroy about the police at the house, at your next meeting?"

"He knew. The police phoned him at the hotel."

Savva smiled, shook Megan's silky hand, and once more sighed with pleasure as he breathed the fresh air. A moment later though, his head dropped and his shoulders melted. The force of the hot wind slammed into his body, shocking it. He blinked and staggered sideways a few steps; before he set off across the driveway, back to Booras and the car. He pulled out his phone and made a note to talk to the officer who'd been at the Fitzroy house.

As soon as he reached the road, something tugged at the edges of his mind. His right hand flew to his beard, and he stroked the short hairs under his bottom lip. What was it? He stared at the house. Stared at the road to it, stared out at the sea. But it was gone as though it had blown away in the wind.

"Damn this heat," Savva growled. He stuck his hands into his pocket and trudged back to the car.

Davonna stood in front of the refrigerator and heaved a sigh. There was no food to eat. It had all gone rancid since John's death. The Greek yoghurt smelled as though it had sat outside in the sun for a week and the strawberries and blueberries were white with mold. Even the bread wasn't left unsullied.

She hung her head and slumped into a chair. She'd have to go into town and she couldn't bear to take the flashy BMW. Captain Savva would find out. He'd want to know why she'd all-of-a-sudden changed her habits. No, it was better to walk and face the stares.

Ioannis was just turning into his gate as Davonna shut hers. He shaded his eyes with one hand and called out to her. She slipped the straps of the basket further up her arm and turned to face him.

"Kalimera," she said, before he could manage a hello.

"How are you?" He reached out with a strong arm and touched her shoulder. Her body relaxed under his warmth and kindness.

"I needed groceries."

"Why don't I do your shopping for you? Or I can drive you? You shouldn't be walking in this heat."

"I don't mind. It gives me time to think, time to be alone."

She smiled and hurried away, a cloud of dust trailing her.

The sun beat down with a pointed ferocity, a long line of sweat broke out where the handles of the basket rubbed her arm. Davonna sighed, hung her head, and walked on. Every car on the road slowed to a crawl as it passed her. She ached to turn around and beg Ioannis to buy food so she wouldn't have to face the people, but she was too proud; too concerned about what looked right.

At the bakery Davonna stood at the end of the line, her hat in one hand and the basket in the other. She wanted to lean against the counter like the mother of four in front of her was doing as she tried to ignore the skirt-grabbing and whiny begging. She closed her eyes and wobbled on her feet. The room shifted in an out of focus, and the chattering voices in the bakery were muffled and faint as if they were coming from across the street. She should have taken the car. It would have been nice to have an air-conditioned ride, to sling the groceries in the back, and drive home. But it would've been over too quickly and she wanted more time.

"Davonna, you're here!" Spiros propelled his body from behind the counter and pulled her into a rapid tight embrace, she bounced off his protruding belly. "We've been so worried! How are you?"

Davonna tried to step back and dragged her dress down from where it had rode up her thigh, but Spiros held onto her upper arms and peered into her eyes. The other customers stared, their eyes shrinking to slits as they turned to their neighbors in line and whispered behind their hands.

"Maria, watch the front for a while!" Aris called out, motioning for Spiros and Davonna to follow him. They walked down a wide hallway and into the same narrow office with its monumental flour dusted computers.

"We haven't seen you for days, darling, how are you?"

Davonna took a deep breath and crossed and crossed her legs. "I've been all right. Captain Savva, do you know him?"

Spiros and Aris looked at each other for a moment, something passed between them. A short look full of worry and resignation. "His family has been here for ages," Spiros said.

"Yes, he's ... how do you say—tenacious. He gets an idea in his head and won't let go of it. Like a dog with a bone," Aris said, using the English phrase.

"Oh," Davonna said. A call came from the front and Spiros left to help, but Aris didn't move.

"What's the matter? And why on Earth did you walk all this way today, it's boiling?"

Davonna tried to hide her weariness in a winning smile so he wouldn't press too hard. But she didn't want him to stop. It was nice to have a friend sitting in front of you, asking how you were doing, and how they could help. It spilled out before she could put the cover back. It spilled out, everything except what mattered.

"I drove to the hotel yesterday—to collect John's things. I overheard his mistress talking about me. That I manipulated him and I stayed home because I didn't want to work; on and on. And Savva will hear it from the girl, and what will happen to me?"

"He was having an affair?"

"Yes. Six months according to her. Savva had this funny look on his face when he came to the house yesterday as though he was fishing for what I knew or what I had done... or driven John to do. No, that's horrible. That's horrible to think about." Davonna dropped her head into her hands.

"You think Savva will listen to this girl?"

"She's not a girl, not really."

"But he will listen to her?"

"I don't see why not. There are two others who know. And I can't prove what happened in my home."

Aris took a deep breath as though steeling himself for an unpleasant task. "What did transpire in your home?"

Davonna didn't have to prepare, the answer came readily to her lips, as if it wasn't a lie anymore. "We had a lovely marriage. We were happy. I thought we were happy."

"Why do you always walk to the shops?"

Davonna paused, tasting, smelling the air before she continued. "I enjoy the exercise and the fresh air. I like that it takes longer." She bit her tongue. She hadn't meant to say the last bit.

"It's a gorgeous walk, but too hot this time of year."

"I don't mind."

"No, but promise me, you'll take a car until it gets cooler. You don't look like you have your strength back yet. Why don't I call Thanos to give you a ride home?"

"I couldn't, and he's a police officer, people would whisper."

"He isn't on duty today. Plus he's my sister's boy. He'll do it for me." He placed his hand on her knee and smiled.

Davonna smiled, because it was impossible not to smile when Aris did. His dark eyes crinkled with joy and his body rippled with possibilities. The air crackled electricity.

"I have a few more errands to run."

"He'll meet you in a half hour in front of the bakery."

Spiros' belly preceded him around the corner. In one hand he carried a large brown paper bag with Davonna's usual order. "You must take care of yourself. Perhaps we can drop off the bread next week?" He put the bread lovingly into her basket. It was like being surrounded by a pair of uncles.

"I'll come, and I'll drive if you insist, Aris."

"I do."

Davonna leaned forward and kissed their cheeks, but only because they expected it. She walked out of the office and hurried from the bakery. The customers stared as she walked down the uneven sidewalk and entered the crowded market, alight with haggling vendors and clients, where she flitted around the vegetable stands and stood in line at the butcher's. Sack after sack dropped into the basket until it cut into her forearm and her fingers tingled. She walked with slow labored steps. The tilted cobblestones threw her off balance and she barely caught herself against the peeling paint of a black car barrier.

"Careful, Mrs. Fitzroy."

Thanos had come. "Thank you."

"Here's the car, just put them in the boot here."

Davonna walked to the little yellow Peugeot. The gulls called in the background and she almost joined their cries in relief. Thanos opened her door, and she stole a glance at him. His dark hair was combed to one side and his eyes were alight with a smile she never saw when he was in uniform. Perhaps he was allowed to be a real person today when usually he wasn't.

They drove through the streets in a quiet, detached way. Davonna looked, unseeing, out the dusty window, her arms around her knees. Thanos gripped the wheel with a quiet ferocity and only once did he take his eyes off the road to steal a look at her.

They circled up the hill and soon Mitilini was beneath them, a patchwork of brown and green and orange roofs, and the Aegean sprang up to cover the horizon. Thanos pulled into the driveway with the familiar crunch of gravel. How had they gotten here already? The Peugeot idled in the summer heat as they sat in a precarious silence.

"Do you know anything?" she asked, as she continued to stare at the house.

"Know what?"

"What Captain Savva has found."

"I'm not on the investigatory team."

"Do they have any answers?"

"Davonna, what's wrong?" Thanos turned in his seat and tried to catch her eye.

She gazed out the window, watching as the flowers of the bougainvillea swayed in the breeze. "Life is strange. One moment you're going along, and everything is mind-numbingly normal, and then it changes in seconds, and you're left with disaster. I never thought John would die. I thought it would continue as it always did."

Thanos frowned. She didn't cry or shudder with suppressed sobs, but sat there as though caught in the glare of a blinding light. Thanos couldn't put his finger on what confused him about her behavior. She was quiet, too quiet. She was never with John. She was perpetually scanning; on the lookout for ... was it answers? But he was drawn to her, drawn to the mystery and her sadness.

"I don't know what Captain Savva has found, but he was at the hotel yesterday."

"Why?"

Thanos considered her carefully. "For background on Mr. Fitzroy. Yesterday he asked about the report I filed the night of the break in. And he's spoken to your neighbor; a Ms. Moreau."

"Why?"

"She was awake and saw me arrive at the house."

"But why would it matter?"

"I'm not sure. According to some of the guys at the station, she's loose."

"What do you mean?" Davonna said. Her head was so clouded, she couldn't reason.

"She's ah... slept around... a lot."

"I know she had an affair with John."

"What?" Thanos said, twisting around in his seat facing her.

"I knew from the first day we arrived. He drove to her house. He'd been to Lesvos two times before we moved. I saw him enter, and I saw him leave. They kissed on the front porch.

"John denied it and I had no other choice but to play along. I don't see what this has to do with his death. Why does it matter he slept with other women?"

"Was the neighbor the only one?"

"No. There was another woman at the hotel. I received an anonymous letter from someone at the hotel, maybe four months ago. All it said was that John was having an affair with a girl at the hotel. It was kind. They thought I should be aware."

"Do you still have it?"

"No, I threw it away." Davonna sighed and hung her head, "I don't understand what's going on."

"It'll be ok."

"I never imagined I'd be here."

"What do you mean?"

"In Greece. In this house. In this situation."

"Where did you want to be?"

Davonna looked up as though she had only just realized that he was in the car and she was talking aloud. "That doesn't matter now. Thank you for the drive, Sergeant."

"Davonna please let me know if I can help."

"How old are you?" she blurted.

Thanos looked shaken but answered, "Thirty-three."

"Oh," she whispered. "I've got to go. Can you open the boot?" Davonna leapt from the car, grabbed her bags with surprising vitality, and tore through the front door before Thanos could do anything but stare morosely after her.

VIII

Όντες θέλει να χαλάσει ο θεός το μέρμυγκα, του βάνει φτερά και πετάει.

When God wants to destroy the ant, he puts wings on him and it flies to its destruction.

Savva strode into the police station at the same time Davonna Fitzroy walked through her front door. The desk staff hid their faces as he entered: engrossed in files or their computers or rushing to fill a water bottle. Savva ignored them; his face a surly mask and the lunch his wife made had done nothing to improve his mood. She was a fine woman but sometimes she liked to experiment—it never boded well.

The smell of the lobby; a mixture of the stale sweat and piss of the homeless and the thick haze of whatever cologne all the young hooligans were wearing, churned the bouillabaisse in his stomach. He swore to never eat French food again. Why couldn't the woman stick to calamari? Her grandmother had taught her to do it perfectly.

As he started towards the stairs, a waving hand caught his eye and he turned.

"What?" he said, before the front desk sergeant formed his name.

"Forensics wanted to see you, Sir."

"And?" Savva grunted.

"A woman is here for you."

"What woman."

"The mistress; from the hotel, Athena."

"Damn," Savva said. He picked up the green file, which the sergeant passed through the barrier, and shuffled upstairs.

Savva took the stairs leisurely, rubbed his fitful stomach, and decided it might be best to get rid of the mistress first. He rounded the corner, and there she was: sitting languidly in his office. Her long lean legs, encased in black leather, cascaded over each other, and she wore a loose white silk top. It was difficult not to stare at the black bra peeking through. Booras was standing by the door and left with a mumbled 'thank you' as soon as Savva entered.

"I want to know what you're doing about that woman," Athena said, without preamble, shaking a finger in his face. "He wouldn't tell me anything."

"Which woman would that be?"

"His awful wife, Donna, or whatever her name is."

"What is it you want me to do with her?"

"I want her arrested. She did something," Athena seethed.

"To do with what?" Savva said. He leaned back in his chair, as far away from Athena's flailing arms as possible.

"She's the reason John died. I don't know whether she fiddled with his car or whether she made him so unhappy that he drove off. But we were in love, so he couldn't have driven himself off the cliff, he just couldn't have. It was her. It has to be murder."

"I see. What evidence can you give me to corroborate this?"

Athena looked as though he had asked her to take off her clothes and dance naked for him. Her mouth flapped open for a moment before she gathered her resolve.

"We had lunch before he left for his London trip, and he was crying, sobbing really. I'd seen nothing like it. He pulled out a list," Savva's ears pricked at this, but he didn't move from his relaxed position, "On it were these demands of Davonna's. She'd told him to get her the Cartier Balon watch Kate Middleton has, and she wanted new marble countertops for the kitchen, larger chandeliers, and a new BMW sent over from Athens."

"I see."

"I have it here," Athena said, with a wide smile.

Savva sat up straight. "Have what?"

"I took a picture when John left to go to the bathroom."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, "why?""

"Why'd you take the picture?"

"I was worried, and besides it isn't about me. Here." She pulled out her phone and shoved it across the desk. "There's the picture. You can see it's her handwriting."

"So it seems," Savva mumbled. Athena's waves of triumphal pleasure wafted over him. "I'll send this to myself, and if you can note when and where you took the photo... where's the original?"

"With him."

"We haven't found a list."

"It could be a hundred places. He could have left it in his hotel room, or on the plane, or thrown it in the trash."

"Wouldn't he want to remember what was on it?"

"Oh, he didn't have trouble with that. He had it memorized; rattled it off in the restaurant. So, un-romantic." She wrote the date and time for Savva and passed the slip of paper to him.

"Thank you."

"Just arrest her," she snarled. She rose and swung a large leather purse onto her shoulder.

Savva frowned at it. "Wait a moment," he said. She looked disdainfully at him, her eyebrows raised in boredom. "What bag is that?"

Athena peered at him and then, deciding it wasn't such a terrible question, said, "It's Prada."

"I don't keep up with designers, but I know Prada. It's expensive."

"My dad bought if for me, a birthday present."

Savva leaned forward, "And your father—his name?"

Athena rose to her full height, rolled her shoulders back, and said with a sneer, "His name isn't pertinent to your investigation and neither is my purse.

Savva's eyes narrowed, as he listened to Athena's heels click down the hallway. Athena's father—another item for Booras' list. He picked up a bottle of water from his desk, and, with a great sigh, headed back down the stairs to forensics.

"What is it?" he snarled, at the first lab tech that walked by.

"Captain, Sir, um this way."

The kid looked fresh out of high school, pimples and all. You could smell the pheromones drifting off of him. Maybe the kid saw Athena exit the building.

"Captain." Jason Rallis, the lead forensics supervisor, stood by a battered wooden desk as Savva walked into the large lab. He was short, as if the low ceilings and little natural light had stunted his growth. But he had keen questioning eyes and long, tapered, quick-moving fingers.

"Keep it brief, Rallis, I have piles of paperwork."

"Ok, let's start on the deceased. I have the report from pathology. They ran a toxicology screen, and it came back clean. He was healthy, all the way to his liver and prostate, and there wasn't even a trace of alcohol in his body. His stomach was empty."

"Empty? Remind me how long the stomach takes to empty?"

"On average two hours. He was on a plane for most of the morning."

"So it's reasonable to say he hadn't eaten."

"Sure, but not even a peanut?" Rallis queried. "Who flies and doesn't even have a drink... or peanuts, makes the whole trip worse. So, cause of death: blunt force trauma to the skull and asphyxia due to drowning. He was knocked unconscious because of the crash and then drowned."

"Straightforward."

"Onto the car," Rallis said, moving towards a computer. His fingers flew over the keys, pulling up a series of photographs for Savva to study. "We undertook an extensive examination of the Morgan. It's old, so we can rule out an electrical malfunction or hack ... yes it happens," he said, with a wry grin. "The car was in immaculate condition. According to the deceased's wife, it wasn't driven much, just the 20 miles five days a week to the hotel and back. But we found that the brake lines were nearly sawn through."

Savva jerked. "What?"

"The brakes were compromised. I'm sure you don't need to me to tell you what that causes."

"You said "nearly sawn through?""

"I did. What's interesting is that it was done so the car would've made it a few miles before giving out. It's an older car so cutting the brakes would be possible, it's not easy on more modern cars."

"It can't have been a sure thing. How could you know he'd go off the edge?" Savva mused.

"No, it wasn't," Rallis agreed. "He wouldn't need to brake on the way to the hotel, but would on the way back. We'd assumed he'd gone back to the hotel.

"I drove from the crime scene to the hotel and there's a house about two miles up the road from where Fitzroy crashed through the barrier. His wife said he left in a hurry. Conceivably, he might've turned around because he'd forgotten something at the house."

Savva ran his hand through his grey hair. "Damn it all to hell."

"What's wrong?" Rallis said, his head suspended over the computer, closing out the files.

"The damn mistress might be right."

"I hear she's a looker."

"Headaches more like. Anyways, thanks. The water washed away any chance for prints, didn't it?"

"We found none."

"Let me know if you find more. We need to get a warrant for the house."

"Do you think she did it—the wife?" Rallis said, and pushed over two green file folders for Savva.

"Who the hell knows?" Savva said, over his shoulder as he left.

He made his way back to his office, glaring at what must have been ten co-workers until they shrank back against the unwashed beige walls in fear. Savva plopped into his chair with a muffled thump and tossed the green folders onto the desk. They lay there, taunting him, laughing at his dilemma. Could he take this Athena at her word? And then there was the car. John's wife had the means since she lived at the property. But did she have the time or the ability to tamper with the car? There was the list... the deviously long one her husband had written her. He picked up the phone, pawed through his notebook and dialed.

"Mrs. Fitzroy, I'd like to schedule a time for you to come to the police station, tomorrow," he paused, "Yes, Ma'am that'll work. Goodbye."

Savva hung up and then dialed another number.

"Sergeant Booras."

"Booras, I want you to look into Athena Carras' background. I want to know who her father is and where he gets the money to buy her a Prada purse."

Davonna unlocked the door and sighed. Her shoulder ached and throbbed with the weight of the sagging basket. She shuffled back to the kitchen, deposited it on the table, and stared at it. Bread, vegetables, and meat in their brown wrappers, spilled out.

She collapsed on a chair and hung her head. Savva's words, the realization he might suspect her of having something to do with John's death, echoed in her mind like a skipping tape. Her life, her future, was all on hold. And she was captive to it ... this insanity.

She pulled at her dress, rubbed the beige linen in between her fingers, and stared out the kitchen window. The day was bright; the days usually were. Tourists were fond of referring to the island as a paradise. It was, in it's own way, but the land was harsh and could be unrelenting and the heat was overwhelming, but the people were predisposed to kindness and made some of the world's best hosts. But tourists didn't come as often anymore. Greece was in economic turmoil. Syrian refugees scared off the rest. No one wants to be confronted with a massive humanitarian crisis while on holiday.

A crisis, Davonna thought, nothing was truer. A dark night of the soul; St. John had it right. She jumped up, cutting off the uncomfortable, unwelcome feelings of shame, shoved the groceries away, and went upstairs. She left the house, keys in hand, not five minutes later.

Davonna drove down the winding hillside road and into the center of town. Greeks walked in every direction: teenagers in grey hoodies chatting on phones; exhausted parents smiling at the toddlers they held on their hips; and old grandmothers with shock white hair speaking emphatically with their hands. What had touched them? Would pain ever corrode their happiness?

She parked the car in front of an office off the main road, on a back route to the sea. The car door shut behind her, and she fidgeted with hem of her shirt. She stood, in the parking lot, just staring at the out-of-place brick two-story office. But a mass of rake-resistant leaves tore across the parking lot and crumbled around her shoes. She stumbled forward.

"I'd like to see Ms. Gabris," she said, reaching the receptionist's desk. The office was white. Calm and impersonal paintings of the sea hung at easy intervals along the wall. There wasn't anyone in the room.

"Do you have an appointment?" a young woman asked. She was petite, her cheekbones protruded at a harsh angle, but she had kind intelligent eyes. Flakes of mascara clung to the skin under her eyes.

Davonna shook her head.

"Well, I can ask if she's free to speak with you. Is this for a consolation?"

"Yes, my name is Davonna Fitzroy."

"Ok... oh," the receptionist said, unable to hide her surprise. "Well, I'll go speak to Ms. Gabris, if you'll have a seat."

Davonna went to sit on one of the plush leather chairs by the windows. They were warm, reposing there in the sun all day—a delightful warm where you might relax and fall asleep within moments. She wanted to sit back and curl her legs underneath her and fall into blissful oblivion, here in this safe space, away from the house.

"Mrs. Fitzroy?" the thin receptionist said from the doorway; a calm smile on her face. "Ms. Gabris said she will see you if you'll follow me."

The young woman led Davonna through to a back office full of red and brown books on large shelves and an eye-catching blue and gold desk. The woman behind it rose. She wasn't tall, but had soft curves and perfectly blown out hair, but it was her poise, her assuredness, which held Davonna's stare.

"Mrs. Fitzroy, it's a pleasure to meet you; Sofia Gabris."

"Davonna, please," she said, shaking Sofia's extended hand.

"What can I do for you today, Davonna?" Sofia said, and motioned for Davonna to sit.

Davonna couldn't take her eyes from the desk. It was contrary to what she thought she'd find here. All black and boring and stuffy. But the desk was an uncompromising blue. Not the navy blue found in Britain's Union Jack, it held the slightest hint of green, more like what the sky and ocean looked like as they merged into one on the horizon.

"My husband just died. His car plunged over a cliff. The police suspect me of causing his death. I'd like to secure your representation."

Davonna'd practiced the whole way there to make sure she was clear and professional and devoid of any emotional appeals.

"I heard about the accident. I am sorry."

"I didn't kill him, please believe me," she blurted.

Sofia smiled. A kind, knowing smile, like she didn't mind, but knew the outburst would happen sooner or later. "That's immaterial, Davonna. I will represent you."

"You will?"

"Yes, I will."

"Thank you," she said, wearily.

"I'll get down to the police department and tell them you've retained me as your solicitor. Is there anything else I should know before we start? Background? Any details you can remember?"

Davonna took a deep breath. Sofia pulled out a large yellow legal pad and clicked the top on a black pen, poised and ready. Davonna opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't. Everything closed around her; the brightness of the room and Sofia's eager mind whirring almost audibly. She was a strong well-educated woman with a successful legal practice. Would she understand? How would she react... what was the point? It didn't become easier with the telling; it was harder, soul wrenching to tell it to anyone. Davonna closed her eyes, and tried to concentrate on an end to it all; and then—safety.

She told Sofia that her relationship with John was strained and about the affairs. She talked about Savva's last conversation, that they were still investigating the accident. It was cold and dispassionate. Sofia listened raptly, taking notes. She skirted the entire issue of John's abuse and the cold reality of what life was like with him. It was as though a wall had risen in front of her, and she couldn't break through it. The words wouldn't come.

"Someone also broke into our house."

"When was this?"

"Two weeks before John died. A friend of mine, more an acquaintance, is a sergeant with the police department. He came."

"Did John know?"

"Yes. The police have the entire report."

"That's interesting."

Davonna grinned weakly, unsure of what to do, or what to say. She felt so reduced... as though her earlier life had sat too long on a stove and all the good pieces had boiled off. How long ago was it she'd worked at the UN? Was it all a dream?

"Mrs. Fitzroy, as this is a consultation, I can't give you much beyond a few things I will do first. I'll go to the police department and ask for the documents pertaining to the case. They won't give them all, but we'll manage. Please do not speak to them without me present. They are under no obligation to tell the truth when they ask questions; it's easy to get trapped."

"I understand."

"I would also caution against seeing your friend ... the sergeant," Sofia added, flipping back through her notes.

"Alright."

"We will need to refute evidence they collect, and that's where I come in."

"Thank you."

"Whatever you do, don't get discouraged, Mrs. Fitzroy," Sofia said, her eyes warmed and lost some of their professionalism. "I'm sure this will all be settled soon."

"Of course."

Sofia stood, signaling the end of the meeting. Davonna hesitated. Her mind lingering on the effort it would take to stand up, to walk to the door, to reach the car and drive home ... did she even have enough?

"Are you alright, Davonna?"

"It's all a little overwhelming. My husband is dead and my whole life has changed. I can't even mourn. It's ... no, I'm sorry, this isn't proper," she said, managing at last to stand.

"I can recommend a good therapist, if you need one," Sofia said kindly.

"I don't think I'm ready yet."

"Much of what I will tell you and ask you to do will sound unfeeling, but it's for your benefit. It's my job to represent your interests."

"I understand. I do. Thank you for your time, Ms. Gabris."

"Of course." Sofia hesitated as though she was about to say something more, but thought better of it.

The two women stared at each other. Davonna: crippled under the rising tide of circumstances, and Sofia: eager and ready to work. In a single moment, reality broke. Sofia was what Davonna herself had been, poised and professional, intelligent. She'd had all of it. Life had order and clear rules. As she looked at this woman, the bottom fell out of her fantasy. She had no career, no control. Was she even human? A huge house on an island... it could never bring back the lost years.

Davonna turned and took her leave of the office. Sofia stood by the blue desk, her eyes full of concern, but when Davonna looked back she saw Sofia had already strode back to her desk and set to work.

"I need to speak to Captain Savva right away," she paused as a voice mumbled something over the line. "I don't care if he's in a meeting, my name is Sofia Gabris and I am representing Davonna Fitzroy. I need to make myself clear about his future treatment of my client."

IX

Παπάς, γιατρός καιχωροφύλακας καλύτερα 'ναι να μην μπαίνουνε στο σπίτι.

It's better not to have a priest, a doctor or a policeman enter one's house.

"Mrs. Fitzroy, can we schedule a time for you to come to the police station, tomorrow?"

"Eight o'clock?"

"Yes, Ma'am that'll work. Goodbye."

Davonna pulled her mobile from her ear and stared at it. Athena prompted Savva's call. There was something else, a crispness—like the first chill on an autumn morning. She walked to the window in the library and looked unseeing out at the immaculate garden. If she'd known how much work it would take, would she have agreed to John's plans? If she had foreseen the future would she have left England? The library swam in front of her and the London flat on Arneway Street materialized.

'The house is fantastic, John. You were so clever to get it,' Davonna said, caressing the pictures on the kitchen table.

A month earlier they had married in a small courtroom, and Davonna was the picture of health and youth and grace and intelligence.

'I can't wait to vacation there,' she said, whimsically.

'This isn't a vacation home,' John said, offhanded like, as though she'd forgotten the main point.

Davonna traced the line of the front door. 'What do you mean?'

'We are moving as soon as the property management company completes the paperwork. We'll rent out this flat.'

'But, I didn't realize.'

'I'm sure you didn't, but I've accepted the job. I'll be managing the best hotel on Lesvos.'

'What about my work? I can't be away from London. There's always Geneva or New York.'

'I don't have a job in Geneva or bloody New York.'

'So...'

'You'll leave me, won't you,' John ejaculated? His handsome face mottled with anger and pain.

'What? No! What are you talking about?'

'I have a wonderful job prospect, and you want me to give it up so we can live cooped in this minuscule flat or an even smaller one in New York?'

'That's not what I meant.'

'It is. It's all about you. You can't let me pursue my dreams. I found an amazing house with fantastic potential for a real English garden we've always wanted ... and you want me to say no?'

Davonna took a deep breath and put her hand over John's arm. She couldn't concentrate. He brimmed, and seethed, with anger, the room crackled with the electricity of it. There was the house in Greece, which she was positive John had never mentioned as their new HOME, and ... her job. The one she'd worked years for. All that time studying every intricacy of ten different languages. It meant the world... didn't it? Did it mean more than him? A job wouldn't keep her warm at night, or give her children, or happiness.

'I'm sorry. You're right. I want you to have this. Let's move.'

John did little more than smile; the anger and pain disappeared, as if flushed away.

That night it happened for the first time. Davonna had always maintained old-fashioned notions of sex, and they were intimate on a regular schedule. And scheduled it had been.

John threw her on the bed. Her head bounced off of the pillow and she looked at him, shock and excitement on her face. His was a mask. She bit her lip, searched his eyes, and tried to get him to look at her. He shoved her onto her stomach and, without preamble, wrapped his hand around her ponytail and yanked her head back.

She bit back a cry and struggled for breath as John pushed her face back into the pillow. Her vagina was on fire. With every thrust of his hips, a searing, convulsing pain erupted under her ribs. Swallowing back tears, she tried to conjure feel of diving headfirst into the North Sea by Castle Varrich in Scotland. But soon the bite of the raw sea eroded into the seizing pain in her ribs. It was pain on a scale she'd never endured. A humiliation. It was as if she stood inside a glasshouse and with each thrust a pane of glass broke above her, showering her with murderous shards.

John rolled off not long after, patted her shoulder, wiped off his cock, put his clothes on, and not a minute later she heard the door to the flat slam. She curled into a ball and squeezed her legs shut against the pain.

She lay frozen on the bed for hours. An image of her father's face, if he ever found out what John was, rolled around in her mind as thin and fragile as cotton candy. She wasn't kind about moving and John had a voracious sexual appetite, and they were married—it wasn't wrong. It wasn't wrong.

Davonna looked up. The garden, it was the reason John bought the house. She shook. The garden swam in front of her and everything disappeared but him: the closeness of his breath, the near suffocation, and the hands around her neck. She couldn't breathe. He'd be back any moment and drag her off to somewhere deep. Somewhere dark. There was no safety.

She collapsed on the floor. Loud racking sobs jolted through her body. She was back there again. Back with John and his moods and his anger and his punishments. It circled her. It tore at the fabric of her mind. She was a child, waiting for it to end, waiting for the monster to run out of oxygen and fear and memories, to eat itself into oblivion.

Somehow it did, after a long while when the tears dried and snot clogged her nose. She pulled herself off the floor and sat against the bookshelf, clutching her knees to her chest.

What if she hadn't fought him? Would he have left her alone? If she was silent? If she'd been better? She stood on shaky legs and went to bed. To pursue oblivion.

Davonna stood at the entrance to the garage. The sun brushed the tops of the olive groves with golden fingers. Its light-brushed flapping awnings and the white spires and red slate roof of the Catholic Church near the sea.

The garage was quiet and still, and the air hung heavily in it. She breathed shallowly, careful not to disturb the air. She stole in, tiptoeing across the epoxy floor.

The streets were silent when she pulled into the parking lot behind the police department. It was too early for the normal miscreants, but constables laughed outside of the back door, looking both harassed and excited, slapping their partners on the back or handing over steaming cups of coffee in plastic cups. Davonna lingered in the car, trying to melt into the buttery leather. But the minutes ticked past and soon she would be late.

"Davonna Fitzroy, I'm here to see Captain Savva," she said, in her best Greek.

The desk sergeant looked at her with a kind smile. "Certainly," he said in English, "if you'll take a seat, I'll let him know you're here."

Davonna turned and sat in one of the grey chairs set in neat little rows. Nearer the door an ancient man with a wispy beard, which tickled his rusty belt buckle, sat hunched over a paper cup of coffee. His smell wafted about the room as the door swung open and she choked. It was like breathing in the contents of a sewer.

"Mrs. Fitzroy?" Captain Savva stood in front of her with a strange resemblance to the tramp in the corner with his crooked tie and wrinkled shirt.

"Kalimera."

"Let's talk in my office." Savva motioned for her to follow.

They passed through locked doors, which Savva opened with a key code, past lines of cubicles, and the incessantly ringing phones. Savva ushered her through a door and she was surprised to see that his office was neat and didn't smell as awful as the lobby.

"Please sit," Savva said, as he lowered himself into his own chair.

Davonna sat with her faded leather purse; the bottom corners scratched several shades lighter, on her lap. Her heart thundered in her ears. She couldn't let go of the purse because if she did, he'd see her shaking fingers, and he'd know. The door opened again and Sofia Gabris waltzed in. She wore black heels with loose beige trousers and a smart white shirt and grinned winningly at Savva.

"Kalimera."

"Kalimera."

"I hope you'll refrain from any lines of questioning which are incriminating, Captain Savva."

Savva inclined his head in submission and turned his gaze on Davonna.

"I've had some interesting conversations in the last few days, Mrs. Fitzroy."

"Yes?"

"Yes, with a woman named Athena Carras, at the hotel."

"His mistress," Davonna said blandly.

Sofia stiffened but was quiet.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I overheard her talking to another employee when I was there to get John's personal effects."

"And what did you hear?"

"They were lovers for six months'."

"I see. Anything else?"

"I'm not sure what you're getting at, Captain," Sofia said. Her tone was polite, but the words were sharp.

Savva surveyed Davonna over the tips of his fingers, "Do you know anything more about your husband's relationship with Miss Carras."

"I do."

"Tell me."

"I'd rather hear what you found out."

Sofia smiled in contentment and relaxed into the chair.

"I'm sorry?"

"You said you've had interesting conversations in the past few days."

"I have spoken to Miss Carras. She had some ... interesting comments about her relationship with Mr. Fitzroy and his relationship with you," Savva paused and Davonna's stomach flopped. She could imagine what Athena had said. "Not only did she intimate they shared more than sex, she also said he confided in her he would divorce you."

"Don't answer that," Sofia said.

"It's alright," Davonna muttered to Sofia. She turned back to Savva, "I'm sure she did."

"Why do you say that?"

"She spouted off lies about me to her friends while I was in John's office."

"Her friends? I thought you said it was one other employee."

"There were two of them, but they clearly worship her and were only interested in gossip. I suppose that's why I said one."

"What else did Miss Carras intimate?"

"Again, Captain," Sofia interrupted, but Davonna held up her hand.

"She said I was abusive. Which I wasn't. I did everything for John. I moved here, to further his career. This was a big step for him—running the hotel. I wasn't the perfect wife, but I didn't abuse or manipulate him."

"How did she say you were abusive?"

Davonna took a deep breath, "That I didn't work because I wanted to stay home. That I forced John to always be home and eat with me. That ... that I even forced him to be intimate with me. She talked as if I was..."

"As if you were what?"

Davonna shook her head. She almost let it slip: almost said John described himself to Athena.

"As if I was at fault," she whispered. She didn't want to say it. It would tug on his mind and he'd remember it but it was better than the alternative.

"Are you at fault, Mrs. Fitzroy?"

"What do you mean?" Her eyes were rimmed with tears and she clutched her purse even closer to her body.

"Did you kill him?

"That's enough, Captain!" Sofia broke in. She turned to Davonna with a steely gaze.

"No," said Davonna.

Sofia rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"I hope you understand, Mrs. Fitzroy, I have to ask these questions. Is there any truth in what Miss Carras said?"

"No."

"Why she would have said that?"

"No."

"Thank you for coming in."

Davonna grimaced and stood although she couldn't quite believe he was letting her go.

Savva called for a constable to escort them back to the lobby. As soon as the two women left, Iason Rallis walked in.

"Who was that? I heard her shouting from down the hall."

"Davonna Fitzroy and her attorney."

"Did you ask her?"

"Ask her what?" Savva said, staring at the chair Davonna'd vacated.

"You know, the damage to the brake system on the vehicle."

"Oh no, I'm saving that one."

"Why, particularly?"

"I'd like them to answer one question at a time. Never show your whole hand."

Rallis shrugged and left. Savva stared at the chair seeing neither leather nor metal.

Davonna found herself outside the police department, contemplating the license plate of her car. Sofia had given her a hug and left for her office. Davonna walked towards her car and threw herself inside. Compared to the place she had just left, it was paradise, safe and quiet.

She was about to put the key in the ignition when it hit her—Savva'd only asked about one conversation when he mentioned multiple. Surely he wasn't just referring to Athena. He seemed too smug; too sure of himself with only the word of a twenty-something girl to go on. Davonna's stomach tightened, and if there had been anything to throw up, she would have, right there in the police parking lot.

She drove home but didn't remember the drive. The car rumbled into the garage and she sat there, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. She panted as the car warmed in the heat from the garage. She stumbled out and propped herself against it. Beads of sweat pooled at the base of her neck and her lower back.

The trudge to the kitchen felt like an eternity. She poured a glass of water and retreated upstairs to the spare bedroom, falling asleep within moments, though her mind spun questions about Savva's strange behavior. Perhaps it was the pull of oblivion, or that sleep was now an escape from a life, that was now a deadly game.

It was almost dark before she stirred. Beams of pale light cascaded through the open windows. Davonna sat up and rubbed her eyes. Downstairs somewhere, a phone rang, but she couldn't tear her eyes from the window, though she could see little. It was difficult to put into words or conscious thought the events of the past days. If there was anyone who knew the truth about her marriage even they wouldn't be able to understand that there was no freedom or joy in John's death.

Was this some mad scheme of John's to see how she'd react and whom she'd turn to in her time of need? But she'd seen the body and the wreck of the car with her own eyes. Still, he lingered. His presence pooled into the marble and sunk into the linens and melted into the wood. He was everywhere.

Davonna put out her thin arms and pushed herself from the bed. Her legs shook and her head spun. Had she eaten today? The phone rang again, it echoed off the walls and Davonna left the room to go in search of it.

"Davonna, I've been calling and calling!" The voice of her sister, Miriam, came over the line, shocked and breathless.

"I'm sorry, Miriam, I've been out of it the past few days."

"What do you mean? What's wrong? I wanted to check and see if you could come home for Alba's graduation."

Davonna smiled. She pictured the six-foot-tall woman who commanded her own force of genetic scientists and researchers in Edinburgh. Miriam somehow managed the precarious balance between career, motherhood, and being a wife. She was open and honest and brash, and it served her well. Her husband, Seamus, was kind and quiet and often smirked when she bulldozed.

"Davonna?"

"I meant to call you... John died in a car accident a week ago."

A long pause stretched between them like a balloon just waiting to be filled with hot air.

"I... Davonna... are you alright? What happened?"

"I'm alright, John was driving back from the hotel and his car careened off the side of the road and crashed into the sea. I... I've been to the morgue. It's his body."

"That's horrendous. Oh darling, should I come? You can't be alone now."

"No, Miriam, it's alright. Alba graduates in a couple days, you should be there to help her."

"But I don't understand. I never liked John, you know, but I never knew him to be a reckless driver. Was he distracted? Did an animal run out in front of him?"

"I don't know."

Miriam was an astute woman. She knew the precise point at which her daughters, Alba and Flora, lied to her. Miriam knew people. She inherited that talent from their father who'd been a military man all his life and knew, on a personal level, the men he took into combat. Miriam saw through John in a day. She didn't trust his sweet way of talking, or his peculiar perfection, and she didn't keep her comments to herself.

They hadn't spoken for years because of it. Davonna couldn't admit to Miriam that she was right, that John was worse than Miriam feared. Perhaps she didn't want to worry Miriam, and since their parents' deaths, it seemed the wrong time. Davonna could never predict how John would react. So she never said a word.

"Are you still there?"

"I'm sorry, my mind was wandering."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure," Davonna took a breath. She worried about what to say and whether Miriam would believe a lie. "The police are investigating."

"What do you mean?"

"To determine whether it was an accident."

"I don't follow, you don't mean someone might've done it intentionally."

"Yes."

"But... Davonna, you need me there. I'll get a flight for tomorrow."

"NO," she shouted. "I mean, no thank you, Miriam. I can handle this on my own. I don't want to take you away from your family now."

"You are my family."

"I know. I love you, too."

"Are you eating? Drinking water? Resting?"

"I'm not ill, Miriam."

"You might as well be. Grief is horrendous. Do you remember how it was when Mum and Dad died?"

"I wish I could have been there," Davonna said. She realized a moment too late that she'd spoken aloud.

"It wasn't your fault. You couldn't afford to come home, and John had to work."

Davonna was silent. She couldn't even murmur her agreement. John had to work. John always had to work. But they had more than enough money for her to fly to the UK. She had asked John to go home, with tears running down her face, after Miriam called to say their parents died within a day of each other.

John sat stoically behind his desk, looking at her as though she were something smelly he'd had to scrape off his shoe. 'We don't have the money for an extended trip to England.'

Davonna stood in front of him wiping her nose and wanting to scream. She couldn't face his depravity, his disdain for everything that mattered to her. He didn't ask if she wanted to rest or go to church or be alone. In fact he made sure he was close at hand — hovering. That weekend was a nightmare. John took her to bed every few hours so she couldn't concentrate on her grief or her memories. That week was lost to a haze of pain.

"I'm coming out as after Alba's graduation. I'll buy her a ticket to Paris for the weekend. Seamus and Flora can go with her."

"Miriam, please."

"No, I won't hear of it. Expect me in a week."

Miriam hung up a few minutes later after wrangling a "yes." Davonna put down the phone with a smile on her face, a weak smile, but a smile nevertheless. With Miriam here, perhaps John would leave, and things could change.

X

Πρώτη βοήθεια του θεού,δεύτερη του γειτόνου.

First aid by God, second by neighbor.

Savva was still at his desk when the clock struck five and everyone in the office bolted for the exits. He leaned back in his worn leather chair and stared blearily at the popcorn ceiling. The building fell silent around him except for the trickle of pipes and the rattling of windowpanes as the sea breeze caught them.

In his mind, Davonna Fitzroy sat in front of him, bowled over by... what? He couldn't put his finger on it. She didn't appear guilty. He'd seen so many of those; hiding their guilt under a mask of confusion and pain. He smelled the sweat that gathered in their armpits and trickled over their temples. They wanted to be found out. Their bodies betrayed them.

Davonna Fitzroy wasn't like the others. She was quiet, well dressed, and possessed a stern composure as though nothing he said or did would shock her. He hunched over his keyboard. The new MacBook was a fantastic addition to his new office. While the rest of the force used outdated PCs, Savva cruised along virus free.

With a start, he pounded the keys, fast for an older man. They hadn't done background information on Davonna. They had checked John, and he had a spotless record. Besides the valets at the hotel, there wasn't a bad word spoken about him. There were those who didn't enjoy his entitled, self-righteous manner, but they couldn't say what put them off. Booras mentioned that the beat cops didn't care for Fitzroy, but it was gossip.

It popped up on the screen, the whole of Davonna's life. The miracle of belonging to the European Union—information was centralized. At least for the police this had the effect of making the job easier—sometimes. Savva read and researched for an hour and a half, printed off his findings, shoved them in a yellow folder, texted his wife to say he would be home late, and made a beeline for the door.

At the height of summer, the sun wouldn't set for another two hours. Savva walked to the beach, found his favorite bench, tucked out of sight on a jumble of rocks and shaded by wild olive trees, with an unobstructed view of the sea. He thumbed through the file, holding the pages with one hand and taking notes with his left. He paused, the red pen in between his yellowed teeth, as footsteps came up behind him.

"Kalispera, Sir," Thanos said respectfully.

"Sergeant Argyris, come sit," he said and motioned to the spot beside him.

Savva enjoyed Thanos. After Booras pointed him out, he remembered the commendation letters from the public that the department had received. The lad was intelligent and Savva believed he would move rapidly through the ranks. The tourists and residents loved him. Thanos was handsome and easy-going and quick to help whether it was directions or carrying groceries. It was good for the police department to be liked.

Thanos tugged at the collar of his shirt and loosened his tie. He looked at the file and frowned. A word popped out to him, but not one word, two... a name. Davonna Fitzroy. Savva caught Thanos staring.

"Something you wanted to say?"

"Are you investigating Mrs. Fitzroy?"

"We have a duty to the law and to the deceased to explore all avenues."

"I understand, Sir. It's just—well I don't mean to be impertinent—but I don't believe she did it."

"Ah, but you don't understand. She had means and opportunity. By her own statements she placed herself home alone the week her husband was in London."

"But why, Sir? There isn't a motive."

"The mistresses would say otherwise."

Thanos balked. "More than one?"

"At this current juncture the count is two."

"Half the men of Lesvos would be dead if their wives considered infidelity a just cause for murder."

"We aren't talking about half the men of Lesvos. We are talking about one man, and an English one at that."

"Surely, we owe them..."

"We owe them what the law requires of us and our own conscience demands."

"I agree."

"How close are you to Davonna Fitzroy, Thanos?"

Thanos stared at the rippling tide of the sea. "She walks to Mitilini from her home on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. She goes to the shops and buys fresh produce. Sometimes we chat on the dock if she's early. She's quiet, but more private than anything else."

"Why does she come so often?"

"I've wondered that. My mother goes once a week. Maybe twice, but that's only if she's run out of something she needs. Davonna, she said they both enjoy getting fresh food. I don't believe I've ever once seen her take the car. A couple of days ago I drove her home because it was so hot. My uncle owns the bakery, he called and asked me to drive her."

"They want fresh produce, but she walks the whole way?"

"Yes, Sir. In the years they've lived here, I don't believe I've seen the husband more than twice. He's either at the hotel, the house, or out of town."

"Who does Mrs. Fitzroy have helping her? It's a massive house. Must be a beast to clean. My wife would smuggle in a cleaning lady whether we could afford it or not."

"No one, to my knowledge, and they don't have children."

"I see..."

But Thanos interrupted as though his superior didn't see. "She's fragile, like something awful happened to her once. Haunted. Preoccupied."

"There's no record."

"It might not have been reported, Sir. So many of them aren't."

"What about the break-in? You responded to the call."

"I did," Thanos said. "It was the middle of the night. Mrs. Fitzroy called dispatch, and I was closest. She met me at the door to the kitchen, and she stayed there while I checked the house. The windows and doors were locked. Then as I was nearing the office, Fitzroy's office, I heard a noise at the back of the house. The door to the terrace creaked open. I pursued him through the gardens to the back where the rock wall is. Whoever it was climbed it, but I didn't get over."

"Him?"

"It had to be. Near my height, not a lot of curves."

"So a man broke-into the house. Why? Did you find anything?"

"It's in the report, Sir. Mrs. Fitzroy and I checked the office, it seemed the intruder had spent his time there. We found a used staple on the desk, an arm broken off.

"A staple?"

"Yes, Sir," Thanos said. He pointed at the top left-hand corner of Savva's paperwork. "A staple."

"Nothing was missing? Nothing else left?"

"No, and we checked. Mrs. Fitzroy checked the house with me. There was no sign, other than the staple, that anyone was in the house."

"Aside from the fleeing figure."

"Yes, aside from that."

"What do you make of the staple?"

"I'd assumed a thick stack of documents. Like when you staple too many papers together and it doesn't go through... that's what it looked like."

"Who noticed it?"

"Mrs. Fitzroy."

"Why did she say it was important?"

"Because her husband left nothing on his desk. She said the room was always immaculate. And it was, Sir."

"Yes, the house is spotless," Savva said, stroking his beard.

Thanos looked up, compelled to say something, but couldn't find the words to explain his fears. He only hoped that Savva saw Davonna's innocence for himself. After a moment, Thanos turned his gaze to the ocean and the dimming sun.

"I understand she's your friend, Sergeant, but you must maintain an impartial professionalism," Savva said gruffly. With a rapid change of tone and a deep readying breath, Savva stood. "Well, my wife will be livid about my tardiness. Kalispera. Keep up the good work, Sergeant." He patted Thanos paternally on the shoulder, and strode off, the yellow file poking out from under his arm.

"Kalispera, Sir," Thanos said, and he twisted around on the bench to watch Savva trudge up the beach, turn right, and headed down the street.

Savva walked towards the police department. As he drew near the town square, he noticed that the bakery lights were still on. He knocked hard on the door even though it was past their normal hours. A man walked out with a frown on his face. Savva stood, his bulk taking up most of the doorway, and waited.

"We're closed," he said gruffly.

"Captain Savva. I'm investigating the death of Mr. John Fitzroy. You are?"

"Aris Argyris. I know nothing about Fitzroy's death."

"You must be Thanos' uncle. You're a friend of Davonna Fitzroy's?" Savva said.

Aris stood, un-perturbed, as though he was chewing his answer. "We are friendly."

"Then you won't mind if I come in and ask you a few questions," Savva said, sticking his foot between the door and the frame.

"I do mind. My partner and I are ready to go home. It's been a long day."

"It'll only take a few minutes, and I'm sure you'd prefer to answer now then in the morning when your bakery is full."

Aris' face darkened, for a moment Savva was sure that the shorter man was going to shove him out and slam the door. "Come in," he said gruffly. "And wipe your feet. We just mopped."

Savva studied the worn hardwood floors, which sparkled, in the fading light. They were pristine. His reflection shimmered and shifted in them. His sand-encrusted boots stood out like an ugly bridesmaid. He tried to wipe off the worst.

"The captain wants to ask questions about Davonna." Aris waved backwards at Savva as they walked into the office, which he and Spiros shared.

Spiros looked at the empty chair with a sigh. "What can we do for you, Captain?"

"I'm endeavoring to get a clearer image of Mrs. Fitzroy, of her movements, her state of mind, and her marriage."

"You'll need to ask her," Aris said with a hiss.

"I want your perspective, gentlemen, as her friends."

"We aren't as close as that. She stops by three days a week but she never stays for more than a few minutes. We put her order together early in the morning so she can pick it up and leave instead of having to wait in a long line. She pays once a month for the bread. The order never changes," Spiros said, his eyes full on the policeman. Aris stepped to one side of Savva and gave Spiros a small smile.

"Why does she walk? Why doesn't she drive?"

"She enjoys the walk," Aris said.

"And she says it helps keep her in shape," finished Spiros.

"I see. Did John Fitzroy ever come into your bakery?"

"No," said the two men at once.

"Why not?"

"He worked," Spiros said, cutting in. "He's a busy man."

"Other men have time for shopping."

"I think it was more 'divide and conquer'. Like most households do," said Spiros.

"Did she ever talk about him?

"Not that I can recall," said Aris. "She's a private person and we respect that."

"I see."

"What is this regarding? Mr. Fitzroy's death was an accident," Spiros said with a frown.

"We are pursuing every avenue open to us."

"What the hell does that mean?" Spiros yelled.

But Savva only smiled and peered out of the door at the expansive bakery beyond. Spiros and Aris shared a look. Spiros fidgeted with a pen in his pocket and Aris' hands balled into fists.

"Has Mrs. Fitzroy ever spoken about the state of her marriage? Has she spoken about being unhappy about any of John's behavior?"

"She's a private person, like we said," Spiros said.

Savva looked sideways at Aris, one eyebrow cocked.

Aris sighed. "I asked the same questions, Captain, and have given you her answers. If she was unhappy, if she needed help, she did not tell nor ask. We are as in the dark as you are. And presumably, there was nothing to say."

"You don't believe that," Savva said, it wasn't a question.

Aris moved to stand behind the empty chair where Davonna had sat, and placed his hands lovingly on the back. "It doesn't matter what I believe. Davonna is a good woman with a caring heart. She doesn't deserve this witch hunt."

"This isn't a witch hunt, Mr. Argyris. I am tasked with solving the question of what happened when Mr. John Fitzroy drove over the cliff and lost his life."

"What does that have to do with Davonna? She was at home," Aris said heatedly.

"Did she tell you that?"

"Yes, and also, her neighbor saw her. She'd been working at home all day. She didn't do anything to him."

"All day?" Savva repeated.

"Yes."

"I see."

"Is that all you have to say? You come here to dishonor the name of a good woman?"

"That's not my intention," Savva said with a bow. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen. I'll see myself out."

Spiros stood in the doorway, his face mottled with anger and frustration. He waited until the front door slammed to round upon Aris. "We should have never let him in."

"What did you want me to do? You know what he's like. He would have come in tomorrow while everyone's here."

"He'll talk to Ioannis. Why's he so happy to hear she was outside all week?" Spiros ploughed on.

"I don't know. Perhaps Thanos does?"

"Hmm," Spiros mused, "it might be worth a try. I doubt it though; he's just a sergeant."

"It wasn't an accident," Aris whispered.

"What wasn't an accident? That he waited until the customers were gone, and we couldn't escape?"

"No," Aris said in a quiet voice. "John Fitzroy's death. It wasn't an accident."

Davonna had only just dressed and pulled her hair into a low bun when the phone rang. Thinking it was Miriam checking in, she descended the stairs with a smile. It wasn't Miriam, but Captain Savva; who asked to come over at her convenience. Davonna hung up the phone and sat in the library. The room was cool even though the sun shone bright and full through the wall of windows.

Davonna settled into her favorite chair, drew her legs underneath, and tried not to ruminate about why Savva had called again. She phoned Sofia. Sofia was adamant she wanted the interview to take place at her office, but she said no, it would be fine; she wouldn't let Savva probe too much. Sofia sighed and thought it unwise, but she relented. Davonna put down the phone and stared at the garden.

In the silence, the grandfather clock's echoing clangs reverberated across the house. It was strange how noises faded into the background and yet others were so overbearing that naught else could be heard. Her heart joined in time with the massive clock as it sought to find an anchor of peace.

It fit that John's death hadn't brought peace into the cold home. When had peace been a part of her life before? John had sucked it all away, along with every happiness and piece of joy and bright ray of sunshine — beauty ceased to exist after she married him.

Davonna sighed and rubbed her eyes. She wished the day would go dark and she might sink into oblivion, never to have to muddle through the pain, which riddled her heart. But the doorbell rang, and she walked out of the shadows to the door.

"Come in, Captain."

Was his mouth always set into a permanent scowl?

"Kalimera, Mrs. Fitzroy," he said and followed her through to the drawing room and seating himself on the same blue Louis XIV chair, he'd occupied before.

Davonna sat opposite on the sofa, curled into the plush corner. "This is short notice, Captain. What may I do for you?"

Savva didn't respond immediately. Davonna looked exhausted, there were dark circles under her eyes, which couldn't be hidden by makeup. There was also something in the way she carried herself; Thanos was right, — was it defeat? Was it guilt? Or had he misunderstood entirely?

"I apologize. I don't like to barge in on people either." Davonna waited; her hands folded in her lap. "I'm afraid I have some distressing news, Mrs. Fitzroy. Our forensic department determined that the Morgan was tampered with."

"I don't understand."

"Someone conspired to murder Mr. Fitzroy."

The blood rushed from Davonna's face and her hands trembled in her lap. She tried to speak, but her throat closed as though someone was standing on it.

"Excuse me..." she whispered and ran for the nearest toilet.

Only bile came out though her stomach clenched and unclenched until she choked on the taste of it in her mouth. She swallowed some of it by reflex and it tore its way through her throat, leaving fire in its wake. The floor of the bathroom was deliciously cool and she slid down and rested her head against the tile. Every muscle and fiber of her body ached. Sweat and tears and snot dribbled across her face, and her hands shook so she could barely blow her nose with a wad of toilet paper.

Out there, sitting on her furniture, was the man who just said that John was murdered, ready to gauge her response. The spouse was always the first suspect, weren't they? And with Athena's damning words the hammer would fall. Davonna stuck out her hand and she pushed off the floor. The woman in the mirror was haggard, her face tinged with grey, and her hair hung in limp wet clumps. She pulled a spare bottle of mouthwash from under the sink and gargled, thankful at least to get it out of her mouth. Her throat was raw, and all she could think of was water. She turned on the faucet and drank from the pool in her hands—drank until she couldn't remember how many handfuls she'd poured, but it wasn't enough.

She left the bathroom, padding across the hall and back to the drawing room. Savva stood as she entered and held out a tall object, which caught the light. Only when she drew close, did she realize it was a glass of water. She took it gratefully.

"I'm sorry to have caused you distress, Mrs. Fitzroy. Are you well enough to answer questions?"

Davonna took a small sip of the cool water and set the glass down on a side table and nodded.

"The damage to the vehicle was done recently. Have you noticed anyone hanging around? Did anyone come to the house that wasn't supposed to have been here? Even people who had reason to? Perhaps in the last month?"

Davonna stared past Savva and tried to ease the ache in her throat. "Other than the burglary incident, no. There's rarely anyone but John and I here. Our gate is locked but the hedges aren't high. It wouldn't be difficult for someone to get over them."

Savva frowned. "There's only been yourself and Mr. Fitzroy here the entire month?"

"As I said, we are private people and John didn't like to entertain. We barely even see our neighbors. I might say hello to Ioannis as I walk into town, but that's it."

"Your husband didn't like to entertain?"

"No."

"And can you account for your whereabouts the last month?" Savva said as he took out a pad and pen.

"Just here and in the village. A lot of people saw me. I go on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday."

"Yes, I've spoken to others who say the same. But where else, Mrs. Fitzroy?"

"Nowhere else."

Savva looked up from his pad and blinked. "Surely you've gone out. Think now."

"I don't have to. All I need is here," Davonna said. The look on Savva's face troubled her. He frowned as though what she said couldn't be true.

"And the last week before your husband died?"

It was Davonna's turn to frown. "I've already told you. I was working in the garden. I had several tasks to finish."

"Yes, I remember; the list your husband wrote."

"The list we wrote," Davonna corrected.

Savva gave her a small smile which did not reach his eyes, "Oh, yes."

"I didn't leave the house all week. There wasn't any time."

"You can attest to the fact that no one was on the property for the last week."

"Only while I was awake."

"One more question, Mrs. Fitzroy, is the garage kept locked?"

Davonna frowned. "Not usually."

"I see." Savva leaned back against the cushions of the couch and stared at the ceiling.

Davonna's head spun, and she tried to piece together the puzzle that Savva was presenting.

Savva rose, "That'll be all for now, Mrs. Fitzroy. I'll let you know if I have any more questions."

Davonna stood, wholly confused. "You'll let me know what you find?"

"In so far as I'm allowed."

He walked out of the drawing room without a goodbye and closed the front door behind him, a dull thud. Davonna stood in the entryway and stared at the door. After a moment she walked back to the drawing room and stared out at the driveway. Savva put his hand to the handle of his car when he looked back at the house and his gaze fell upon Davonna at the window. He gave a little wave which she returned, and then got into his car and left. He didn't even spare a glance for the garage.

Davonna stood at the window, her mind turning over Savva's words. Her legs ached, but she stood there until she had pieced it together, what Savva was after and what had happened to John. The car was meddled with, and there were only two possibilities—her or some nefarious intruder. The latter didn't seem plausible since they rarely had visitors. Why did Savva ask about the list again? Did he believe her—that it was a friendly agreement between spouses about chores? Her parents had shared lists. Perhaps it was where she got the idea.

Whatever it was, every time they spoke, Savva stared at her as though he was trying to solve a puzzle in which certain pieces didn't fit. There were times Davonna was sure Savva knew—knew what John had done.

She turned from the window to face an empty house, but John's spirit (what else could she call it?) lingered, taunting her. He was inescapable, as easy to be rid of as the sky overhead. Reality fell into a cold ditty, and when it was done, she was a heap on the floor.

XI

Τι δε σε νοιάζει μη ρωτάς, ποτέ κακό δεν έχεις.

What doesn't concern you, don't ask about, and you'll never have bad things in your life.

Savva saw her standing at the window and waved. He couldn't help it. She forced that response. She was frail, a motherless deer at the side of the road, starving. Davonna waved back but didn't smile and he stepped into the car. He debated what to do.

Savva drove. It would raise Davonna's suspicions if he walked. He swung the black car out of the Fitzroy's drive and into their neighbors'. Savva looked at the house with a mixture of pride and incredulity. His countryman had amassed such great wealth and now relaxed into prosperity, but then again, only two people lived in this mansion, and to Savva, that was a waste.

Pink gravel crunched merrily under his feet as he made his way to the double door entrance. The bell rang throughout the house, but within moments the door opened, and Ioannis stood in the doorway with a dubious sideways glance.

"Kalispera, Sir, I am Captain Savva, and I am investigating the death of John Fitzroy. Might I come in an ask you a few questions?"

"Ioannis Dukas. Come in," he said and motioned Savva through the doors. "My wife is out."

Ioannis led Savva through the house and out the back onto a wide stone terrace. His bare feet made no noise on the stone floors and his grey linen pants swished like a lady's fan. On the terrace, statues adorned the corners where a half wall separated the patio from the lawn. A glass-topped table stood to the left side, under a thick blue umbrella. Ioannis motioned for Savva to sit.

"I'm glad to find you at home," Savva said as he relaxed into his chair. Ioannis smiled but remained silent. "You're no doubt aware of Mr. Fitzroy's recent death."

"I am."

"The Fitzroy's marriage, whatever Mrs. Fitzroy says—I do not believe it to be a happy one. Mr. Fitzroy was carrying on two affairs at the time of his death and there's evidence to suggest they were not his first. I therefore have a hard time swallowing the 'happy marriage' line."

"What you need to understand, Captain Savva, is that John Fitzroy was not an easy man. I am only his neighbor and I found the man grating after short periods of time. He could charm and be agreeable when it suited him. He made overtures to my wife in our own home. John only does that which serves his own interests—served his own interests."

"And your evidence?"

"We had a dispute over the property line. When the surveyors first said the line was too far on to my property he dug in his heels and wasn't bothered, but when a second survey found that the line was too far on his property, he was more than willing to take me to court to solve the matter."

"When was this?"

"Six years ago, or thereabouts. John Fitzroy wasn't an easy neighbor. I can't imagine he was any easier to live with."

"Can you explain?"

"Davonna is continually tired. The week before he died she nearly killed herself working outside in that massive garden. She worked from sunrise to sunset with one break. When I walked over; it was obvious she was suffering from heat stroke and dehydration."

"She's a hard worker."

Ioannis snorted. "Hard worker. She doesn't say as much, but she's petrified of him. I can't imagine what would have happened if she hadn't finished the garden."

"Do you have any proof of this? Has Mrs. Fitzroy said anything?"

"Why would she? In her eyes there's nothing to do. She kept her head down, toed the line, and hoped for the best."

"Mr. Fitzroy was abusive, according to you."

"I can't offer any proof, as I'm sure you're aware."

"No, but you have a privileged view into the Fitzroy's life that others do not."

"What about his mistresses? The girl at the hotel."

"What about her?"

"What does she say about Fitzroy?"

"I can't say," Savva said flatly.

Ioannis looked furious and Savva had the grace to grimace. "I wouldn't be so quick to discount a jilted lover."

"Is she jilted?" Savva asked.

"She thought John would leave his wife and move her to the big house; she's told the whole town. Then months passed by and still John didn't divorce Davonna. I'm sure she wasn't thrilled with his decision."

"Is it motive for murder?" Savva asked, as he leant back in his seat and looked at the pale blue sky.

Ioannis frowned. "You'd have to ask her. Motive for one person may not be motive for another."

"True, but there's a point where everyone breaks."

"Again, that point isn't universal." Ioannis' voice was hard and a steely glint in his eye flashed at Savva.

"True."

"You'll want to look into her background."

"Who do you mean? Athena Carras?" Savva asked.

"Have you heard who her father is?"

"Enlighten me."

"John's business partner, Anthony Goldstein."

"You don't say."

Savva looked ahead; but fumed inwardly. Booras was late again with pertinent information. A few well-placed threats about a move back to traffic might light a fire under his lazy sergeant.

"I'm sure you heard the rumors about dear old Anthony," Ioannis said with a wave of his hand.

"Again, enlighten me."

Ioannis leaned closer to Savva, his forearms rested on the tempered glass. "They say he was heavily invested in the hotel and with the current climate it isn't as profitable as it once was. There's the even quieter rumor that Anthony is involved with the mafía."

"The Greek mafía?"

"Don't look so shocked, Captain, every country has one."

"Do you have evidence to substantiate this?"

"No, but they wouldn't be rumors if I did."

A silence fell between the two men, and the minutes stretched out between them like a taunt rubber band. Savva tried to reason out Ioannis' anger, his righteous indignation, but it eluded him. He instead contented himself with looking around the grand garden.

Ideas rumbled through Savva's head like the ever-rotating door at the station. On the terrace of this house, in front of an intelligent man, he was worried about pushing Ioannis too far and rousing his suspicions beyond a point they couldn't be tapped down. He waited, listening to the sound of Ioannis' breath and pondered his next questions.

"You suspect her," Ioannis whispered.

"Suspect who?" Savva said airily. Although he knew he sounded pedantic.

"Davonna. You believe she did something."

"There's much to prove before anyone makes claims as to suspicions."

"You sound like a politician, Captain Savva. Any aims that direction?"

A vein in Savva's neck thumped and he turned red. "That's neither here nor there, although I'll do you the courtesy and tell you no."

Ioannis nodded, mollified. Savva stood, brushing his trousers flat.

"I'll take my leave, Mr. Dukas, thank you for inviting me into your beautiful home."

Savva walked to the front door, listening to the sound of Ioannis' quiet footsteps behind him. At the door, Ioannis held it open, and cleared his throat.

"She did nothing. She's a wonderful woman in a difficult position. Davonna doesn't have it in her to be a murderer."

"She is fortunate to have you as a friend, Mr. Dukas."

"You had better be damn sure of your facts before you act, Captain Savva."

Savva stepped onto the gravel but turned and drawled, "I always am."

Davonna had barely pulled herself off the floor when the doorbell rang again. She looked witheringly at the grandfather clock and the state of her silk blouse and contemplated ignoring yet another unwelcome interruption when a voice rang through the thick wood.

"Davonna, it's me, are you there?"

Ioannis' voice echoed in her mind like a tonic. She managed to walk to the door without toppling over.

"Hello," she said wearily as she motioned him inside.

"What's wrong?" Ioannis asked. He placed a thick hand on her shoulder and she tried to straighten her back.

"I'm tired, that's all."

Ioannis didn't seem to take her at her word and ushered her to the kitchen. "How about tea. I hear it's catching in England."

Davonna chuckled. "My mother used to say it was the cure for everything."

"Used to? Did she find something better?"

Davonna stared at his back as he bent over the sink to fill the kettle. "She died after we moved here. Both of my parents did."

"I am so sorry; how thoughtless of me."

"That's ok."

The kitchen fell silent as Ioannis stood by the black kettle, waiting for it to boil. Davonna rose and took out her best china, the white cups decorated with thin lines of gold, bands of pale blue, and small wreaths of dainty, green leaves. She bought them on a whim, and regretted the expensive purchase later. But soon she found that they brought her an immense amount of joy. She set them on the table now, and Ioannis poured the steaming water into the teapot.

They waited, the tea far too hot to drink, in companionable silence. Davonna stared out the window at the towering shrubs beyond and thought of home, where rain was plentiful, almost too much so, and the sun didn't beat down with such unrelenting ferocity.

"I hope you don't mind that I came over unannounced," Ioannis said, as soon as the tea cooled enough to drink.

"I don't," she said, taking a sip. The tea slid down her throat and filled her body with warmth. It kept the shadows at bay and she could imagine days that weren't infused with fear.

"Captain Savva came. I walked over as soon as he left."

"He was just here, too."

"You've got to be careful. John's death wasn't an accident, and he'll be looking for any excuse to bag easy prey."

"You mean he suspects me of murdering my husband."

"He didn't say it in so many words."

"I can't say I'm surprised."

"What do you mean?"

"Athena—his mistress from the hotel. She's spoken to him, and whatever it was; he's intrigued by it. I was alone at the house for the last week before he died. No one comes to our home. His car was tampered with and it shot off the road. We don't lock the garage, but I was here the whole time. I know what he's asking—between the niceties and the concerned façade."

"The whole situation is ridiculous."

"Do you think I killed him?"

"No. Now, don't get upset, but I believe Savva has more than you think he has."

"More what?" She froze with her teacup halfway between the saucer and her mouth.

"Savva asked me about you and John, about what I had witnessed as a neighbor. I believe he got the idea from others, but he suspects your marriage wasn't happy."

"What you mean, Ioannis?"

"There's no reason to protect him anymore."

"I'm not protecting anyone," Davonna snapped. Her cheeks flushed a brilliant red. She gripped the arms of her chair, her knuckles turned white.

"It won't fool him. He'll figure out what John was like."

Davonna heaved a breath and with tremendous effort lugged a smile onto her face. "John and I were happy. The way we lived... it worked for us. It's not for others to comment on the state of our marriage."

"That's not what I meant. I am your friend and I am on your side. But, Davonna, think about it. He knows you spent the last week working yourself to exhaustion to complete the work in the garden. He asked me point blank what I had seen, and I had to tell him."

"I'm a hard worker. I couldn't let the garden get into the state it was. It had nothing to do with John."

Ioannis stared at her and shook his head. Davonna leaned forward to grasp his arm. She had a faint memory of her mother holding her when she cried and she needed security. But he didn't flinch or pull away. Rather, he seemed to melt as he placed his fingers gently over hers.

"Please, don't let him win," Ioannis whispered, his eyes on the floor.

"Savva?"

"John."

The name hung in the air between them, like a knife suspended on a thin string, waiting to fall. Davonna tried to marshal her thoughts, to come back with a clever rebuttal, but in her heart she knew Ioannis understood who and what John was. He understood on a level she didn't. The observer. The watchful friend.

But if she kept up appearances, she wouldn't have to process the terrible memories. If she didn't have to process, perhaps they didn't happen at all. "John's dead. It's Savva we have to worry about."

"For now."

Davonna ached at the resignation and the pain in his tone. She pulled her hand back, but longed to ask him to hold her like a father might. It would be joyous to find oneself back in the arms of a capable, strong, safe man.

Davonna stood and held out her hand. "It was good of you to come."

Ioannis rose, and though he smiled, his pain and resignation was obvious. "I'll see you soon. Let me know if I can help."

He left, and the room went frigid. Davonna's stomach flopped as though she had missed a step along the way, as though the land on which she was standing wasn't stable. She stared out after Ioannis' retreating figure long after he turned at the gate and disappeared from sight.

Savva pulled into the police department parking lot and smacked the steering wheel. The conversations with Ioannis, Thanos, and the bakers rankled. They'd all said much the same. On the surface, Davonna Fitzroy didn't seem like the type. There was motive, because whatever she said, he didn't trust that her marriage to Fitzroy had been as rosy as the picture she painted. Then there was the car: kept in the garage at the house or in its designated spot at the hotel. The damage could only have occurred at one... or both of those two places.

Savva slammed the car door with a thud that echoed around the lot. He pulled his hand wearily over his face. Soon enough the brass would knock on his door, demanding answers and results. Just the threat, of such horror was enough to drive any good cop crazy.

With a heavy sigh, he slunk towards the department, around the mass of minuscule cars and crinkled piles of leaves in lonely corners. He ran into her, his mind on the leaves, on anything at all but a visit from his boss and the threat of the Inspector General.

"I knew I'd find you."

Savva looked up, annoyance clouded his mind. Athena... again. "What can I do for you?"

"I want to know when you'll arrest that woman."

"Are you referring to Mrs. Fitzroy?"

Here they were, going around the same set of crazy questions. Athena was the most ill tempered woman he'd ever met, and he took great pleasure in antagonizing her—conceivably more than he should.

"Yes, I am," she spat.

"I know it's difficult to comprehend, especially after a loss, but to arrest anyone, the police must have evidence that both a crime was committed and that our suspect is the person responsible."

"And you don't have it?"

"Not at the moment, which is as much as I'll comment."

"I know you know it wasn't an accident."

"And how, pray, do you know that."

"People talk, and I work where people talk a lot," she said with relish.

"How well do you know Mr. Fitzroy's business partner, Anthony Goldstein?" Savva said. He watched with pleasure as the pretentious, self-important smirk slid off her self-important face.

"He's... I..."

"Careful, Miss Carras. You wouldn't want to be caught out in a lie."

"He's my father," she spat. "But he didn't marry my mom."

"And are you close to your father?" Savva said, eyeing the Prada purse (a different style, a different color) swinging on her arm.

"No. He wasn't around when I was little."

"It must have been a shock when he bought the hotel with Mr. Fitzroy."

"I was twelve when he bought the hotel. I wasn't working yet."

"What do you know about their relationship?"

"My... father," she said, with a sniff, "rarely talks to me. He buys me nice presents and asks favors when he wants to cash in."

"What favors are those?"

"Like I'd tell you," she said savagely.

"Well, Miss Carras, it was a pleasure," he said and slipped by her.

Athena whipped around as he walked away. "I loved him, you know. We were going to start a new life! He promised. John's life was hell, and I made him happy. She got jealous, can't you see! She's jealous of what we had! Make her pay!" she said, screaming. She looked deranged.

Savva sighed. "Miss Carras, you weren't the only woman he had an affair with."

He fled the scene; sure he'd live to regret his outburst. But didn't she deserve a modicum of truth? He walked into the department, exhausted, and didn't even spare the time to glare and growl at the usual people. Apparently most of them saw this as a worsening development and slunk out of sight before he could unleash his pent-up anger on them.

"Kalispera, Sir," Booras said, jauntily as Savva slouched into his office.

"What are you so chipper about?"

Stelios slouched, but kept his smile in place. "I saw you talking to Mistress Number Two."

"I wasn't talking to her. She accosted me. Big difference."

"What did she have to say?"

"What have we done, switched roles? Is this twenty questions?"

"No, Sir," Stelios said. "I wanted to share what I've learned."

"Yes, and what is that? You didn't tell me who Athena Carras' father is. I had to find out from Ioannis Dukas," Savva spat. He leaned back in his chair and squinted at his sergeant. Booras was too chipper by far. "What's going on with you?"

"What do you mean, Sir?"

"This, whatever this is," Savva said, waving his hand.

"It's nothing."

"Try again."

Stelios took a deep breath, which still didn't displace his strange grin. "I'm proposing to my girlfriend tonight."

"Oh?"

"I'm nervous. Everything is turning to jelly: my legs, my stomach, my brain."

"That's normal," Savva said brusquely. "It'd go away if you'd focus on work."

"Yes, Sir," Stelios said, swallowing hard.

"Well, go on. What'd you find?"

"I've done background on Miss Carras, she's had prior run-ins."

"You're a horrible time waster, Booras. Don't dither this much over your proposal. WILL YOU MARRY ME? Nice and quick. Now get to the point."

Stelios blinked and nodded. "Athena Carras had a restraining order filed against her by another man; another married man. They'd been having an affair—the usual. Well the man finally realized that he wanted to stay with his wife and work out their issues. The trouble was, he'd told Athena, at the start, that he planned on leaving his wife..."

"He led her on, and then reneged," Savva interrupted.

"He did. Well she didn't take it well and followed him around, spent nights watching his house, she even broke in."

Savva raised his eyebrows. "Now that's interesting."

"Thought you'd think so. The only reason she wasn't slapped with hefty charges was because her former lover and his wife took pity on her. They believed it was a moment of madness, and they were moving back to Athens and didn't see the need for further action."

"So we have an obsessive mistress with a history of burglary," Savva said, trailing off. "Then there's the matter of her father."

"Her father?"

"Anthony Goldstein. He likes to give his daughter expensive presents and also likes to ask favors."

"Anthony Goldstein is her father?" Stelios asked, thunderstruck.

"According to her, he wasn't a big part of her life until recently."

"Could she have done it, Sir?"

"Done what?"

"Broken into the house; fiddled with Fitzroy's car?"

"I'm glad we've got a police officer's word there was an intruder that night, even if he is a friend of our suspect. Would he lie?"

"I don't believe so, Sir."

"To answer your question, it is plausible that Athena Carras did it. That's the problem with this case. It's so convoluted. Ioannis Dukas, and his wife, too, have motive, means, and opportunity. They hated John Fitzroy."

"And Davonna Fitzroy, herself."

"Yes, but no one other than John's mistresses seem to think her capable of murdering her husband."

"Athena was lied to again; maybe she snapped."

"Why not take out her anger on Davonna? She's the one standing in their way, don't you think?" Savva mused.

"I don't know, Sir. The previous time, she was furious with her lover. I don't think she even sees the wives as human; just little boxes men can set aside."

"What else do we know about her?"

"She has expensive taste. She was wearing Christian Louboutin stilettos today, and I noticed she had on a Chanel watch when she barged in here the first time."

Savva stared. "I have, fortunately, been blessed with a wife who isn't chained to the whims of fashion, and therefore I understood none of what you just said."

"The shoes cost almost 700 euro and the watch is 4,000."

"Not to mention the purses. She can't afford any of it on her hotel salary," Savva said. "It's either from her father, or Fitzroy bought them."

"Could be either, but we'd need to get a court order for Goldstein's financial details."

"We need to get them anyways for the hotel."

Savva leaned further back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. Booras fell silent, and this gave Savva a moment to think. The case was tangled, and yet he was sure the answer was staring him in the face.

"What's Athena's mental state?"

Stelios sighed, tasting the question. "She seems unstable. She's been hurt, and not for the first time."

"Which begs the question: what is she capable of?"

"Didn't Thanos say in his report it was a male intruder?" Booras asked, interrupting Savva's thoughts

"Athena Carras is tall, near Thanos' height. All you have to do is wear baggy pants and sweatshirts and no one's the wiser."

"Why would she break in? Why would she kill him—hypothetically, that is?"

"We need to ask different questions." Savva twirled his beard hair. "What would drive her to kill? What'd it get her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Was she overcome in a moment of passion? She has a rich father, she wasn't in desperate need of money ... what was it?"

"Her emotions got the best of her?" Booras offered.

"She has a stable job, nice expensive trinkets, but she's lonely. She wants more. Wouldn't John be the answer? She'd be a more likely suspect if it was Davonna Fitzroy who was dead and not John."

"The pair of them; they deserved each other."

"Fitzroy and Carras?"

"She was carrying on with married men! He was no better, Athena's young enough to be his daughter."

"We aren't the morality police, Booras."

"I know we aren't, Sir, just a comment."

Savva heaved a sigh. "I want to go home, get out of this sun-starved building."

"Sun-starved, Sir?"

"There aren't near enough windows. It makes me nauseous."

"All the time?" Stelios asked, endeavoring to keep his expression neutral.

"Yes, all the time!" Savva snapped. "Now here's what I want you to do: talk to some of Athena's friends and tell me if there's anything else suspicious, if she let any juicy nuggets fall about her affair with Fitzroy. I want the financials for the hotel and for Fitzroy. And don't make me wait long."

Stelios took out the same thick, black notepad he'd used at the hotel and took notes. Savva stared beyond him and focused on the wall. It was most likely a wild goose chase, looking into Athena Carras. Then again, what was it about a woman scorned?

An image of the two women popped into Savva's head: Athena with her expensive clothes and luscious hair and entitled attitude and Davonna with her sad eyes and quiet gliding movements.

"Sir?" Stelios said.

"What?"

"I'll be off then."

"Yes, go on," Savva said, waving him out of the office.

Stelios bowed his head and walked back to his desk, leaving Savva to stare at the beige wall.

With a start, Savva leapt from his chair. The phone on his desk went off like a twenty-one gun salute. "Savva," he barked into the phone.

"Alexandros Savva, you'd better have a good reason for not answering my calls."

Savva smiled at the warm, annoyed, voice of his wife. "I'm sorry, I got caught up in work."

"Oh, you're still at the office, good, can you get a bottle of wine on the way home? An Albariño would do."

"What are you making?" Savva asked. Flashbacks of the bouillabaisse tore through his mind. Perhaps he'd pick up a sandwich on the way home.

"Calamari."

"Delicious." No sandwich necessary.

"Hmm. It'll be ready in twenty minutes."

Savva said goodbye, grabbed his coat and briefcase, and locked his office door. The hallways and squad rooms were bathed in an orange half light and silence reined over the normally bustling floor. It might have been unsettling for anyone else, but for Savva, who spent much of his time in the darkened office searching for answers, it was easier to work in silence.

He walked outside and took what felt like his first easy breath in weeks. The wind blew in from the sea and brought with it a faint coolness. In place of the overwhelming heat, there was now relief and calm. The streets were quiet; a Vespa passed by, the girl clinging to the black leather driver. It was as if the whole island relaxed with him.

Savva walked up to his car, key in hand, but hesitated. Why waste time sitting in a car? He turned on his heel and started off down the street, striding towards the liquor store. The sounds of his footsteps echoed off the narrow streets and the colored signs advertising boat tours and barbers and seafood stalls.

He paid for the wine, miraculously without being stopped to chat, and resumed his walk home. Two teenagers, rapping an American pop song, passed by. They hailed Savva with head jerks and smiles, and then strode by, tossing Coca-Cola bottles between them. Their happy conversation fell away as Savva walked on.

When he turned down his own street, with its small, front gardens and pastel colored homes with chipping plaster, he wanted to turn around and walk more. The silence, the perfect lack of anyone needing anything, was as rejuvenating as fishing off a deserted pier. More so in fact—you didn't have to worry about coming home empty handed or bad weather or sunburn.

But inside the pale green house, which blended strangely with the front garden, was a woman who shone like a lighthouse beacon. Every day for thirty-four years he looked forward to going home at night. It didn't matter if it was the easy years of early marriage, or the torrent of emotions and hardship when their daughter was young, or these older days when the house was quiet. Shayma was as devoted, as energetic, as beautiful as she had been all those years ago.

"I'm home," he called out as he pushed open the white door. The paint flaked off in chunks, and it annoyed him.

"In here, Alexandros," Shayma called out.

Savva kicked off his shoes and nudged them into the hallway closet, hanging his coat on a hook by the door.

"I got the wine," he said, producing the bottle with a smile.

"I didn't hear your car, " Shayma Savva said, standing in the kitchen, pulling out plates and silverware, her back to him.

He smiled at the sight of her straining on tiptoe; her blue dress pulled up over her knees, ending at the raised outlines of horizontal scars on the back of her thighs. She set two crystal wine goblets on the kitchen island and motioned for Savva to pour. Her hips swayed as she set down the glasses, she wiped her hands on her flowery apron, and walked back to the kitchen, her long, braided, black hair swinging from side to side.

"I walked."

"Are you going to mind walking in the morning?"

"I don't mind."

"Sit, you've had a long day."

Savva put an arm around her, squeezed her shoulders, and went to the table. The kitchen table overlooked the back garden, and the evening light poured in like sweet nectar.

"How did it go last night?"

"Oh," she said with a sigh, "not much happened. There weren't any boats. But we had our hands full with meals."

Shayma brought over platters of food and set them on the table. Savva balked. Somehow, after she started helping with the refugees, she had forgotten that only two of them ate dinner. There was enough calamari for ten.

"You don't have to eat it all," she said. She dished out calamari, her long tapered fingers clutching the wooden spoon. "Whatever's leftover, I'll take with me for a midnight snack for the girls and I."

"Are you holding up?" Savva asked as she heaped food on her plate. He watched with a frown, the way her she winced as she bent over, and at the deep, dark bags under her eyes, which never left.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sleeping eight hours?"

"Just eat."

Savva did as he was told, tearing a piece of pita in two and loading it with calamari. It melted in his mouth in a burst of buttery warmth. He slumped back in his chair; from the corner of his eye he could see Shayma smiling.

"What's going on with the case?" she asked after a few minutes of silence.

"Nothing, it's utter confusion," he said morosely, setting his fork down with a sigh.

"Well, what do you think?"

Savva took a long drink of wine. He twirled the stem between his fingers, and contemplated the long legs snaking down the glass.

"It's not clear cut... how's that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Half the island could have had a motive to kill him, but half the island didn't kill him. One person did, or maybe two."

"Haven't you always told me the most obvious answer is usually the right one?"

"Yes, but it doesn't hold for this case. Imagine for a moment: John Fitzroy; serial philanderer, successful hotel owner, rich ex-pat. The only people I spoke with that liked him were his business partner, who may or may not have connections to the Greek mafía, and a few young women at the hotel. Booras says most of our own constables don't even like him—thought he was too standoffish, the typical foreigner who comes here, takes jobs away from hardworking Greeks, and then thinks himself too good to socialize with them."

Shayma patted his hand. It reminded him sharply of what she used to do with their daughter. He choked back a sob.

"You can't read into whether someone was disliked," she said sagely.

"That's not what I meant," Savva shot back. "I mean he was almost universally disliked—and not just disliked, it bordered on hatred. Certainly for the Fitzroy's neighbors, Ioannis Dukas and his wife."

"The Dukas' are wonderful people, Alexandros. They contribute hundreds of thousands of euros to the island's refugee work. They always hire local carpenters and gardeners and craftsmen to work on their home or properties, and Theodora was a successful psychiatrist."

Savva rose, went to the sink and filled a tall glass with water from the tap. He drained it and filled it again before returning to the table. Shayma looked at him, expectantly.

"Just because someone is liked doesn't mean they're good."

"I meant; why would they give up so much, threaten their way of life, to kill John Fitzroy?"

"Because of what they'd seen—or thought they'd seen. They were on good terms with Davonna Fitzroy. I questioned Ioannis about it, and he admitted that she'd worked herself almost to death the week Fitzroy was in London. I think the Dukas' knew or suspected Fitzroy was abusive and wanted to protect Davonna."

"Do you have any proof?"

"No." Savva drained his glass of wine. "Other than a break-in at the house two weeks before Fitzroy's murder. The burglar escaped into the neighboring property."

"Alexandros," Shayma said, putting her hand over his, "you'll figure it out."

Savva smiled, her trust and faith in him was the only reason he'd succeeded in police work. She'd always had such a clear view of his talents and of the cases he'd dealt with. Without her, where would he be? He'd probably still be a sergeant, bemoaning his lot, and drinking himself to oblivion.

"Can I ask you a question?"

She leaned back into her chair, a proud expectant smile on her face. "Of course."

"Would you kill me if I beat you?"

Shayma blinked and cocked an eyebrow at him with a thinly veiled look of disdain. "Are you thinking of starting?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Savva said. "Would it be enough to drive you, or another woman, over the edge?"

"It's not new, Alexandros Savva."

"I'm just asking. What would it take?"

"I'd assume years of abuse," she said. "Do you have proof that Davonna Fitzroy was being abused by her husband?"

"No."

"Why would she kill him?"

"Insurance money?"

"Pfft," she said. "What about his mistresses? They'd have more of a reason to kill him. He wasn't leaving his wife, if he was like any other man, he was leading them on, making them think they were important, using them, and then he took it all away. It's nice to have hope that a person will change, but when that hope is gone... things go desperately wrong."

"But," Savva plodded on, "the most obvious answer is that Davonna Fitzroy killed her husband. She had access to the garage and had a full week alone in the house, which was ample time to tamper with the car."

"Didn't he drive the car to the hotel every day?"

"Yes," Savva conceded. "And before you ask, no, there weren't any security cameras."

"If you can't prove that the car wasn't tampered with at the hotel, then you have a wide hole through which her counsel could rip the case apart."

"It's so encouraging talking to you..."

Shayma laughed. "You knew all of this before."

"It's not that. It's just when a man goes home to talk to his wife about his day, he hopes she'll pat him on the back, tell him he'll figure it out, stroke his ego."

Shayma bit her lip, leaned over, patted him awkwardly, and then doubled over with laughter. Savva glared at her. When she righted herself, streams of tears ran down her face and she almost fell out of the chair again, her whole body shook with mirth.

"I... do... I... am sorry," she choked out between howls of laughter.

"Right," Savva said, crossing his arms over his chest in derision, which only made Shayma laugh harder. "I am thrilled to be your fount of joy."

"You're priceless," she hiccupped.

"So no ego stroking?"

"Not from me. Why don't you go get yourself a mistress?"

"And end up murdered? No, thank you."

Shayma winked conspiratorially and checked her watch. "I'd better be going. Do you want more calamari?"

"No, thank you. You might have poisoned it. I don't want to risk my life further."

"I'm too hot-blooded to poison you," she said, with a wink. "You don't mind do you, you would say if you did? I'd stop."

"Are we still talking about murder?"

Shayma took a deep breath, "The refugees. I go out more nights than I'm home."

"Don't lie."

"I'm not."

"You wouldn't stop," Savva said. "And you shouldn't. No matter what I or anyone else thinks, you're doing great work and you're saving lives."

"I don't know."

"I do," Savva said. He placed a hand on his wife's thin, tired shoulders. "You have a heart of pure gold. Do your work. I'll be sleeping. Anyways, it's not like you need my permission to do anything."

Shayma's eyes watered, her lip trembled, and for a moment Savva glimpsed the young fiery woman he'd married, the woman who wanted to change the world. With overwhelming emotion, he realized she was. Every coat she handed out, every hand she held, every baby she rocked though the night so its mother could sleep, every meal she fed to tired and terrorized people: that was world-changing. She was utterly magnificent, and though he wished more people knew and saw it, but the world's opinion didn't matter. She'd always done it for God anyways, and she took great pleasure in knowing he was always watching her.

Savva pulled himself upright and back into the present. Shayma was taking a load of dishes to the kitchen. She brought back a glass bowl and an orange lid and spooned in the leftover calamari. She smiled vaguely at him, as though he was now far from her mind.

"Would you like me to go with you tonight?"

Shayma looked up from putting the leftovers into a padded lunch box. "You work tomorrow."

"I don't mind. I could go for a few hours."

They walked out of the house, hand in hand, fifteen minutes later. The kitchen was tidy; the dishes put away, the hallway light left on for when Savva came back. They made their way to the beach where Shayma and her friends watched for boats. He apologized for leaving his car at the police department but Shayma said she enjoyed the walk.

It was midnight, a fog settled around the streetlights, creating strange effervescent haloes, when she sent him home. He hitched a ride with a passing constable and stepped back into the house; distinctly unhinged. Aside from the sole light on in the hall, the house was dark and silent and empty. There were no remnants of Shayma's delicious cooking or her unbridled laughter, no sign that two people had enjoyed each other's company.

Savva sat at the table and stared across at Shayma's usual chair. Her words echoed through is mind, the mistresses having as clear a motive as the wife, the hotel parking lot through which any good barrister would rip holes in a case, and the break-in at the Fitzroy house. Frustrated, Savva pulled his hands through his hair.

But something niggled at his mind. Davonna's behavior didn't fit; she wasn't being honest. He needed to know more about her. He needed to search the house. This wouldn't be the case that slipped through his fingers unsolved.

VII

Πολλοί συγγενείς, λίγοι λίγοι.

Many relatives, little by little.

Savva's feet rested on his desk the next morning. He was ignoring the abyss of paperwork before him, when the door swung open. Booras poked his head in.

"What is it?" Savva barked. He pulled a hand across his face, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"It's Colonel Kleitos. He wants to see you."

"What the hell for?"

"I'm not sure, Sir."

"The devil you are."

"Ten euro it's the Fitzroy case, Sir."

"Kleitos wants to sidle on in and check on me like my mother."

"I'm not sure about that, Sir."

"Good God, man, don't we pay you to have a brain?"

"Not to have opinions about our top brass' inner workings."

"What a frightening prospect," Savva said with a feigned shudder. "Are you still here?"

Booras grimaced and beat a hasty retreat.

"Booras!" Savva barked.

He came running back in, his face inscrutable. "Yes, Sir?"

"What'd she say?"

Stelios stared owlishly back. "I've been working on Athena Carras' past, there isn't any new information yet..."

"Not her," Savva said, rolling his eyes. "Your girlfriend."

"Oh! She said yes," Booras said, a wide grin broke over his face and he blushed crimson.

"Good," said Savva. "But I wouldn't have given you the day off if she said no."

"I didn't think you would, Sir."

"When's the wedding?"

"She hasn't decided yet."

"Don't let her think too long."

"Why?"

Savva considered Stelios, he pointed at the man's chest. "What does a man give up when he gets married?"

"Not much, Sir... except being a bachelor."

"That's right. Men give up being alone, making decisions alone, sleeping alone. He exchanges it for a beautiful, loving woman; not a poor trade. Now what does a woman give up?"

Stelios hesitated, "Um..."

"Now come on, Booras, you're smarter than that. This is important."

"Her last name?"

"Is that it?"

"I... I don't know, I hadn't thought..."

"A woman gives up a great deal. Independence means more to a woman than it does a man, since culturally, she's the submissive one. She gives up her family and cleaves to her husband. She gives up her body, to bear children into her husband's family. She gives up her career most times. She gives up her home, all she knows, to be with you." Savva paused, Stelios backed up a full step. "That's why I'm saying don't let her think about it for too long, because she may come to realize you aren't worth it."

"Are you saying I shouldn't marry her?"

Savva rolled his eyes dramatically. "I've been married for thirty-five years to a saint of a woman, and I still don't understand why she stays. What I am trying to tell you is: honor her sacrifices. Honor her every single day."

Booras nodded, lost for words.

"Enough chat, get back on Athena Carras." Stelios hurried from the room like a shot. "Booras!" Savva said, stopping the sergeant for the second time.

"Sir?" Stelios stood in the doorway, petrified of stepping back in.

"I'll expect an invitation, shall I?"

"I'd be honored if you and Kupia Savva would come."

Savva leaned back an inch or two and blinked. He was on the verge of making a snappy retort, his mouth open to respond, but he waved his hand and dismissed Stelios.

Savva leaned back in his chair and stared at the dusty beige ceiling. The sight of Stelios' face made him chuckle. Did the boy know what he was getting himself into? Did John Fitzroy know? Had he honored the sacrifices his wife had made? Had he ever known what she'd given up?

What was it about her that bothered him? She had access to the garage. She had a motive because of her husband's infidelity, and she was the only one at the house the last week. It was enough time and privacy to tamper with the car. But how could she know the brakes would give out at the exact moment? They could have gone out as soon as Fitzroy pulled into the hotel lot or his own driveway? Did she have sufficient expertise to manage it or was it luck?

Then there was her demeanor. She'd almost collapsed when he'd told her Fitzroy had been murdered. He'd even heard the sound of her retching from across the house. Was it feigned? She'd been so calm at the accident site and even leaned over the wall to have a good look at the mangled Morgan.

Savva pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes, shutting out the light. Had he missed a crucial piece of the puzzle? After decades of service was he losing his edge? Was it time for a younger man to step in? Was that what the Colonel wanted to talk to him about? It had been in the press, the unfortunate death of a British ex-pat. It was by sheer happenstance they hadn't gotten wind of the recent developments. Savva couldn't count on it remaining the case for long. He grunted and shoved the green Fitzroy case files into a thick worn briefcase. What was it about Davonna? Who was she?

Savva tramped down the hall, scattering uniformed and plain-clothes officers alike. He didn't notice them, and many an officer wondered why he didn't scowl and yell. Up two flights of stairs and across a much quieter hall, he strode, until at last he came to a halt before Colonel Kleitos' receptionist.

"He's waiting for you, Captain," the young man said, before Savva could open his mouth.

The corner office into which he entered was spacious and quietly grand, with long, thick burgundy drapes at the windows and a gold plated coffee cart in the corner; Savva always suspected that one jar at the back held gin instead of coffee beans.

The man sitting behind the ornate desk hung up the phone with a dull clack. He beckoned to Savva and pointed to a hard-backed chair in front of the desk. Colonel Kleitos was a tall, thin man with an impressive black beard, not out of place on a Russian tsar, and distant, unfocused eyes.

"Kalimera, Captain."

"Kalimera, Colonel."

"I don't have much time today, so let's get to it. Where are you at on the Fitzroy case? I'm sure the story will go viral at any moment. I'd like us to preempt that and have a suspect, preferably in police custody."

"As you know we recovered both the body and the car. John Fitzroy died of a combination of blunt force trauma to the skull and suffocation due to drowning."

"Yes, go on."

"The car yielded more information. Our forensic team determined that the brake lines were damaged, which means they took a while to fail. We cannot give an exact time the lines were tampered with, but the damage happened 'recently.' We must resolve that fact before the case gets to court."

Kleitos cut him off. "I want more than what's in the reports. Whom have you talked to? What have you not put in the report?"

Savva took a breath. "I've spoken to several people acquainted with the Fitzroy's, well if not John, then Davonna. One of our sergeants is an acquaintance of hers. The consensus suggests that she's a likable woman, but private. We know little about John Fitzroy other than the fact he rarely spoke or interacted with locals. One of his mistresses, Athena Carras, who works at the hotel, is adamant his wife made his life a living hell. She claims Fitzroy showed her a list of big ticket items, demands which Mrs. Fitzroy had written out for him to buy while he was in London. I put the picture Miss Carras took in the file. While her testimony is intriguing, it clashes with every other conversation I have had regarding Davonna Fitzroy. Everyone else I spoke to has naught but praise for her."

"But?"

"When I took her to the site where the wreckage of her husband's car was, she hardly reacted. It was as if she didn't understand it. Maybe it was expected—if she is our perpetrator. She's confusing." Savva bit his lip.

He hadn't intended to say the last sentence aloud. Kleitos pounced. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Sir," Savva started, eager to buy himself time, "I couldn't testify to it in court. One moment her eyes close off as if all feeling and sense of self disappears and she's a shell. Then, and this is disconcerting, she overflows with emotion. I can't say what emotion, but at those times... she looks like she's drowning."

The Colonel leaned back, mirroring Savva's posture. The two men stared not at each other, but past, their gazes searching an invisible crime scene. "Psychiatry has its place. We can learn a lot, going with our instincts. Is she our killer?"

The question came fast, but Savva was prepared for it. "I'm not sure, Sir. I'm getting a warrant for the garage. It's the most likely spot for the damage to have taken place since the vehicle was only ever there or in the staff-parking garage at the hotel—which I'll check. Davonna Fitzroy is an interesting personality. Don't rule her out."

"She's a suspect, regardless of what others say about her. Get your warrants and your evidence and charge her."

Savva recognized the dismissal.

"Go back and talk to Ioannis Dukas. Speak to him, but be wary. He's influential and could make our lives difficult. But he's a strong judge of character."

"I'm not sure I follow, Sir. He was clear about Mrs. Fitzroy when I spoke to him last."

"And you didn't consider he might've taken matters into his own hands? If he suspected abuse?"

"It's possible, it's just that others have much stronger motives."

"I'll put this bluntly, Savva, go find out if he was having an affair with Davonna Fitzroy."

Savva nodded, "Understood, Sir."

"And, Savva?"

"Yes?"

"Finish this before the Inspector General lays into the both of us."

"Yes, Sir."

Davonna left the house in the mid afternoon two days later. It wasn't as difficult to drive the ostentatious car to the ferry dock, as it had been to drive to the hotel. She opened the gate and turned left. She was soon amongst a long line of traffic. She parked under a tall black, four-bulbed street lamp. Its dull white covers were filled with spiders and flies, which lay heaped on the bottom. Across the port, just visible in the gaps between vessels, was Mitilini's bronze statue of liberty: the young girl, with her olive branch crown who perpetually rose out of the water triumphant.

The vast ferry drew ever closer, and the lethargic waves of the Aegean lapped against the hull like a weary welcoming committee. Davonna pulled a bottle of water from her purse and finished it in ten deep gulps.

The ship bounced against the dock with a dull reverberating thud, and within five minutes passengers hurried from the mouth of it, bowing their heads against the heat. Davonna shaded her eyes, scanning the crowd for Miriam. But as wave after wave of travelers passed her, she frowned, a tight knot forming in her chest.

Then, in a gap, amidst harried passengers, came Miriam, striding between two ferrymen. Her baggage bumped and rolled behind her. She chatted animatedly, and the two men hung on her every word, one of them tripped over an orange cable and then looked around, hoping she hadn't noticed. The strange trio stopped at the blue and yellow terminal sign. Miriam shook their hands with an effervescent smile and set her baggage rolling again. Davonna licked her lips and moved to intercept her sister. Miriam Moray sauntered over, a tall, willowy woman whose prematurely greyed hair fell in rivulets down her back. She walked like a thinner, fitter version of Winston Churchill.

"Davonna, I had no idea it would be so hot!" Miriam said. She took off her hat and fanned her face.

Miriam was wearing blue trousers and a simple white t-shirt half tucked into her pants. While Davonna worked hard to dress well and be cognizant of what was flattering on her figure; Miriam had none of these problems. Even as a child she had dressed like Coco Chanel, effortlessly.

"Those are cotton trousers, aren't they?"

"Cotton blend."

She tried to catch Davonna's eye, but Davonna turned and gestured to the car. Miriam raised her eyebrows but deposited her luggage in the boot and sat on the leather seat with good grace.

"How are Alba and Flora?"

Miriam smiled as she swiveled her head from side to side to drink in the white stucco buildings with orange shingles and palm trees that flashed by. "Flora is spending the summer holiday volunteering for the Scottish Trust and Alba had a lovely graduation. I am so proud. Now all she wants to do is relax before university, but Seamus is worried."

"He's having a hard time?"

"He loves her more than anything in the world, and Oxford worries him. I always believed it was my job to raise her to operate in society, teach her what she needs to survive, and make sure she knows she can come to me with any problem. If I did all that, she'd be okay. She'd be safe and be informed. Seamus doesn't like it and retorts with: 'she's so vulnerable' and 'what if a guy takes advantage of her?' Oh the idea of that and what else she will face. The world hasn't changed much since we were young. The difference is: I can't do any more. I've raised her to the best of my ability and now she must fly."

"How are you so logical?"

"I'm not callous!" Miriam snapped. "I know what it's like for a young, eager woman in the world. And I do worry, but I can't let it seep into my soul or I won't be able to do my job in the meantime."

"Miriam, I'm not judging you. I envy you. She's a wonderful girl. You raised her well."

"It wasn't me," Miriam sighed, she slumped back against the seat and laid her head on her palm. "She's been kind and good and respectful since the day she was born. She's a rose and I'm a thorny, thick stem holding her up for the world to see."

Davonna put her hand over Miriam's. She heaved a sigh... just to touch another person, a person she trusted and loved, was priceless.

"I'm so glad you came," she whispered.

"I'll always come."

They sat in silence as Davonna coaxed the car up the hill towards the house. Miriam looked around eagerly as they wound up from the sea, which spread out before them for miles like a thick carpet of blue.

"Goodness, it's a large house. Your pictures didn't do it justice."

"It wasn't my idea. John was adamant we needed room to spread out and a garden to enjoy."

"Well, you have both in ample supply."

"I spent years bringing the garden back to life. I hope it'll pass muster."

"Mum would have loved it."

"Yes."

Davonna parked the car at the front of the house and helped Miriam through with her baggage. The front hall was cool and a relief after the short walk in the hot air. Miriam was polite but didn't spare a glance at the ornate decor and exquisite furniture.

"It's lovely," she said, as Davonna showed her to the spare bedroom.

Miriam placed her bags on the window seat with a thump. Davonna sighed. She had to go back to the master bedroom. Maybe she'd make a bed on the floor.

"I said it's lovely," Miriam repeated.

"Well, why don't you get settled? I'll make tea and we can sit in the garden."

Miriam took a deep breath and stopped Davonna with a warm hand on her arm. Her eyes grew soft and she bit her lip. "We need to talk about John."

VIII

τα ράσα δεν κάνουν τον παπά.

A cassock doesn't make someone a priest.

Davonna walked downstairs, laying a tray with tea and scones, clotted cream, jam, cold cuts and cheese. She tucked napkins under the pot as Miriam's voice drifted the length of the long hallway.

"Davonna, where are you?"

She wiped her hands on a tea towel and jogged out to the hall. Miriam stood by the staircase; her hands on her hips, a half bemused frown on her face. Davonna led her through to the kitchen, picked up the tray, and they walked out, through the sunshine, into the garden.

Miriam stood in abject wonder, drinking the expansive grounds, her eyes roving over the cascading wisteria and the endless shades of green.

"Did you plan this yourself?" Miriam asked, as they sipped their tea.

"I remembered what Mom wanted. I wanted it to be a sanctuary, with little hidey-holes for escape."

"Did you use them often?"

"No."

"I wouldn't blame you if you did. The place is too wonderful to resist."

Davonna smiled and leaned back into the chair's thick grey cushion. In the shade of the gazebo, the fan whirling like mad above, Lesvos turned into paradise. How enjoyable to sit in silence without a sliver of fear or apprehension. She looked across the exquisitely trimmed borders of gardenia and peonies, and the riot of wisteria-covered arches and the white-pebbled walkways, drinking in the aroma of the lazily drifting rosemary with pleasure.

"What did they say?"

Davonna struggled out of her wanderings and turned. "What did who say?"

"The police, is there anything new?"

Davonna sat for a moment. She took a sip of tea to give her time to gather her thoughts. "Only what I told you. I'm sure they have more."

"You have to be proactive. You can't sit around and wait for the police to come to you. Have you engaged a solicitor?"

"Yes."

"Is she any good?"

"Yes, she is. But I've been cooperative... I don't want to appear guilty."

"You're the furthest thing from guilty."

"You didn't hear what his mistress said about me. She spoke to Captain Savva. He doesn't trust me."

"There's a large divide between distrust and being a suspect."

"I can't explain it. I saw it in his eyes when he came and told me that John was murdered. I didn't react the way he expected."

"Are you glad John's gone?"

"I... I'm not sure," she said, but she drew herself together, her shoulders lifted, and her eyes became flat. "No, I'm not glad he's gone."

"Why?"

"I'm on my own now."

"It can be a good, Davonna. You're still young. You can sell this house, move back to England; go back to work!"

"My job won't be there still. I left that life years ago. I enjoy it here. The garden is perfect, and I enjoy the people. Somehow I made friends."

"The UN would give you your position back in a heartbeat, but I understand why you like it here. It's warm. It's a beautiful home. The people are nice."

"Beyond that, I'm not the same person who left the U.N. Not anymore."

"What do you mean? You're a talented linguist."

"It's not talent," Davonna said, in a painful whisper.

"What is it?"

"I used to be... never mind."

"Davonna," Miriam stretched out her hand, " you can tell me. There's no need for secrets anymore."

"What secrets?"

"That John was unkind to you."

An uncomfortable heavy silence fell in the space between them. They both stared ahead as if any eye contact would ignite the tension. Davonna tried to act as though the statement didn't matter, but memories, horrors flooded her mind, and she was once more the plaything of a dangerous man. "He did his best."

"If he did, he wouldn't have had an affair."

"I tried to do my best for him and he looked for more."

"Davonna it's not your fault he had an affair! It's his."

"That's not how it feels. If I'd been better, more willing, been more adventurous..."

"Are you talking about sex?"

"Not just sex."

Miriam sat mute beside her, then with a sharp intake of breath; "What do you mean 'more willing?'" She turned to stare at Davonna, pain and anger boiled in her eyes.

"Sometimes they want... more."

"No, Seamus knows damn well when to let his plans go. Did he take advantage of you?"

"A husband can't take advantage."

"No means no. No matter what the arrangement is."

"Miriam, please, let's enjoy the day."

"I didn't come to enjoy the day. I came here to support you."

"Stop."

"No."

"Yes, Miriam, stop digging."

"How can you ask that; you're my little sister?" Miriam choked.

"I'm fine."

"You're not. He raped you didn't he; and more than once."

"It's not rape."

"So he did."

"I didn't say that."

"Davonna, any normal woman would have slapped me for saying that, and you're holding a cup of tea like I told you the sky is blue."

"What do you want?" Davonna cried. The teacup trembled in her hands and she put it on the saucer. The china clinked merrily, mocking them both.

"I want to help you. I want you to tell someone, anyone, what he did to you."

"Miriam, you don't understand. The truth will condemn me."

"What do you mean? The truth is always the best option."

"No, no it's not."

"You mean... dear lord... is it motive?"

"I had access to the car. He left for a week; it's more than enough time."

"But you don't know a thing about cars."

"It's old. You don't need to know much; just a few Google searches," Davonna explained.

Miriam shook her head and stared, unseeing, at the garden in front of her. "Tell someone."

"No."

"If you don't, and you're charged and put on trial, it'll all come out. They'll find out. If it looks like you tried to hide information, it'll look much worse. What is it pundits say? The cover-up is always worse than the crime."

"I'm NOT covering anything up."

"Oh, stop bleating."

"What's wrong with you," Davonna screeched, her voice brittle. She looked at Miriam as though for the first time.

Miriam rounded on her with much the same glare. "I am here to protect you. How about helping?"

"I want to lie down," Davonna said, taking Miriam's half-drank tea and putting it onto the platter.

She strutted inside and plunked the rattling tray on the kitchen table and, for a fleeting moment, imagined throwing every single china cup, pot, and saucer at the wall, and of the wonderful release it would provide. But the awful image of her gorgeous china in shards on the floor, never to be whole again, broke her heart. She collapsed on to the bench and dropped her head into her hands.

The kitchen door creaked open. Davonna jumped, hiding her hands behind her back. Miriam slid through the door, a weak smile on her pale face. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"That's ok."

"I wish you would speak to someone. It isn't healthy."

"Life didn't turn out like I thought."

"There's still time to figure this out."

Miriam leaned across the table to bridge the distance, but Davonna stepped back and put her hands against the countertop.

"I can't talk about it. Please, let it go."

"I came here to help you."

"Drop it."

"I don't take direction well," said with a weak smile.

Davonna leveled her gaze, dropped her voice to the barest hint of a whisper, and said, "Perhaps you should learn."

She left the kitchen and struggled upstairs. She was about to collapse into bed when her gaze fell upon Miriam's suitcases stacked in the corner. Davonna bit back a scream; her hands shaking. She fled the room and made straight for the window seat in the far corner of the master bedroom. Miriam was right: she should sell this house. There was altogether too much of John in it. His presence lingered: smothering her. But the memories were worse, memories, which flung themselves at the defenseless parts of her mind. Davonna leaned against the window, warm from the sun, and the heat seeped through her clothes, permeating everything until she bathed in it, the hint of olive trees on its wings. She closed her eyes, basking in the warmth. The sun rarely shone with such ferocity in England; a few hot days in the summer when the island was stuffed to the gills with tourists.

The day, the last warm day of summer... flooded back into her mind. She'd travelled from Geneva to meet with two Members of Parliament. She struggled across the pavement, through the crowds of eager amateur photographers angling for the perfect shot of Parliament and Big Ben. After a close call with a double-decker, Davonna made it through to the entrance where she gave her name and appointment and was ushered in.

It was appalling: the meeting, and she excused herself at the first opportunity, though she quailed at catapulting herself into the tourist horde, the stuffy room and the obnoxious MP's made her nauseous.

She pleaded an excuse and strode across the long halls, passing schools of tightly knit, black-suited men, whispering or arguing or ignoring each other. It was always enjoyable to walk through the Palace of Westminster and look out its windows and see the Thames flowing sedately by. As she was about to exit, the hotel called. Her room had flooded  
and they needed to move her belongings. Would she mind coming at her earliest convenience and to check they had retrieved it all?

Davonna let out a sigh. She had hoped to get out of the city, or at least picnic in Hyde Park and enjoy the sun. But she wandered over to The Royal Horseguards and gave them her name. A handsome manager in a well-tailored suit met her at the door, with a winning smile. He led her to the top floor with far fewer doors.

At the end of the hall, he opened a door, and she walked into a wide, luxuriously furnished suite of rooms, that looked ready to receive the Queen. The manager showed her to the large, walk-in closet, the size of her flat's living room. He had her thumb through her high street clothes and other belongings to make sure nothing was left behind. He pointed out the bottle of champagne chilling next to the large plush couch and asked if she'd like room service to deliver her lunch.

He was charming and when she hesitated, not knowing how to address him, he smiled and the silky, soft voice said, 'John Fitzroy, Madame,' as though addressing her was his greatest pleasure. Davonna wasn't a naïve woman. She'd lived alone far too long to be, but she wasn't as experienced as her glamorous sister Miriam; who'd had any boy she wanted from age fifteen. When John Fitzroy kissed her hand, she blushed, and he saw it, and light flickered behind a pair of bottomless eyes.

John delivered a five-course lunch a half hour later. He rolled the gleaming cart into the room with zest and a hint of flirtation. There was a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape and another of Riesling to accompany the meal. He set the table, poured her wine, and lit candles. She asked him to join her. He was working, he said, with a pained expression, but with another little gleam, he offered to meet her at a restaurant for dinner and Davonna tried not to over smile. He was handsome and charming and took charge, obviously taking great care of himself. All this she noticed that first day.

At dinner the conversation was light, he asked briefly about her work, which he admired, and then turned the topic to his life, enchanting her with tales of his youth in Kent and his distant relation to old King John. A spell took shape around her; the outside world grew hazy and distant, with nothing left but the aura of John.

It seemed natural that she invited him to her suite for a nightcap, to thank him. He smiled and accepted. He looked surreptitiously around as they arrived on the top floor. John took his time. He flattered her, enjoyed the wine, and smiled as she reminisced about vacations in Scotland. He took hold of her hand and held her gaze until she almost fell forward to meet his kiss.

It wasn't her first time, no matter what John said afterwards. That time, in the hotel, on sheets with higher thread count than the balance in her bank account was perfection. John touched places that made her shake and scream in ecstasy. He took her to the brink and back again and she was putty in his hands. And when it was over and they both gasped with relief, John smiled.

His eyes were a fire, as if he knew she needed him and their affair wouldn't end with him getting dressed and slipping out the back staircase and taking the underground home.

Davonna pulled herself away from the window, her burning cheek bringing her back to the kitchen. Water ran in the guest bathroom. John was gone. Yet not gone. Just as he had been that first night when the scent and feel of him didn't dissipate when he left.

Savva left the Colonel's office, with the less than opaque threat of the Inspector General ringing in his ears. No pressure then, Savva thought, it's only my entire career and my pension along with it that'll be on the chopping block if it went unsolved. The last thing he wanted to do was to present himself at the Dukas' mansion and ask Ioannis if he was sleeping with a woman young enough to be his daughter.

But Savva pulled out of the police parking lot and steered his car out of town and up the winding road, which hugged the sea like a frightened child. His mind turned to Shayma, asleep in their bed (or was she awake now?), how she flitted through the house like a fairy, putting their home to rights, infusing the rooms with her presence. What would she have done? Would she give Kleitos a piece of her mind and flat out refuse his order?

"Damn politicos," Savva grumbled to himself, as he slammed the door and shuffled toward the house.

As he walked, the pink outline of the Fitzroy house rose, silhouetted against a blue sky dotted with inconsequential white clouds, so small and wispy they were easily demolished by a light breeze. He wondered how Davonna felt about this hot island, whether she missed her rain soaked home. The snipping of shears broke the calm and Savva blinked himself back to the present. He picked up the knocker and brought it down three times, hard.

"Captain Savva?" Ioannis Dukas said. He stood framed in the doorway, and unsurprised to see the policeman.

"Mr. Dukas, may I come in?"

"More questions?" he asked, as he ushered Savva over the threshold.

"Yes, but they won't take long."

Ioannis walked Savva to a bright room at the front of the house. Comfortable chairs lay scattered around. The room's windows were flung open to tempt a breeze. Savva looked around, surely this house had central air conditioning like the Fitzroy's home, and yet it was warm without a hint of machine-blown air.

"How can I help, Captain?"

"How long have you known Mr. and Mrs. Fitzroy?"

"Since they moved. We say hello when she walks to town for her errands and we talk about gardening and which plants work well in the heat and full sun. As for John Fitzroy, I wasn't acquainted with him at all. John didn't interact with anyone outside of the hotel. He wasn't a sociable neighbor."

"And your relationship with Davonna Fitzroy?" Savva asked lightly.

"I'm sorry?" Ioannis said. His brows pulled together in a polite but confused frown.

"How would you label it?"

"A casual friendship. I don't see Davonna much. We've invited them over, numerous times, for dinner but she always declined."

"Is your wife friends with Mrs. Fitzroy as well?"

"Yes, we both enjoy her company. Theodora used to walk into the village once a week with Davonna before she injured her knee."

"You talk to her when she walks to town; presumably that's when your wife isn't here?"

"My wife volunteers in town four days a week."

"Is she aware of the time you spend with Mrs. Fitzroy?"

"Yes, but Davonna never stays long. We talk right by the road."

"I see," Savva said, pulling out a pad and making a note.

"I don't understand what you're driving at, Captain."

"Forgive me, I'll put it bluntly: were you having an affair with Mrs. Fitzroy?"

Ioannis stared wide-eyed at Savva, incredulous. "No."

"She's a beautiful, unhappy woman. I'd understand if you had developed improper feelings toward her."

"I don't understand where you get your ideas," Ioannis seethed. "But your allegations are completely off base. How can you live with yourself, imagining the worst of people? Davonna is a kind woman, and she is unhappy, but I, and with the full knowledge and support of my wife, only sought to be a friend to her. Someone to turn to."

"Why would she need your support?" Savva plowed on.

Ioannis looked at him for a moment as if weighing his options. Savva caught fear in the older man's face. "She is thousands of miles from her family, and her parents died years ago. Theodora and I are same age."

"So you're a father-figure to her?"

"If you must label it. We all miss our parents, Captain, and it's comforting to recapture them in other people."

Savva nodded, but was thoroughly grateful both his parents were long gone.

"Do you have children, Mr. Dukas?"

Ioannis sighed. "We did. A daughter." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "She died of breast cancer four years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Savva said, making a note, and refusing to go down his own tornado of grief. "When we last spoke you mentioned that Mrs. Fitzroy had been outside in the garden the whole week and at one point you were concerned for her health."

"Yes."

"Why? Is it normal for her to work that much?"

"It was 35 degrees outside, out in the scorching sun without shade. She worked day after day. She's our friend, we couldn't stand by and watch her die of heatstroke."

"So it was normal for her to work that hard?"

"Yes," Ioannis said reluctantly. "She's always out. Painting the shutters, cleaning the windows, perfecting the garden, weeding. It's a huge property. There's work to do."

"Yes, I can imagine," said Savva. "Did you see her husband with her, on the weekends? Did he help?"

"No, John worked long hours. I never knew when he was off until a day went by, and we realized we hadn't seen Davonna."

Savva perked. "What do you mean, you hadn't seen her?"

"Davonna was always outside, always working on some project, as I said."

"But how did you know John Fitzroy was home?"

"Davonna always walks to town three days a week. She would miss one, I would comment that I missed her, and she'd say John had been home and they'd had a relaxing day in."

"And you were suspicious?"

"I wouldn't say suspicious," Ioannis said carefully. "But she was different, tired, the next day, and less likely to stay and chat."

"Which you took to mean?"

"I am not about to speculate as to what went on between the couple. Marriage is difficult, even a happy one, and to insinuate my own beliefs is neither right nor kind."

"And if he abused her?"

"Then I have little grief to spare for him," Ioannis said flatly.

"Have you ever gone into the Fitzroy's garage?"

"No. I've only ever been in the front hall of the house."

"Can you prove that you've never been in the garage?"

Ioannis fixed Savva with a heavy glare. "Am I a suspect now, Captain?

Savva smiled benignly. "I'm just trying to get my facts straight."

Ioannis continued to glower, and Savva rose and bid him good day and walked out of the house. He'd only cracked opened the front door when he heard a heavy step behind him.

"You have the wrong person, Captain."

"Really, which person would that be?"

"Neither Davonna nor I killed him. She's a good woman."

"Who should I be looking for?" Savva asked, blinking in the bright light.

"I wish I knew."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Dukas. I'm sorry to trouble you," Savva said, and strolled down the steps to his car.

He pulled out of the drive, turned the car downhill, dialed Booras, and waited impatiently for the sergeant to answer.

"Kalispera, Sir, how'd the meeting go?"

"Which one," Savva barked, with more anger than he'd meant.

"Colonel Kleitos."

"I was right. A cock and bull story about the press and insinuations about my job prospects if this case isn't finished in a timely manner."

"So the usual?"

"Yes, the usual. He also sent me back to Dukas' house to inquire as to his relationship with Davonna Fitzroy."

"And?"

"Dukas denies any involvement with her and says his wife was supportive of fostering a friendship."

"He's got thirty years on her!"

"It's not unheard of, Booras," Savva quipped. "What I want to know is what the Dukas' were so concerned about. They both made sure they made friends with Davonna Fitzroy."

"Being neighborly?"

"No," Savva mused. "Well not just that. Dukas mentioned that their daughter had died four years ago from breast cancer. He said that's why they'd befriended her—she was far from home and alone."

"Except for her husband."

"Exactly. From what he said, Dukas didn't think highly of the dearly departed. His exact words were, 'I have little grief to spare for his passing.'"

"Do you believe he did it?"

"Even if he didn't kill Fitzroy; Dukas is hiding something, something important. Maybe he suspected John was abusive."

"Could she have used him, Sir?" Stelios asked tentatively.

"Used who?"

"Could she have asked Dukas to tamper with the car?"

"Why? That's what gets me about the car, whoever it was didn't cut the brake lines completely, therefore they couldn't be sure when John Fitzroy would go off the road. As I've said before the brakes might have failed at the hotel or as he pulled into the garage."

"Perhaps they didn't plan that far ahead?"

"I don't think so. It was done with a cool head and strict reasoning. I want to know why."

"What will you tell Kleitos?"

Savva hesitated. "Seeing as he likes Ioannis Dukas, I'll tell him I don't have evidence, at the present time, to indicate that Dukas was either having an affair with Davonna Fitzroy nor that he tampered with the car."

"Nice and tidy," Stelios chirped.

"Hardly," Savva said, with a growl and hung up the phone.

XIV

η βιβλιοθήκη είναι το φαρμακείο του μυαλού.

A library is a repository of medicine for the mind.

"The warrant came through."

Savva looked up from his breakfast and stared at the phone in his hand. "Alright, I'll be in. I'll handle this." He ended the call and stared forlornly at the steaming latte on the edge of the white-striped placemat.

He rose, put on his suit coat, stuffed his badge and wallet into his pocket, and picked up the delicate white cup with the hand-painted gold line an inch from the rim. He walked across the hall of the house to a door at the end of the hallway where Shayma lay asleep, her long black hair splayed over the pillow, her soft hands clutching the edge of a faded blue quilt. He kissed her forehead and placed the cup on the nightstand.

The police department hummed with excitement. As he entered the inner lobby Savva caught the tail end of the conversation about getting rid of foreigners. It didn't matter Greece was a part of the EU. Being so near to the conflicts in the Middle East, the island received thousands of refugees and such comments weren't uncommon.

He stumped through to his office to find the warrant sitting perfunctorily on his desk. A gaggle of uniformed officers stood clustered around a sergeant who barked out orders. He stuffed the warrant in his suit coat and growled at the loitering officers to follow.

The Fitzroy house gleamed in the bright morning sunlight. The shutters and blinds were flung open to tempt a breeze. Were they ever closed? He trudged across the gravel and pounded on the door, a tall woman with a lifted chin and hard eyes opened the door.

"Detective Savva, Lesvos Police, who are you?"

"Miriam Moray; I'm Davonna's sister."

"Might you find her for me?"

"You can't question her without her attorney."

"I'm not here to question her. I have a warrant to search the garage."

"Well, that's different. I'll go get her."

Her voice was sharp, but Savva caught something more; was it worry or fear?

"Everyone ready?" Savva shouted, over his shoulder to the gathered officers and forensic techs. A collective clamor of affirmation rose from their ranks.

Savva stared at the door, his hands clasped behind his back. It opened again and Davonna stood there, Miriam behind her, looking imperiously at him. "I'm sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Fitzroy, but we have a warrant to search the garage."

"Go ahead."

"I'll have an officer stay with you while we work."

"That won't be necessary," Miriam said.

"It is necessary, Ms. Moray." Savva strode off towards the forensic crew, and waved a female officer over.

"What does he expect to find?" Miriam said, under her breath.

"Something that caused the damage to John's car."

"In your garage?"

"I suppose so. He parked it there while he was gone."

"Davonna, why would they find anything in your garage? You didn't kill him!"

"No."

"And if they do?"

The question hung in the air between them; they looked over at the female police officer that stood ten feet away.

"If they do, it's more evidence against me."

"No, I won't accept it," Miriam hissed.

"Let's go inside, I'm starving."

The reality was too difficult to accept. Davonna turned away from the parked cars with their blue light bars full of intent.

"What have we found?" Savva growled. He stepped into the garage and blinked in a state of shock.

The garage looked more like a hotel room. Sunlight glistened on the epoxy floor, and the walls were painted pristine white. It was devoid of half-open boxes or rusting bicycles or a grandmother's orange china cabinet with floral contact paper in the drawers... nothing normal rotting a garage.

"Looks nicer than my living room," Rallis said, from the far corner.

"Mine too, but don't tell my wife," Savva said. "Did you find anything?"

"Two scissors, a well organized cabinet of garden tools, the usual. There aren't any obvious signs."

"Well if she did it, she'd clean up after herself and dispose of whatever she used."

"Not necessarily, Sir." The voice came from the back of a large, glossy black cabinet. A sergeant stood, his blue-gloved finger hooked under the handle of a small saw. "There are bits of metal and fluid on this blade."

"Bag it. Let's get going boys and girls, I don't want to be here longer than we have to."

"Not what you expected?" Rallis asked, with a sly grin.

"I'm not convinced."

"Yes, but the evidence points to her."

"Nothing is this easy."

Savva stepped aside and made his way around the rest of the crew. He stood in the doorway and glanced at the house, wondering what Davonna and her high-browed sister talked about. He knit his hands together, desperate for a cigarette even though he hadn't had one in twenty years. The gnawing feeling that he'd missed a large piece of the puzzle was back. It set his stomach rolling, and the ulcer he'd had since his promotion to captaincy flared. Unemployment and embarrassment: that's what he'd get if he didn't solve this case.

Savva started forward, with a vague notion of taking a proper examination at the grounds Davonna had tended during the week her husband had been in London. The sun beat down with a vengeance; he pulled a hand across his forehead and it came away dripping with sweat. He tugged at his coat collar, longing to peel off his coat, roll his sleeves, and take a nap in the gazebo.

It sat nearer the house for the convenience of the host. Beyond the gazebo it looked like pictures he'd seen of English gardens on country estates. He sauntered and sighed with pleasure as he sauntered across the manicured grounds and underneath a canopy of wisteria and between the towering cypress trees. That the garden was well tended and well oriented was obvious. A keen eye had planned this space; it needed a full-time gardener to maintain it.

He sat on a marble, semi-circle bench nearer the back of the property, and his mind turned to the list Davonna had tacked to the corkboard in the kitchen. Perhaps this garden was more than just greenery to trim and flowers to tend and weeds to pull. It wouldn't be a stretch to imagine her willingly toiling away if she did it as some kind of escape. But the nagging discrepancy lingered... why had the list been in John's handwriting? She didn't need him to tell her what to do.

"Sir... Sir?"

"What?" Savva barked, as a wide-eyed private swung into view.

"We finished, Sir."

"Right," Savva said, and turned to the constable who hadn't moved. "Well get on! The real work will be at forensics." The constable jumped as though Savva'd shocked him with wire, and took off at a brisk trot. "Damn useless, can't even scratch their arses without instruction," he muttered.

He walked back the way he had come, but paid little attention. He never wasted investigative effort. Even the undulating wisteria failed to catch his eye. Back in reality, the threat of an explosive case hung over his head, along with the woman he didn't understand. For decades he had survived on a well-honed set of police instincts—'the gut' as the American's called it. His was ninety-five percent reliable. Missing kids came back within a day or two, the women with hand shaped bruises on their arms and black eyes most likely got them from their husbands, and bar fights were usually drunks arguing too emotionally about football.

But that rogue five percent flew in the face of normality. "There's nothing new in crime," Doyle wrote. Crime never changed. The Ancient Greeks had written everything of note. Criminals didn't dream up new motives. Human instinct was all the same at the end of the day.

Savva knocked on the door, and Davonna opened it. She looked as though she had aged ten years in the last hour. Her eyes were blood shot, her shoulders slumped forward, and she leaned against the door so heavily it appeared to be propping her up.

"We've finished," Savva said.

"I see. So what's next?"

"It depends on what we find." Savva turned and walked back down the steps, but Davonna's voice stopped him.

"I didn't kill him. I didn't."

Savva stared, flabbergasted, as though she'd gone mad. She didn't seem mad. She looked resigned. He walked away. Davonna didn't move. She watched him depart like she understood he didn't have the words.

She trudged upstairs after watching the line of police vehicles file, one by one, out of the driveway. How had she gone from riding in the front seat to the site of John's murder to be on the receiving end of a veiled threat about riding away in the back in handcuffs? Davonna stood against the door and listened to the sounds of Miriam tinkering away in the kitchen.

She fidgeted, restraining herself from staring over Miriam's shoulder. Her stomach twisted, the thought of someone else rifling through her organized drawers. But the woman in the kitchen had nothing but love and tenderness toward her. How strange to be safe, to walk through the house without walking on eggshells. To... be. Davonna meandered to the library, to its padded solitude; its books full of knowledge and joy and adventure.

John had never enjoyed books. Words didn't draw him in the way they drew Davonna. She sat for hours, curled in a chair—her fingers clutching a thick leather-bound volume, and slipped away. The haunting hadn't happened lately. John had fallen into darkness. He was manic about her whereabouts, her duties during the day—and the night. Davonna pulled a book off the nearest shelf.

The Last Battle by C.S. Lewis. Davonna drew the old friend to her chest, curled into the chair, held the book to her nose, and flicked the pages through her hands. If magic ever left a trace, it was the smell of the pages of old books.

"There you are!" Miriam burst into the library; her cheeks flushed a deep pink.

Davonna sat up, uncurling her legs from beneath her. "I was reading," she said, and stole a glance at the page number and set it down gently.

"What is it?"

"The Last Battle."

"One of my favorites," Miriam sighed, as she curled into the chair opposite.

"I always liked Lewis' description that there's more to this world than what we perceive."

"Or that there's a place where there is no pain or blemish."

"Yes, I suppose," Davonna sighed. "I don't believe in heaven, but this book makes me wish it was real."

"Umm, hmm."

Davonna settled further into the leather chair and stared out the large windows. "What were you doing in the kitchen?"

"Making dinner."

"You don't have to cook."

Miriam's face contorted; her brows pulled together and the corners of her mouth turned down. "I do. I'm here to help. I'm not on holiday."

"I should take you to the village tomorrow. At least you can see the sights and get out of this house."

"There's nothing wrong with your house."

"There's everything wrong with this house!" Davonna shrieked. She catapulted herself out of the chair, and clawed her hands through her hair. She looked quite demented.

"What are you talking about?" Miriam whispered. Davonna wrapped her arms around her chest and collapsed onto the floor, her back pressed against the wall of glass. Miriam rushed to her side and grasped her hands. "Tell me, tell me so I can help you!"

Davonna looked up with a blank, pallid face. Her eyes two voids, black holes from which no light escaped. She didn't blink but looked beyond and through Miriam and the room as if it were invisible. She rocked, forward and back. Miriam shook her, cried, yelled, and pleaded. When she had nothing left, she took her younger sister's face in her hands and kissed her forehead. A kiss so light as from a butterfly.

"He was awful." The words came out in the quietest hint of a whisper.

"What? Who was awful?" Miriam said, searching Davonna's eyes for life.

"John."

"What happened?"

"He controlled me. He controlled it all. It happened slowly. The hotel. How we met. It seemed so benign. I didn't know what he was. How was I drawn in? I'm an intelligent, educated, woman. Or I was. I don't know what I am now."

"Oh Davonna..."

"After we married, he manipulated me into giving up my job so he could take this one here. A good position for him. In London he couldn't get the top manager position. He didn't want children, so I let that go too. He wanted me to run the house, the garden, everything, and have it all ready when he came home at night.

"It all seemed so logical. I should support my husband. I don't work so I should take care of the house for him. I need not drive on the island. We don't have the money to go to England for funerals. But I realized what he did..."

"What do you mean?" Miriam whispered. She sat crouched in front of Davonna who stared, unseeing, at the room beyond.

"He raped me. Almost every night. Dinner. Wait thirty minutes. Bed. Sex for thirty minutes."

"He... what?"

"I used to think if I didn't fight back it was consensual. I thought it was my duty to fulfill his needs as a wife. I thought... I knew it was better if I let him do it."

"Davonna, oh."

But she rattled on, impervious to Miriam's tears or anguish or her interruptions of grief. She plowed forward like a train careening: free of the tracks.

"He hit me when I didn't behave or when I wasn't aroused enough. He hit me and said the vilest things and he did whatever he wanted. I used to stare at the picture of Grandma while he moved on top of me. I don't know why."

"Have you told anyone?" Miriam whispered.

Davonna's eyes came into focus, and she leaned back, as though she'd only just realized that Miriam was there. "No."

"Why didn't you tell me? Seamus and I would have taken care of you. We would've come and gotten you."

"I can't find my passport."

"What? What do you mean?"

"He took it years ago. I had a hard time adjusting to the island. It was punishment."

"Davonna, you have to find it!"

"I didn't leave then and I can't leave now."

Miriam shook her again. "We will find it. We will tear the house apart."

"Okay," Davonna said. She shrugged and curled her arms tighter around her chest, holding it all in.

"What else? What else did he do?"

Davonna looked up and saw in front of her a beautiful woman whose face was full of pain. She wiped the tears and tried to pull on a smile, like one would pull on a sweater, but her face remained tormented.

"I'm ruined." Davonna rose. She brushed her hand across the top of Miriam's head and padded across the floor.

Savva left his home early in the morning at week later; Shayma still asleep. The rusted gate swung shut behind him with a wimpy whine. He took his usual route, parked in his usual spot, and walked into the department at his usual time. The on-duty desk sergeant called out the usual greeting and an invite to watch Greece's next football friendly. Savva, as usual, waved him off and started up the stairs, his head down.

"You're right on time."

He looked up to find himself face to face with Colonel Kleitos. Was this the first time the man had actually left his pristine office with it's €1000 curtains?

"Kalimera, Sir," Savva said, in his most polite grumble. Kleitos hadn't used his title, so he'd forgo it as well.

"Kalimera. Let's go to forensics together."

Kleitos set his hand behind Savva's back and smiled thinly. It took a great deal of effort not to roll his eyes.

"Yes, Sir." He let Kleitos pull ahead of him and indulged in the eye roll. Much better.

"How was your week?" Kleitos said, over his shoulder as they set off through the corridors and down the stairs.

"I got caught up on paperwork, set the boys to task on two assaults, and I helped my wife at the beach."

"Oh, right, your wife helps the refugees doesn't she?"

"Yes, Sir, almost every evening after dinner. She watches for boats and feeds those who make it."

"Does she enjoy it?"

"Pardon?"

"She must enjoy the work," Kleitos said. He didn't bother to look back.

"She doesn't enjoy seeing dead bodies or children frightened out of their minds or listening to the stories of their trauma, no."

"Why put yourself through it then?"

"Humanity."

"Yes, yes." Kleitos' voice was high and flippant.

Savva struggled to reign in his anger. "My wife is Syrian, but her father was Greek. She goes to help because they are her people," Savva said. But he wanted to slap the pernicious little man and rid Greece of everyone like him.

People died in the middle of the pristine Aegean Sea and how much of the world looked the other way? It didn't matter what celebrities came, to offer their star power; elections, the bottom line, and radical Islam consumed the world. It was easy to paint them—the whole swath of Middle Easterners with the same xenophobic brush. The dead children in their soggy clothes and mismatched sandals and their faces down in the rocks didn't matter a jot.

"Good, yes. I'm glad you're there supporting her."

Savva bit down hard on his tongue, and chanted 'you need your job' over and over in his head. Why'd he mention he worked at the beach? They reached forensics and Savva held the door open for Kleitos. Such a nice suit. It wasn't from Lesvos. Athens? Rome? Whatever it was, it wasn't from the island.

"Ah, you're right on time." Rallis popped around the corner, a thick steaming mug of aromatic coffee in his hand.

"Is that espresso?" Savva panted in little more than a whisper. He bit his lip again, blossomed red, and tried not to look desperate.

"I bought a cheap machine for us. The lads and girls get a little worn down here at all hours. Not too bad. Did you know an Italian invented espresso? He was fed up with how long it took his employees to drink a cup of coffee. So... espresso, one gulp and you're done. I'll get one of them to make you a cup. Sir?" he added to Kleitos, who stood with his shoulders thrown back, trying to seem like he ran this department too.

"None for me."

Rallis smiled, leapt around a corner, shouted orders for another espresso, and then motioned for Savva and Kleitos to follow him.

"We retrieved about two dozen tools which might have caused the damage to John Fitzroy's vehicle. Luckily we eliminated a few, here at the lab, right off the bat. There's the saw. It had some interesting traces on it."

"To the point, please," Kleitos growled.

Savva and Rallis raised their eyebrows. A tech pushed a cup of espresso into Savva's hands.

"We don't rush our work, Sir. I'm sure you understand," Rallis said, smoothly, without even the merest hint of malice or sarcasm. Savva hid his grin behind the small, ceramic cup.

"Then continue," Kleitos replied. His mouth set into a thin line and deep vertical lines appeared between his eyes, as though struggling through a particularly bad bout of constipation.

"As I said, we lifted traces of brake fluid from the blade of the saw along with a partial print."

"What do you mean? A partial print?"

"Just that. It was near where the blade screws into the handle of the saw. It looks to be from John Fitzroy's left thumb; still waiting on confirmation though."

"What about the rest of it?" Savva asked, stepping a fraction of an inch in front of Kleitos.

"Nothing?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Why not? Was it wiped clean?"

"That's my professional opinion, and whatever was used didn't leave much of a trace. Don't quote me on this, but I think Windex was used."

"The window cleaner?"

"One and the same."

"Who would use Windex on a saw? And why?" Savva asked.

"Not my department," Rallis said, with a glint of satisfaction.

"Touché," Savva said. "Anything else?"

"It's what caused the damage to John Fitzroy's car."

"Why is John's print on it?"

"Perhaps he changed the blade?"

"Right. Well, thanks for your time, and the espresso," Savva said, tipping back the dredges now tepid espresso.

"Are you going to charge her?" Rallis asked, as Savva turned around to leave.

Kleitos spoke before Savva opened his mouth to respond. "I'm sure an arrest will be imminent."

Savva followed Kleitos out of forensics, plunking his cup on the break room counter on the way out. The two men didn't speak as they retraced their footsteps. Savva stopped in the stairwell next to the door that would lead him to his own office, the mounds of paperwork, the dim underlings, and the increasingly infuriating case of John Fitzroy.

"I want this tied up as soon as possible. I don't want a murderess roaming the streets," Kleitos said in a half whisper, his eyes pulsing.

"We don't have proof."

"We do have proof. There's the saw and the fact she was at home all week alone, and then there's the mistress, motive, means, and opportunity."

"Does she know how to cut the brakes on a car?" Savva asked, and then wished he hadn't. Kleitos's face went the color of beetroot.

"Google it. Find out how easy it is to do. Get her phone records, while you're at it. Or had you forgotten that everyone has smartphones these days?"

"I had not, Sir."

"Fine, then get the warrants and inform me when you make the arrest."

"If I make the arrest," Savva corrected him. He couldn't help it. The man was incorrigible and a bully.

"Wrap it up, Savva."

The words hung in the air like a dangling noose. Savva didn't need the warning, invisibly attached, 'Do your job or loose it.' Kleitos stomped up the stairs, the hem of his trousers danced across the tops of his claret-colored Italian leather shoes. Savva indulged in another eye roll and flung the door open.

The morning broke slowly over Lesvos. Davonna lay curled on the window seat and watched the clouds roll across the sky bathing the garden in shadow. The sun was almost invisible through the thick bank of grey. Davonna rolled onto her back and stretched. She ran a hand along the base of her neck and tried to roll out the kinks. Though her perch was covered with blankets and well padded with pillows, it wasn't at all comfortable.

Savva had been by two days ago with a warrant for her computer and smartphone. Sofia said it was clear they were looking for damning evidence, whether—more specifically she'd searched for information on how to disable a car's brake systems. Davonna handed them over happily; there was nothing to find.

She folded the blankets and put the pillows back on the bed, desperately trying to erase the inevitable from her mind. Even if Miriam came in, she wouldn't have to find out.

"Good morning," Miriam said, as Davonna walked to the kitchen. "I made tea."

"Thank you."

"I thought we might work today."

"It'll storm later, so I wouldn't suggest the garden."

"No, that's not what I meant."

"What?" Davonna said. She blew across the rim of her teacup and took a hesitant sip.

"We need to find your passport."

"I told you, I don't know where it is."

"Davonna, we have to look," Miriam said. She took Davonna's hands in her own and sighed. "It's not comfortable, to go through his things, but we have to."

Davonna stared. Miriam's eyes were red and rimmed with unshed tears. She looked pale as well and exhausted.

"I don't mind looking."

"Alright, well, do you have any idea where to start?"

"His office?" Davonna suggested reluctantly.

"At the hotel?"

"No, here, I didn't go in there."

"Ok, anywhere else?"

"The house is over twenty-five thousand square feet. It might be anywhere. He might have buried it in the garden or under a floorboard and we can't check it all..."

Davonna dropped her head into her hands. The humiliation was potent. Why had she let him take so much? Was she this kind of woman, who just let a man overrun her life? Was she this weak and powerless... idiotic?

"Relax. I don't think he expected you to look for it. He didn't bury it in the garden. Maybe where he felt the most in control? Where you would never look?"

Davonna leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling in exasperation. "Let's start, maybe I'll think of something as we look."

Miriam grinned rapturously and threw back her tea.

Davonna watched as she placed the teacup in the sink, left the kitchen, and walked toward John's office. Davonna circled her hands around her own cup and followed. A fluttering began deep in her chest. She almost called out to Miriam to stop, but her sister was already through the door before she could form the words.

"Well, it's gorgeous in here," Miriam said, with a great deal of reluctance, like admitting that a woman she hated had good fashion sense.

"He enjoyed it," Davonna said. She stopped near the threshold. Was she waiting for something? An invitation? Or was it the pause of anger.

"I'll start with the desk."

Miriam strode over and settled herself in the leather chair as though she was born to it. Davonna couldn't help but smile, fresh air had blown into the room, clearing some of the cobwebs of memory, temporarily displacing a bit of the horror.

Davonna circled the room. She flipped through books at random (there weren't many) and looked under and in boxes of mementoes in the built-in cabinets. In a drawer was a long thin wooden box, a golden caramel, which held an engraved gavel. Davonna pulled it out and ran her fingers over its polished surface. It was old; the brass plate bore the name of John Fitzroy III. The engraving was dull. Perhaps it belonged to John's grandfather. She blushed and stowed it out of sight, ashamed that she didn't know who the original owner was. John rarely mentioned his family.

She put the gavel back in its box and kept searching. Miriam poked through documents in the desk, sighing with displeasure and boredom.

They gave up after an hour, separating at the door. Davonna migrated to the library, not to search but to pretend... to act, like she did so often, like reality wasn't reality. This room was her only consolation: a sanctuary for mind, body, and soul. She could breathe in the loveliness of books and other worlds and pretend for a few glorious minutes that her life wasn't what it was. The books were the only whiff of freedom she'd known for a decade.

Davonna sat and ran her hands along the cool suppleness of the leather chair. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of Miriam's search, the occasional slam of a door or a lid, the constant stream of sighs, and the soft pads of her footsteps. Davonna drifted away with the soft warm light of the veiled sun on her face.

The doorbell rang through the house, a sound she had come to hate. The cacophony sounded louder, if that was possible, in the master bedroom. Miriam fled, in case Davonna was close and could see her coming out. They almost collided with each other at the bottom of the stairs. Davonna blinked as though she was trying to clear something out of her eyes.

Miriam opened the door and Captain Savva sidled in. Davonna glimpsed two cars in the driveway before Miriam shut the door. For a moment, the three just stood and looked at each other. Davonna frowned at Savva, as he shuffled from foot to foot and licked his lips.

"What can we do for you, Captain Savva?" she said.

Her voice was sweet and melodious and Savva and Miriam both looked at her with a kind of pity. Miriam's was full of hope for the future and sadness at the thought of the past. Savva's was a two-fold pity, for Davonna and for himself for what he was forced to do.

Savva cleared his throat. "I am here to place you under arrest for the murder of your husband, John Fitzroy."

Miriam gasped and wrapped her arms around Davonna, pulling her close.

Davonna smiled, resigned. "You'd better let go, Miriam."

Savva had the decency to drop his head and contemplate his shoes.

"You can't go. You didn't do it!"

"I love you, too," Davonna said, and pulled at her sister's hands. She worked herself out of Miriam's grip, and patted her cheek. "Keep looking."

Miriam gaped at her, but nodded.

"I'm ready, Captain Savva."

He smiled at her regal demeanor and her composure and motioned for her to follow him. Miriam came to her senses and sprang forward.

"You CANNOT go with him," she cried, and pulled Davonna back. "You know she didn't do this," she yelled viciously at Savva.

"Please don't make a scene."

"A SCENE?"

"Miriam, please, we will get this sorted. Call my attorney," Davonna said, placating. She pulled Miriam into a tight embrace and then walked out the door before Miriam could react.

Savva didn't handcuff her and the other officers didn't move forward as Davonna descended the steps. She knew what was expected, and sat with grace in the back seat of Savva's car. As he made his way around the front of the car, Miriam grabbed him.

"I'm coming with you."

"I'm sorry that won't be possible."

"Where are you taking her?"

"The jail. She'll be booked and will go before the judge tomorrow. He'll set bail terms then."

"I'll come to the jail."

"As you wish, but you won't be riding with me."

Miriam frowned at him and then put her face to the back seat window.

"Where are the keys to the BMW?"

Davonna looked thunderstruck but answered in a quiet voice, "In the kitchen."

Savva started the car and the glass slid away from Miriam's fingertips. As she watched the last car whip out of the driveway, Miriam ran back into the house, grabbed the keys, and followed them less than a minute behind.

XV  
Ψάχνεις ψύλλους στ' άχυρα.

You're looking for fleas in the straw.

La Maison des Rois fell away in the distance, as Davonna twisted around in the seat. Miriam stood, as pale as an alabaster statue, in front of the open door. She turned back and stared at Savva's head. Reality sunk in along with despair. To what end was she being driven? The familiar road became full of the most brilliant details; pale golden light on the olive trees, the stripes of burnt orange in rocks, the grey wind-swept hair of stooped old women hanging their laundry.

As the car wound down the road, change tumbled over her like a rolling pin over dough. She couldn't quite place a finger on it, but she wanted a life. She peered at Savva; the words tore their way from her heart and up her throat; they might not get another moment. And even though the law separated them; in him lay a quiet righteousness. A kindred spirit.

"Captain Savva?"

"Best be quiet, Mrs. Fitzroy," he said. A quick, prepared, response.

"I have to tell you something," she said. " I just remembered."

"Think before you do."

Davonna didn't have to. "I noticed John go out to the garage late at night. The day before he left for London. He was out for quite a while. An hour I would say. I kept an eye on the clock. You asked if I saw anyone."

Savva didn't say a word. Had she infuriated him? She didn't realize what it meant, but simply that she must tell him in case they didn't get another opportunity.

"Thank you."

She frowned and her heart shuddered, and the resolve she built wavered. Perhaps he didn't care about finding the truth, perhaps he only wanted a quick resolution. They pulled in through the gate, past the sally port. Jailers strode purposefully to the car.

"I'll look into it," he said.

The large, automatic doors whipped open before Davonna managed a thank you.

Davonna was ushered through a second heavy door, which slammed shut behind her. She turned to get a last taste of clean, free air, but there was no window, no sign of the outside world. The officers stopped and deposited her in a room with a glass partition. Every surface bare and made of concrete. A coldness lingered behind the eyes of jailers.

A booking photo. Fingerprints. A strip search. Coughing to make sure all orifices were empty of contraband. New clothes.

Down an endless hall full of grilled, metal doors they marched. One slid open with a drone and a clang and she stepped inside, a strong hand on her back. Not shoved, not pushed, not helped. Just put inside; because no one cared who she was or what she felt. She was just here, and they were here to keep her. The metal door shut with an ominous clang, which reverberated through her like a hammer stroke to her head. She stood, petrified, in the middle of the cell, studying the door. The weight of her 'otherness' settled on her. She looked down at the concrete floor, and foresaw herself as an old woman with grey hair, standing in the same spot, in the same clothes, looking at the same, cold sterile floor. She wept. Tears flowed down her face in lonely, forgotten streams.

She curled up on the cot and turned her face to the wall. The mattress stank of a mixture of bleach, urine, and vomit. She jerked her head back, but couldn't bear to look at the white washed wall. What sort of nightmare had she fallen into? Would it ever end? As the day died, the lights went out in one quick succession, except for in the hallways, Davonna shut her eyes and plugged her ears against the sounds, against reality, and she longed to be back at home with Miriam and lounging with a cup of warm tea.

Davonna lay most of the night staring at nothing, letting her eyes wander out of focus so she might be at home or under a field of stars. But someone would grunt in their sleep or keys would jingle together or gates would buzz and clang. It was difficult to guess what the sounds were or where they came from, as if they were the heartbeat of the jail. Davonna tried to picture what Miriam was doing, if she slept, and what the rest of the outside world was doing.

They came for her early the next morning, and she showered and put her clothes back on. They escorted her through a series of tunnels to the adjacent courthouse and she was told to wait until a judge was ready. She sat on an old church pew between two young men with bowed pockmarked faces, their blank eyes cast unseeing at the floor. But Davonna's eyes roved hungrily. They relished being out of the living death of the jail, to smell the air, and to study the free people; it was like looking at the world through new eyes altogether.

Sofia was allowed a half-hour in a locked room with Davonna before they went before the judge. Sofia's normal, perfect hair stuck out at odd places from its ponytail and no amount of concealer masked the dark bags under her eyes. Davonna pointed out the hair, blushing.

"Thank you, it wouldn't do to appear in such an unseemly fashion." Sofia said, smoothing out her hair, the elastic band clutched between her lips. "You'll plead 'not guilty' correct?"

"Yes," Davonna whispered.

"With any luck you'll be let out on bail with lenient conditions. Perhaps house arrest."

"Is that likely?"

"They have no proof of your guilt. It's circumstantial evidence at best, I'm confident in our chances."

"My chances," Davonna corrected her. "I'll be the one going to prison for years if they find me guilty."

"I'll fight as hard for you as I would if it was me in your place, don't forget." Sofia smiled. Davonna's lips trembled; she looked away and nodded.

"Thank you."

"Your sister is in the courtroom. I caught sight of her as I came in."

"She is?"

"Yes. With any luck you'll be able to go home with her in a couple of hours."

"Yes," Davonna said wistfully, and she cast her mind to the feeling of Miriam's strong arm around her shoulders as they walked into the sunlight together.

"Just a few minutes now."

An officer steered Davonna through a side door and she found herself in an old-fashioned courtroom full of honey colored wood. But she only had eyes for Miriam, who sat as close to the defense's desk as possible. Davonna longed to reach out and touch her, but settled for a weak smile. Dark bags lay heavy under Miriam's eyes as well, and her hair was lank. Her pallid face shone in the harsh lights.

It was all a blur. Davonna spent most of her time trying to convince her mind to keep breathing. The judge listened to the evidence, raised one eyebrow, and a minute later set bail at €20,000, banging his gavel. It was over. Sofia was right, less than two hours later; Miriam gripped her elbow and escorted her to the black BMW.

"I'm so glad to see you," Miriam whispered.

They maneuvered through the streets, passing the police department and the bakery. Davonna was impressed by her sister's sense of direction. But she didn't answer. She gripped Miriam's hand as they drove back to the house. Miriam opened Davonna's door. They stood in front of the mansion, and for the first time a sense of relief flooded her mind.

Miriam asked about tea, her fingers trembling on the doorknob.

"I'm fine," she said.

Miriam smiled, but it failed to reach her eyes. "Do you want to eat?"

"I want to shower and maybe take a nap."

She let go of Miriam's hand and walked toward the stairs. The ground swayed under her feet and she barely grasped the bannister before she toppled over. Miriam didn't seem to notice. Davonna walked to the master bathroom in a daze. The marble shone in the afternoon sun, everything just as she left it. But there, on a floating shelf above the bath sat a bottle of John's cologne. The dark brown bottle was horrendously out of place in front of the bright, white towels.

Something broke. Davonna lunged forward, knocking off plush towels and scented soap bars from Paris. She ran out of the bathroom, flung open a window in the bedroom, wound back her arm, and with an almighty throw, chucked the bottle with all her strength. It hit a marble fountain, the seductive statue of Aphrodite to the left of the gazebo. The crack of shattering glass echoed through the garden and up to the second story window.

Davonna sauntered back to the bathroom, slammed the door, and screamed. The pain, the betrayal, the horrific night in jail, broke through the barriers she'd erected. She grabbed at her hair, pulling out dozens of strands at the roots as she stripped of her clothes and flung them at the door. Her screams and growls echoed through the floorboards to Miriam in the kitchen, who stood frozen, the kettle in her hands. Davonna's body shook and a pool of salt water spread over her chest and down her white, silk blouse, staining.

Her voice went hoarse long before she was sated. She rinsed off in the shower and wrapped a towel around her body. Her mind sank into that place, the darkness where memories and torture assaulted her and it took hours to escape from. She saw herself go, as if a road disintegrated underneath her and she plummeted through space.

But in the mirror the reflection of a woman stood with wet hair, thin arms, and a trembling body. Did it tremble from fear or power or rage? Davonna watched, her mind spiraling into the abyss. But the woman in the mirror straightened, her face grew hard and strong and hopeful. A light, for whatever reason, began to fill her before she succumbed. The shaking trembled in an after shock and then at last left her, and the room stopped spinning.

Softly, quietly, the thought crept up on her. It was John. It was John. It was John who did this. He wanted to reduce her to a bumbling miserable wreck. But why? Davonna cried. Why couldn't he love? Why'd he do it? The voice, or the knowledge, or the woman, said back—because he was weak and you never were.

Her nostrils flared. She clenched her jaw and closed her fist. The betrayal became horribly real. His behavior swirled and lingered like the smell of a skunk. John, in his hatred, in his narcissism, had done this to he. He'd been the tormentor. Even in his death it continued.

Davonna flung the towel on the floor, tugged on soft underwear and a sports bra and a loose, black shirt and jeans and left. She once again caught the gaze of the woman in the mirror and smiled. They weren't weak. And there was justice to he claimed.

Davonna walked to the kitchen, full of purpose and fire. She hesitated in the doorway, tying not to ignore the melodious sounds of Miriam's voice, which bounced off of the other side of the wall. She leaned against the frame of the back door and gathered that Miriam was talking to Seamus. She loitered, knowing if she moved, Miriam would hear her. But Miriam seemed to detect listening ears anyway, saying a hasty goodbye to her husband. She turned around, surreptitiously wiping her eyes.

"Oh, you scared me. I didn't hear you come down. Did you listen?" Davonna asked hesitantly nodding with her head at the ceiling, in the general direction of the bathroom.

"Not if you didn't want me to."

The two women smiled at each other. It seemed to Davonna that she walked into a bright ray of light, full of warmth and goodness.

"Your attorney called, she'll be here in a few minutes to discuss the case."

Davonna nodded and looked around the room. "I didn't expect I'd ever enjoy being here."

"Was it terrible last night? I can't imagine."

Davonna looked appraisingly at her and tried to force her thoughts into words. "The idea of being there. The room wasn't awful. I suppose it was the experience, of somehow being less of a human being—I was different, cut off. And not being in control of what you do or where you go, or even being able to turn the lights off."

"I'm so sorry," Miriam said.

The doorbell interrupted them. Miriam glanced at the front door. "She's early."

Sofia Gabris came through the house like a whirlwind. "I've been working since 4 a.m. I've had way too much coffee. How about we sit and talk about our next steps?"

Miriam and Davonna nodded, both looking at Sofia out of the corner of their eyes, like one might survey a deranged circus animal. "Through here."

"They found internet searches," Sofia said, and sat in Savva's usual blue silk chair. Her hair was limp and her hands twitched in her lap. "Somewhere in the browser history; it's why Savva arrested you."

"But that's ridiculous," Davonna sputtered, "I didn't search for how to cut his brake lines."

"I realize that," Sofia said, reaching out and placing a hand on her knee. "It's reasonable to argue in court that John had access to the computer. Then there's the burglary. Someone was in this house that shouldn't have been. There's also evidence that the time stamp on the searches was changed."

"What do you mean, 'John also had access to the computer?'" Davonna asked, leaning away.

"It's possible he was the one who searched. The intruder theory fits better though."

"None of it makes sense. Surely the jury will see through it? Why would John search for how to cut his brake lines? Why would someone break into our house to use our computer?"

"I agree John makes little sense, but the intruder theory does. They did it to implicate you." In her coffee fueled state, Sofia had formulated a circus of a defense.

Davonna fell back against the couch, her hands over her face. "This is insane."

"Davonna, I want you to trust me, we have every hope this will never even go to trial. I'm working to get all the evidence thrown out."

"But who did this—really?"

"I can't answer that."

Miriam shook her head. "What are we supposed to do in the meantime?"

"Lie low." She rose in one swift movement. Davonna cocked her brow. Sofia shook perceptibly.

"Do you need something to eat?"

"Oh no," Sofia said, smiling. "I've got to get back to work."

Davonna walked her out; they passed through the massive glass doors before Sofia turned.

"You will get through this," she said, putting a hand on Davonna's shoulder. "Have you considered going to the therapist I suggested?"

"I have."

"Go. I know it's uncomfortable but it'll be worth it."

"Thank you."

Sofia squeezed Davonna's shoulder and then turned and walked to the black Mercedes parked in the drive. She turned, with her hand on the door handle, and waved, still smiling.

"We need to find my passport," Davonna said, as she reentered the room.

Miriam jumped up from the couch, pulled her phone from her back pocket and sat back down again. "Let's make a list of where we haven't looked."

Miriam smiled when Davonna wasn't looking, with a surge of pride and pain. Had it happened to them — to her little sister? Her kind, gentle sister. Miriam pushed aside those tear-inducing thoughts, just like a Brit (her mother would be proud), and bent her head over Davonna's list. They spent the better part of an hour racking their brains for potential hiding spots, and when it was over they had turned the house upside down in search of it.

Davonna collapsed against the balustrade of the staircase. The wood was cool and unforgiving against her back. Every muscle ached from standing hunched over, sifting through boxes of sweaters and drawers of junk and banging on floors. Her mind was a jumble of emotions; anger at John, fear of the future, the cloying threat of a life in prison, and the overwhelming desire to fall asleep and never wake.

Soft footsteps echoed down the staircase and Davonna lifted her head to watch Miriam slouching as she walked, her perfect hair covered in dust, and her hands grey with dirt.

"I've been in the attic," she said, by way of explanation.

Davonna smiled and patted the stair beside her. "Did you find it?"

"Do old textbooks count? I mean, why even keep them? They're out of date the year they're printed."

"It's nice to see them."

"I suppose your textbooks wouldn't ever go out of date. I didn't see any of yours though."

"I don't know what happened to them. Thrown away, I imagine," Davonna said, carelessly. She smiled at Miriam, who cocked her eyebrows.

"Your language books in the trash?"

"Possibly."

Silence fell. Davonna shifted to get more comfortable. A simmering pot of anger radiated from Miriam. It emanated from her in great rippling waves; from her dusty hair to her dirt-crusted nail beds. She waited for the ball to drop. Miriam opened her mouth and then closed it. There was hesitation in her eyes and grief. But still she was silent. Davonna wrung her hands, stared out the window from which poured thick rays of sunlight, and stood. She murmured something about the library and fled downstairs.

It was easier this way. Easier to escape the fumes of Miriam's torrent of emotions than to sit and wait for the dam to burst. She padded over to the windows and stared out. The garden was in full glory; the fading sun cast a golden halo of light on to the gazebo and the rippling tips of the cypress trees. It all looked as though it meant more, as if magic lived right beneath the surface, as dangerous and magnificent as a smoking volcano.

"I want to talk."

She turned to face Miriam, who had come and gripped the back of one of the leather chairs, her face pale and her cheeks wan. Her eyes wouldn't rise from the floor. Davonna tried to smile and encourage her to continue, but all that came out was a hoarse grunt. The room was so still; Davonna watched the lint floating on the air.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Miriam said.

Davonna winced, but she smiled weakly, and dropped into a chair opposite Miriam. "Tell you what?"

Miriam rolled her eyes. She clutched the back of the chair, her knuckles stood out pale white against the brown leather. "Why didn't you tell me about John? About what he was doing to you."

"You aren't my mother."

"I know! But I'm your sister. I wanted to helped you."

"We weren't perfect, but I managed."

"Why don't you sleep in your bed?"

Davonna froze, her heart pounded, and she gasped for breath. Surely, Miriam didn't know.

"I sleep in it."

"Don't lie. You sleep on the window seat. I check on you every night to make sure you're still in the house, still with me."

"Miriam!" Davonna said. The exasperation was forced and weak.

"I want to know why it has gotten to the point we have to search for your passport."

Davonna drew a great, shuddering breath and turned away to stare out the expansive windows. What was there to say? "I told you we had our problems, like everyone else."

"Normal people's problems are arguments about who takes out the trash or who's too sensitive or what schools to send their children to. Those are normal. Raping your wife, taking their passport and hiding it, that's something else. Davonna, don't you realize he abused you systematically over years? He squirreled you away in this house, on this island; he cut you off from everything and everyone you've ever known. He made it so you could never get help or get out."

"How could I tell you?" Davonna screamed, her eyes flew open in a rage and her hair seemed to crackle with electricity, she looked deranged. "How could I tell you? It crushed me what he did. Even in the beginning. I made excuses for him. I told you all to pound sand when you said he wasn't good for me.

"How could I come back and say, 'I was wrong; he's a monster?' You with your perfect family? Seamus dotes on you. He looks at you like you're beautiful, rare, and magical. How could I do that? I was embarrassed, confused ... I still am. I can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy anymore. On some days I'm sure it was my fault and others... in moments of lucidity, I knew he was a monster.

"But I loved him, Miriam. I didn't think I'd get back what I spent on him. I wouldn't get my job or apartment back or the years we lived together or my family who didn't know me anymore. It was easier to trudge on than to escape. I didn't know how to escape... not then not now." Davonna broke off and glanced at her hands. She wiped her nose and smoothed her flyaway hair and averted her eyes. She shuffled to a chair.

Miriam collapsed into the chair, her face the color of milk, and she shook.

Davonna moved toward her in case she fainted. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

She meant it too. How could this have turned out differently? If John's car hadn't gone off the edge of the cliff, she'd be in the kitchen, dragging dinner towards the dining room and dreading the rest of the night.

"I can't bear to think what you were going through. I didn't pay enough attention to you. I hate myself for it. I should have realized. I should have tried harder. I should have paid for you to come back home. Why didn't I do that?"

"It wasn't your fault."

"You keep saying that, but it doesn't make me feel any better," Miriam moaned. "And here I am carrying on and you have so much to worry about. It's not about me. I'm angry at myself."

"I understand," Davonna whispered. "What a trap to fall into. I should have been smarter. But it was so slow... so methodical that each action didn't amount to much, but the whole... it was overwhelming. And I loved him. It clouded so much... clouds so much."

"No!" Miriam said, jolted out of her misery. "No, you can't love him. He didn't love you. That's not love. It's domination. It's abuse—what he did."

"I know now..."

Miriam flew out of the chair and fell to her knees in front of Davonna, gripping her trembling hands.

"Promise me," she said. "Promise me, you won't love him anymore. We will sift through it all. We will find you help. I'll fight for you. I wasn't there then, but I am now. You can lean on me. You can love me, please love me. Don't love him."

Davonna tried to hold back the tears, tried to explain that pulling that cord wouldn't be possible, but there was something in Miriam's eyes, something fierce, shimmering like gold. She stared at her, and in the depths of those eyes; she remembered. She remembered being held in safety. She remembered her parents kissing her forehead and pulling a pink and purple quilt to her shoulders and tucking it in at the sides. She remembered being treasured in the warm center of family. It was beautiful. Life had once been beautiful and full of promise.

She nodded and threw herself into Miriam's arms. Miriam drew her close, encircling her heaving shoulders with steady hands. They fell to the floor in an untidy heap of limbs, rocked back and forth, Miriam's tears dropped steadily onto Davonna's head.

XVI

Οποιος μπλέκεται με ταπίτουρα τον τρων οι κότες.

He who gets in chicken feed is eaten by the chickens.

Savva sat on the concrete floor of the basement, working his way through overflowing boxes of donations from around the world. He had the list beside him, written in Shayma's elegant handwriting, of the sizes needed. It was a lot like the projects she'd given their daughter when she was little, 'here honey, fold these fabric scraps' while she cleaned house like a maniac.

Shayma was thrilled that Davonna was out on bail and had expressed her stiff opinion that he'd arrested the wrong person. She didn't do it often. He couldn't remember how many years had passed since she'd quarreled with him about a case.

But she doesn't disagree with me, Savva thought, as he pushed aside an 80s blue and yellow puff jacket (size XXL men's), for the white Reebok one underneath (size S women's). She tells me I'm wrong and we both move on.

Davonna didn't look or feel guilty to him. The issue was that all the evidence, circumstantial though it was (yes, Shayma'd caught that too), pointed to Davonna. Yet, the thin, worried woman flitted around his mind's eye, like a fly tapping over and over against a window.

Savva added the white coat to his small pile and leaned against the black bags, moving boxes, stuffed animals and closed his eyes. They hung out of reach, the answers for every question. That tantalized him, tugged at his ego, and pulled at his heart, until all he could see was Davonna on the front steps of that huge house, crying.

"What are you doing? Napping?"

Savva jumped with a start and knocked over two boxes of soccer balls.

"I finished!" he said, scrambling to put the balls back in the box. "Ten women's size small jackets, four infant jumpers, and six child size five sweatshirts. Oh, and the fifteen large men's jackets."

She looked at him from the corner of her eye like a mother trying to catch her child in a lie. Savva smiled and stuffed the coats into a bag for her.

"You were thinking about her."

"About who?" Savva asked with bravado, bent double, stuffing the clothes in.

"The Fitzroy woman. The one your boss thinks killed her husband. She didn't do it, and you know it and you should look for—find something to clear her name."

"Erastís, I've looked, there isn't anything."

"You haven't looked hard enough. I came down to let you know forensics called and they want you to come by."

"It's probably from another ongoing investigation."

"It didn't sound that way," she said haughtily, as she flounced up the stairs.

Savva lolled his head back and smiled, dutifully trudging after her.

"You're not going to believe this," Rallis said, as soon as Savva entered the lab.

Had the man been lying in wait for him? "I'm sure I won't. This'd better be good, it's my weekend."

"Oh, just wait."

Rallis made his way back to where the techs were still processing the items confiscated from the Fitzroy garage. On the table, under a spotlight, lay a battered, what could've once been red, toolbox. It looked like something his grandfather would have used.

"The boys just got to this: you can imagine why. We spent most of our time processing the most likely tools for sabotaging the brake lines. They took this beauty because of one little fact." Rallis turned the toolbox around to reveal a broken padlock, which hung limply off the toolbox.

"I see," Savva said, frowning.

Rallis rolled his eyes, and flipped the toolbox open.

"On the surface we have boxes of nails, bags of screws, hammers, screwdrivers, etc. Then we take off the top and we have a nice wooden bottom."

"Fine," Savva said, and stared back at the toolbox. "Metal toolboxes don't have wooden bottoms."

"Precisely," Rallis said, with a maniacal smile. "Take it off and you have this..."

Savva moved forward and peered into the container. There, lying supremely out of place was a United Kingdom passport. Its dull red cover shone like a beacon.

Savva stared. He, asked, but already knew the answer. "Whose passport is that?"

"Davonna Fitzroy's."

The two men looked at each other and back at the innocent-looking toolbox.

"I assume you broke the lock."

"Sure did."

"Dust it all for prints—today. I want to know within 24 hours who handled this."

"Did she say anything about this?"

"This morning, in court. The judge ordered her to turn over her passport and she said it was missing. There was a bit of a rigmarole, but Immigration said we could place an electronic ban on her for now, until the document could be found."

"Did she know it was in here?"

"Why would she padlock her passport in a toolbox and hide it in the garage? She's testified that she rarely went in there."

"Did he put it here?" Rallis pressed

Savva looked at over and massaged his temple. An understanding passed between them, the ground had shifted underneath their feet, and reality was not longer what it had been just an hour ago.

"It's not 'did he', it's why?" said Savva sagely.

"I'd better get back to work."

"Use John and Davonna's file prints for elimination up front. We don't need to run what you find against the whole database if we don't have to."

Savva ran out of the lab, pulling out his phone as he dashed back to his office. 'New developments won't be home. I'll drop off items at refugee center. You may be right.' He sent the text and imagined Shayma's smug face when she read it.

He was true to his word and dropped off the two black bags stuffed with warm clothing. It wasn't strictly necessary in the summer, but the nights could get cold. Lesvos didn't have the proper accommodations for so many people. He drove off, but stole a glance in his rear-view mirror at the gaggle of black-haired boys kicking around a brand-new red and black Manchester United football.

The Fitzroy's house rose in front of him like a fortress that he had somehow grown accustomed to. He knocked and rang the bell and waited for nearly five minutes before Davonna opened the door. Her hair had come loose from its elegant chignon; wisps of hair framed her face in an untidy halo.

"What can I do for you?"

She hid her hands behind her back and Savva recognized the gesture. Her eyes were full of fear and apprehension. She was afraid, deathly afraid.

"I'd like to ask you a quick question."

Davonna let him in reluctantly and led him to their usual spot in the drawing room. They had just sat down—Savva in the same blue silk chair—when Miriam burst in.

"It's no use I can't find the bloody thing anywhere and I'm going to pass out if I don't eat, now!" she said, collapsing into a nearby chair.

Savva cleared his throat. It was almost comic the way she perked up, how her eyes filled with fear and anger, like a cat that had been slapped by an annoying child.

"I came here to ask your sister a simple question," Savva said. "But tell me, what are you looking for?"

Miriam tried to shake her head, but Davonna answered quickly, "My passport, since I was granted bail."

Savva cleared his throat. "I remember there was trouble about it in court. How long has it been missing?"

"I don't remember exactly, but three or four years ago I went looking for it, to see when it expired and it was nowhere to be found. I talked to John about it." Davonna stole a look at her sister before continuing, "He said he'd taken it for safekeeping and that it didn't expire for another six years."

"Your husband had your passport?"

"Yes," Davonna replied flatly. Savva looked over at Miriam who exchanged a look resigned and annoyance at the turn of events.

"Why would he do that?"

"To punish me," Davonna said.

Savva left the house quietly. Davonna's face swam before him like a mirage. The case was flimsy, at best. Sofia Gabris had called no less than ten times to ask when the prosecutor and police would drop the case. She had cited "wanting to salvage the Police Department's professional reputation" as her main motivation.

It was too much to hope that John's fingerprints would be on the toolbox—the man had been so careful. Careful—that was it, Savva thought. But what? Careful about what? The thought slipped away before he could put a finger on it. Savva kicked wildly at the pink rocks at his feet. He'd never worked this way before, tapping around the perimeter of an investigation like a blind man.

What was it about this case? And if it wasn't Davonna Fitzroy who had cut the brake lines; then who did? The answer slipped through his fingers like water. He turned and looked back at the house. There was no movement behind the windows, but Savva thought he knew what Davonna would be doing... waiting for the nightmare to end. What a life for a woman with so much ahead of her. What a shame, Savva thought, as he walked back to his car and shoved his body inside.

He drove not to the station, but to the refugee camp to kiss his wife. She didn't normally come out to help during the day because there were so many fewer volunteers who would watch at night. But here she was, surrounded by children and their exhausted and grateful mothers. The women looked at her as though she was a rescuing angel. When she spoke to them in their own language, they fell into her arms, sobbing tears of joy and relief.

Savva wondered whether the women saw, in Shayma, their own mothers and grandmothers who hadn't made it or wouldn't leave Syria. His wife, a pillar of virtue, he owed everything to her. All those nights when the government was in uproar and he wanted to give in, she made him stay and help.

"I know what happens when a government falls," she'd said. "Good men must keep going." There wasn't any condemnation from her, but a strong desire to see Greece succeed. She wanted peace and she had found it with him. She held on with both hands.

Savva walked up and put his arms around her from behind. An uncharacteristically affectionate gesture. She balked and tried to twist out, but he held her, and whispered in her ear. She smiled, told some laughing children to go find their mothers, and carefully pried open his fingers.

"You should be at work."

"It's technically my day off."

"Go and help her," she said, before moving off toward a line of shabby tents.

Savva watched her go with mixed emotions. They hardly saw each other these days. He worked during the day while she slept. Then she was out for most of the night, watching for boats. They only had dinner together, and, on occasion, lunch, if Savva could break away long enough. It wasn't like it was when their daughter was young, and he had a set schedule. He didn't begrudge the refugees the time his wife spent with them—he wouldn't have it any other way. She would die before her people went hungry and cold and homeless.

He walked up the rocky trail, back to his car, and drove off, ambling along side roads. After a while he stopped in front of the police department, and rolled his eyes. What was the use of a day off if he never took it? Kleitos would stop scheduling them, or would at least, Savva thought, if he could get away with it.

Up the stairs, with their familiar creak, he made his way to his office where the files were stacked neatly on the left side of the desk. Savva tapped the desk and licked his lips. He couldn't sit, and so prowled the room, drumming his fingers against his thigh. Where had it all started? The mistress? No, the affairs had been going on for months, and there were certainly others before her; if the gossip was to be believed. What then? Savva threw back his head and let out a short growl. Europe! The refugees were trying to reach Europe with all its possibilities and democracy and promises of prosperity. They came through Greece. They didn't intend to stay. They wanted to go places like Sweden and Germany and England.

"England!" Savva shouted. He pounded the desk, vaulting behind it and grabbing the nearest stack of green file folders. "Bloody hotel conference."

A grin, as slow as molasses, crept over Savva's face. But it was distorted, and almost more of a maniacal smile than a normal grin. It had started in London, with John's trip there. He'd sent the picture to his girlfriend of the list, which Davonna had allegedly written. Hah, he thought, leave no trace!

Savva held the phone's black handset to his ear. "I want a handwriting expert in my office, PRONTO," he thundered.

"Yes, Sir."

"And I don't care what excuse they give, get them here NOW!" Savva hung up before the unfortunate person on the other end of the line could say a word.

He fished out of the pile the picture Athena had sent; the photo John had texted her while in London. It was taken at a restaurant, somewhere fancy. Savva rooted around in his desk drawer and fished out a large magnifying glass. It was there, on the menu in the outer edge of the picture, the name: Clos Maggiore, 33 King Street in Covent Garden.

Savva wrote down the name and then found the hotel where John Fitzroy had stayed in London: St. Martin's Lane Hotel. On a map, the hotel and restaurant were a quarter of a mile apart. Savva picked up the phone again.

"Hotel Lesvos."

"Your manager, please," he barked, adding on the 'please' as an afterthought.

"Right away."

It took less than a minute for the manager to pick up the line.

"Hello?"

Savva rolled his eyes, such poor professionalism. "This is Captain Savva with the Lesvos Police Department. I need information about the conference John Fitzroy attended in London."

"Yes, Sir, one moment. Is there anything in particular you'd like to know?"

"Did he have any friends with him? Men he knew from other hotels? Someone he would have gone out to dinner with or had drinks with?"

"Well," the manager said, "I know he was meeting a friend who had worked with him at The Royal Horseguards in London."

"Yes, yes, name and phone number, NOW!"

"Yes, Sir... " the manager sputtered. "His name is Peter Burroughs. I don't have his phone number, but he's still with the Horseguards. You can reach him there."

"Fine," Savva sighed. "Now tell me, how was John's demeanor before he left for London? Did he say or do anything strange before he left? Anything out of character?"

"I don't believe so," the man said, slowly. "Oh wait... yes there was. I took the call, in fact, and left the message for him. The United Nations Interpretation Service called asking for Mrs. Fitzroy's current phone number and address."

"What?"

"Yes, Sir, I thought you knew. I told John about the call. His entire face went pale and then red as a radish. There was something about him; he looked crazed."

"Why in God's name didn't you come out with this when we were interviewing staff?"

"It didn't seem important at the time, Sir."

"Didn't seem important? And yet now you say he looked crazed?"

"I'm sorry, Sir."

"Well, you'd better be," Savva growled.

He wanted to throttle the upstart manager through the phone. But of course, that would be 'frowned upon by top brass.' Instead he threw down the phone and searched for the phone number for The Royal Horseguards Hotel.

"Peter Burroughs, please," he said to the receptionist.

"May I ask who's speaking and what this is in regards to?" said a posh voice.

"Captain Savva, Lesvos Police Department, in regards to the murder of John Fitzroy."

"Ah, yes, Sir, one moment."

The call was put on hold and a soft Bach concerto broke the silence. Savva couldn't tell which one it was; his wife had a better ear for them.

"Peter Burroughs."

"Captain Savva, Lesvos Police Department."

"Yes, I was informed as to why you're calling, Captain. How may I help you?" Burroughs' voice was polished, low, and calm.

"I'd like to know whether you had dinner with John Fitzroy when he was in London."

"Yes we did. At Clos Maggiore, if I remember correctly. John and I worked together before he took the job on Lesvos. I only found out a couple days ago that he was murdered. The papers say you've arrested his wife for his murder."

"It is what the papers are saying, yes," Savva said. "But I'm more interested in what happened when you had dinner with him. Did anything stand out? What did you talk about? Did you know he was having an affair?"

"We used to go to Clos Maggiore a lot before John got married. We talked about what life was like on Lesvos, we talked about women, politics, you name it. And yes, I knew he was having an affair. John wasn't the type to settle down. I thought he had for a while. I met Davonna for the first time at their wedding she seemed nice enough. Bloody smart, charming, down to earth. But I've known John since our school days. He craved adventure and had seduction down to an art.

"He'd always had a way with women, the way he could charm them was incredible. It didn't matter what their age or how beautiful they might be, when John paid attention to them, they fell under his spell. I knew monogamy wasn't for him, but I thought Davonna knew."

"She didn't."

"Yes, well, that's unfortunate. John was different the night we went to dinner. In fact, he was strange the entire week. He wasn't as involved with the conference as he should have been. He gave a lecture about managing a hotel as a foreigner and he was awful—stuttering, pausing. I asked him what was going on, and he said he'd been betrayed and he'd taken measures.

"When we went out for dinner he produced this list, a list Davonna had supposedly written, detailing all the items she wanted him to get in London. Now, granted, I don't know Davonna well, but I'd never heard him talk about her like this—like she was a gold digger. And the list, I can't remember the specifics, but it was ludicrous. He texted a picture to his girlfriend.

"I asked what it was about and he couldn't give me specifics. Said his wife was 'out of line.' It was insane. I've been married, happily, for the last fifteen years, and I'd never say that about my wife. I doubt any decent man would. But John always required a certain level of—loyalty from those close to him."

"What do you mean, loyalty?"

"Let's say, those who crossed him, only did so once."

"I see," Savva said. "Did Davonna cross him?"

"I can't say for sure, but that's how it sounded to me. I don't know what she did. I tried to press John but he wasn't having it. He started talking about our old school days and we got to reminiscing and drinking, but I don't remember much of that night. I took a cab home. My wife put me to bed. She wasn't happy I came home drunk."

"I'm sure she wasn't. You've been helpful, Mr. Burroughs, thank you."

"I don't believe Davonna killed John," Peter said. "For the record, you know... John would never marry a woman who was stronger than him."

"Could she have been driven to it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you ever know John Fitzroy to be abusive, violent even?"

A thick, heavy silence came over the line. Burroughs took a deep breath, as though readying himself to plunge into a frozen pool.

"Yes."

"And..." Savva said breathlessly.

"Just once. He punched a university girlfriend in front of me when she talked about... his poor performance the night before."

"Sex?"

"Yes, but he apologized right after."

"Most men do."

"I have to get back to work, Captain, but I'll give you my mobile number in case you need to contact me again. If you leave a voicemail, I'll make sure to return it."

Savva grunted in reply and wrote down the number. He turned off the recorder before stating the time, day, his name, and rank.

"Do you have a moment, Sir?" Stelios poked his head around the corner.

"Come on in," Savva said. He dropped the recorder into his right hand desk drawer and leaned back.

"I've found something, but I'm not sure what to make of it."

"Just tell me. I'll draw my own conclusions," Savva said, wearily.

Stelios sat and gingerly placed a thick, pristine, yellow folder on Savva's desk, as though it were the Ark of the Covenant. "This is everything I've found on John Fitzroy and Anthony Goldstein's finances."

"I'm listening."

"John Fitzroy took out a loan from Goldstein. He cleared out his savings and used a majority of his own trust fund to purchase the hotel, borrowing the rest from Goldstein." Stelios paused and Savva nodded encouragingly. "They have lost money hand over fist since the economic collapse. Their hotel, on average, is only ever at 30 percent capacity. Fitzroy barely made enough to pay his employees. He would have gone bankrupt in a matter of months."

"Was he making payments to Goldstein?"

"Yes, for seven years. Two years ago he took out loans at a few banks in Athens to cover expenses, but he hasn't paid Goldstein for six months or so. At least as far as I can figure."

"And Goldstein?"

"Goldstein has been in Lesvos more than he'd let on. I checked. He's flown here ten times in the past six months, seemingly to see his daughter. But I had an interesting conversation with the owner of a bar on the other side of the island... Fitzroy and Goldstein met every single time Goldstein was in town."

"What did they discuss?"

"The owner of the pub said he couldn't hear that, but Goldstein didn't look happy; said he kept poking his finger into Fitzroy's chest."

"So the hotel is going under, and Fitzroy hasn't made his payments in months. And him and Goldstein are arguing in a pub miles away from Mitilini... I'm going to take a wild guess and say it's about money."

"There's also this; Goldstein was here, in Mitilini, the week the Fitzroy House was broken into," Stelios said slowly, as if uncovering an unexploded WWII bomb.

"What about the week Fitzroy was in London?"

Stelios sighed. "Goldstein was in Athens, multiple sources confirmed."

"What about his daughter, Athena? How often have they met?"

"Every time he comes over. I talked to Athena's mother."

"How did you get it out of her?"

"She was more than happy to tell me in detail," Stelios said, brightly. "She despises her ex. She's furious Goldstein has inserted himself back into Athena's life, but there's not much she can do."

"Hmm," Savva said. "So, Goldstein breaks into the Fitzroy House, knowing John is at work... but why, what does he take?"

"Some sort of paperwork? The deed to the hotel?"

"Possibly." Savva turned in his chair, chewing on his bottom lip. "We don't have any evidence that Goldstein was involved in Fitzroy's death, only that they were seen arguing multiple times."

"We certainly have evidence concerning Fitzroy's state of mind. He must have been desperate, about to go bankrupt."

"There's also the call he got from the UN; they were inquiring about Davonna." Savva paused. Then, as if he'd been shocked, he leapt from his chair and bolted from the office. Stelios followed him wide-eyed.

Savva bounded down the stairs and tore off through the boiling parking lot to his car.

Stelios shouted after him, "Where are you going, Sir?"

"To get answers," Savva shouted, as he slammed the door, his car squealing out of the lot.

XVII

Το σκοινί το μαλακό, τρώει την πέτρα την ξερή.

The soft rope corrodes the dry stone.

Davonna woke and blinked away the dream. The curtains fluttered as the fan swung around and around overhead. She didn't move but lay on the cramped window seat, staring at the white bedroom walls and obeying the ache in her shoulders. She stretched and prodded the knot, twisting around to reach further back. She twisted still further and fell off the window seat; pillows cascading around her. And then she turned, face to face with the white monolith.

The bed called out to her, like a glass of wine to an alcoholic. It was strange that an object could be both comforting and sinister. It depended on the person consuming it, their state of mind. The bed bothered no one else. Why did she give it so much power? Why did it consume her?

She stood there, in the half-light of the pre-dawn and stared at it—the white silk sheets and the silk pillowcases and the expensive down comforter. It all screamed comfort and luxury and a life which never existed. Davonna paced the room, ran her hands through her lank hair, and cast angry, anxious glances at the bed.

She froze in a far corner; her gaze fixed on a tall, oblong mirror with gold plating. Past her own reflection, on the bed; a glimpse of movement. Davonna whirled around, a scream tore her throat. But there was nothing. The room was silent. The house was silent. The island was silent. She backed against the far wall. The shadow, it had looked like John. It looked like him, spread out on the bed, ordering her to come to him.

Her lips trembled and her breath came in sobbing gasps. She scrambled to get away, hitting the wall with an echoing thud. But as she pulled herself off the floor, and her mind fractured, the first ray of sunlight poked over the horizon and the room basked in the full light of day. Davonna's flailing hands balled into fists, and her trembling lips drew into a long, thin line as her feet rested on the cool floor.

She rushed at the bed—her eyes full of flames. She seized a corner of the duvet and pulled. It came off in a cascade of white, and she kicked it furiously out of the way. She tore at the sheets with her fingers, digging her nails into the soft fibers and threw them away from her. Scooping all four pillows in her arms, she deposited them onto the pile, tying the sheets to form a bag.

She strode down the hall, her load bumping along behind her, and she glanced towards Miriam's room and its closed door. Down the stairs and through the kitchen she pulled the bedclothes until she flung open the gate and came to the large rubbish bins beside the garage. She threw open the lid and stuffed the massive pile in. The sheets were no longer white but grey and brown from the dirt and all over there were rips and tears from the gravel. She smiled, in a hysterical sort of way, and laughed. The sheets—John's hold over that small corner—was no more, she could reclaim it for her own.

She didn't look back as she picked her way, barefooted, across the sharp driveway stones, hopping over the kitchen threshold. In the bedroom, the bare bed looked as though she was moving in—or perhaps out. The future was open. There were possibilities. There were adventures yet to be had. Davonna smiled and went through to the bathroom.

She left the house, a second time, not twenty minutes later. It was glorious to walk the familiar road to town as the early morning created an enchantment on an otherwise normal expanse of road and run down cottages in need of new shingles. Magic lived in the hours when blundering humans were asleep. Davonna passed Ioannis' gate and looked at the quiet house with a smile. She crossed the road, to walk in the thin grass, and let it brush against her bare legs. She shut her eyes and stood with her hand pressed into an oval hollow in the bark of an old olive tree.

After a while, when the sun had risen fully, Davonna walked on, down the hill and through town where a few husky voices could be heard. She sat on a bench by the sea. The soft continuous lapping of the calm waves and the tumbling chinks of pebbles soothed her mind. She looked out, and her heart didn't flutter in fear. She could listen to the sound of her breathing—a long absent luxury.

John was gone. Physically gone. Every bit of terror and obedience he had extracted would no longer be paid mind to. What was she afraid of? Why was the pain so real? Why was she sleeping on a window seat and not on a perfectly good bed? What could he do to her now? All the triumph of the morning seemed to float away, like dew. She couldn't draw on that strength anymore. But why?

"Why?" she screamed.

Every time he came back, her heart contracted inside of her, her whole body tensed, and she waited for the blow to fall. As though she lived still in that torturous existence, prone on the bed: powerless. Davonna drew her knees to her chest with a whimper, the weathered, wooden planks groaned. She longed for someone who understood. It was so easy for Miriam to sit on the outside and lecture her on what to do. How could Miriam understand?

Do I? Do I understand what he did to me? Do I understand why? It was useless to roll it around in one's mind like a Rubik's cube. Davonna rubbed her face and wished she could scrape away all of the tainted parts of her soul and cast them out to the sea. Maybe they would drift across the water out to the sea and sink into an abyss in the middle of a hurricane.

But it was useless, no more could you scrape away those hated parts of yourself than you could pick up the island and cast it into the sea. She jumped up, smoothed her dress, and walked towards the agora.

Savva woke in the same empty bed he had fallen asleep in. The alarm clock barked out an ungodly noise. He slapped it off and dangled his legs off the side of the bed. With a grunt he put his hands on his back and pushed; the vertebrae snapped and cracked like God's own chimes. His back was a mass of stiff muscles and creaking bones, and he could almost feel the thin, brittle fingers of old age creeping into them.

No one ever said anything about how the body changes in old age. Every step, every stretch, every movement took longer and hurt like the devil. Savva stood and padded slowly across the hall, the soft, cool, hardwood floor under his feet, and poured a glass of water. He pulled a slice of sourdough bread from the breadbox and turned to toast it. His eyes slid onto a garish, pale blue contraption where their old black toaster used to sit. There was a yellow sticky note on the side with a large sarcastic exclamation point written on it. He rolled his eyes and huffed, but he put the bread in anyway. The lever slid down easily and it didn't sputter or shake like the last one. It'd probably last a year, and the color was still garish.

His mind fell back to the case and how he'd left Booras and driven to the hotel and questioned the employee who'd taken the call from the UN. That was the point that Fitzroy had unhinged. Savva pondered the possibilities and the level of control that Fitzroy maintained over his wife... the passport, her walks into town, the garden, and now that call from the UN.

Savva leaned over to scratch his left calf. The house gurgled and shifted around him and in the silence he could just hear the faint hum of the toaster as it warmed. Then, as the bread shot out of the top, like a jack-in-the-box, a key turned in the front door. He pulled out a plate and knife, buttered the toast, and put it on a waiting wooden tray.

Shayma shuffled into the kitchen looking careworn. Her eyes were red and underneath them were thick, heavy, grey bags of exhaustion. He walked forward. He recognized this look; this particular slump of the shoulders, dragging of the purse, and the downward unseeing gaze. He could guess what happened down at the beach during the night. But right now, that couldn't be helped. With a little nod towards the bedroom, Shayma shuffled down the hallway. He followed, still carrying the tray.

Neither of them spoke. He set the tray on a grey tufted chair and then turned to Shayma and helped her sit on the edge of the bed. With slow, methodical movements he untied her shoes and slipped them carefully off her feet, pulled off her thick, grey socks and set them by the closet, pulled her arms out of her black coat, and tugged the sweater over her head, unbuttoning her wool slacks and shimmying them down her hips. She sat there, unblinking, as Savva carefully folded every item of clothing and put them away in the wardrobe. He pulled out a pair of black pajamas. Shayma's favorite, soft, thin cotton ones with the white piping.

With delicate hands, he unhooked her pale pink bra, set it carefully on a chair, and buttoned the pajama shirt over her shivering body. She stood as he pulled on the soft pants with the elastic waist. He twitched back the covers and, as carefully as though she were made of glass, he helped her into bed and pulled the worn quilt up to her chin. Her eyes slid closed as she nestled into the pillow. Savva placed the tray, with toast and water, on her nightstand.

He stood, watching his wife, even after his stomach began grumbling. Tears sprang to his eyes at the thought of what she'd been through, and it horrified him that he could do more that tucking her into bed before he left for work. All there was to do was to try and put the pieces of this ragged case together. Shayma grunted in her sleep, and Savva jumped toward the door. He grabbed the sport coat that hung on the back and walked down the hall, flinging it over a chair.

He pattered around the kitchen for a few minutes, peeking into the refrigerator and then closing it with a sigh when nothing tempted him. He was halfway down the hallway, about to look in on Shayma when he turned instead for the bathroom and set about getting ready for the day.

When he'd finished, Savva brewed a pot of coffee and took the mug out to the back garden. He sat on his favorite white metal bench. The paint was peeling off in large chunks but he didn't mind. It gave him a strange pleasure to see something imperfect and yet fully functional. He closed his eyes and listened to the cicadas as they chirped in the olive trees, and the thin whistle of the sea breeze as it skipped around corners and fluttered loose shutters. Every so often a car rumbled down the pitted road in front of his house, metal grinding and tires thumping.

A dreadful pinging broke the quiet solitude and Savva scrambled to sit up straight and fish his phone from the pocket of his trousers.

"What?" he growled into the phone.

"Kalimera, Sir."

"What the hell do you want, Booras?"

"I just called to let you know that we found Goldstein's prints on a few items taken from the Fitzroy house."

"What items. Be specific?"

"Some paperwork in John's office regarding his financials. We dusted it all. The ninhydrin lit up like a Christmas tree all over the papers. All Goldstein's prints."

"Now isn't that something," Savva said, slowly. He rose from the chair and strode to the corner of the garden.

"That puts him in the Fitzroy House during the time frame that the Morgan was tampered with."

"It does indeed."

"I also phoned the UN Interpretation Office to confirm that they called the hotel and talked to Fitzroy. The supervisor I spoke to was the one who made the call. She said that she asked Fitzroy for Davonna's contact details so they could speak about a potential job opening. She said Fitzroy was calm on the phone but clipped like he wanted to get off as soon as possible. Before we hung up, she mentioned he had said that his wife wouldn't be at all interested. She found that odd because Davonna had always been so passionate about her job."

"That's more or less what I thought would be the case."

"I'm sorry, Sir, I thought you'd be upset about this."

"Why should I be upset? Davonna Fitzroy doesn't fit the bill. We've searched their phone records and her computer history but she hasn't contacted the UN herself. They were obviously searching for her. But back to the burglary, what if Goldstein found whatever it was he was looking for? We know that Fitzroy knew about the break-in. What if he searched his office and realized what was missing?"

"We'd need to know what it was."

"We would indeed. All right, well, good work, Booras. I'm off."

"Off where, Sir?"

"Off to catch a lobster, I mean mobster," he said, with a chuckle.

"One more thing, Sir," Booras screeched.

"What?"

"The hotel is up for sale."

Savva's car slid to a stop in the hotel drive, scattering employees and rocks alike. He bounded up the steps, yanked on his sport coat and yelled out, "Leave it there," to the valets behind him. He found Anthony Goldstein in his office. A furious outburst was building on his lips as Savva burst in. The room smelled of spicy cologne and vanilla. A large white candle burned on the conference table.

"What on earth do you want?" Goldstein said. He lowered himself back into the chair, his top lip curled.

Savva sat in the chair opposite and leaned comfortably back. "As I was drinking my coffee this morning, I received a interesting call from my sergeant."

"And?" Goldstein said, imperiously.

"Sergeant Booras was kind enough to inform me that the hotel has been put on the market for sale."

Goldstein's mouth snapped shut and Savva bit back a laugh.

"I may do what I like with my assets, Captain."

"Oh, no doubt. It's obvious the hotel hasn't made money in a while. I'd be quick to get rid of it too... especially after all the money you've poured into it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You'll no doubt remember the court order for the hotel's finances," Savva said, brightly. "We also obtained John Fitzroy's financial records. What surprised me most were Fitzroy's monthly payments to your account."

"Those were business transactions."

"Indeed. It's no secret you went into business with Fitzroy, since he didn't have enough to buy the hotel. Why was he making those payments to you?"

"Expenses."

"You won't give me any specifics?"

"I don't see why that's necessary. It's not pertinent."

"Is that so?" Savva said brightly, a grin breaking across his face. "Let me paint a picture for you, Mr. Goldstein; so you understand the gravity of the situation. The hotel was bought by both of you and you provided more than half of the funds. Interestingly enough, you are also named as equal partners in the business. John Fitzroy was making monthly payments to you to repay the massive amount you had invested. Six months ago he stopped altogether. Even two visits a month weren't enough to squeeze more money out of him.

"Now if that wasn't enough... your prints were found at the Fitzroy house... in John's home office no less. An open staple was found on John's desk as well: curiously, not far away from your prints. Now, I have to ask myself, Mr. Goldstein, what was it you were after?" Savva asked, calmly, as though they were talking about nothing more consequential than the expected rain tomorrow.

"I met John for a business meeting," Goldstein said, slowly.

"Indeed? Mrs. Fitzroy made no mention of it. She never even knew John had a partner." Goldstein stared at Savva, his fingers curled into throbbing fists. "Now, I'm going to give you the chance to be honest with me: what did you take?"

"I didn't take a thing."

"Indeed. Well allow me to say just this: by your own admission, you were at the Fitzroy house and your prints place you in John's office. You were illegally on the premises during the timeframe John Fitzroy's car was tampered with. You have means, motive, and opportunity. You're my new favorite suspect.

"Now, all I have to do is drop a line to opposing counsel, that there is sufficient enough evidence to arrest you for the crime. That's all it would take to exonerate Mrs. Fitzroy, and have you charged instead."

"You wouldn't dare; you'd lose your job," Goldstein spat. His face was the color of red currants and Savva's gut twisted uncomfortably. If he pressed too far, the man would snap. Violently.

"You know I'm exhausted from policing, I don't care if this is my last case. I'd rather just sail. Now tell me the truth, or you'll go down for murder."

Goldstein's face contorted under the waves of fury, which coursed through him. Then, it was as if the dam burst and the fury burned out and was replaced with resignation.

"I didn't kill him."

"Alright."

Goldstein shook his head. "Fitzroy was blackmailing me. Somehow he'd gotten his hands on some sensitive material about another of my businesses. He gave me an ultimatum: either forgive the debt or he'd make these papers available to the media, Interpol, the Greek Police, you name it. I chose neither and broke into the house to get the documents back."

"Your business with the mafía, you mean."

Goldstein snarled, "I didn't say that."

"Fine," Savva said imperiously, "... don't tell me. But it's too coincidental that John died not long after you burgled his home. I can imagine what you'd do when he no longer had any power over you."

"I didn't kill him," Goldstein shouted. "I'm a part of my daughter's life again. Why would I kill Fitzroy? Why would I mess with my relationship with my daughter?"

"He was screwing her for one."

"Whatever. It wasn't serious. Her mother says she's always been like this; in the end she comes around. She doesn't talk about him anymore."

"All the more reason to kill him."

"I didn't do it."

"Then who did?" Savva said gently, as if he were addressing a tantrum-throwing three-year-old.

"I don't know. But Fitzroy was an evil bastard. He didn't care who he hurt, even my twenty-two-year-old daughter. He took pleasure in my pain; he knew I hated him for it. Whoever killed him did the world a favor."

"So what happens to the hotel?"

"I'll sell it."

"Not if you're convicted."

"Aside from this conversation, you don't have any proof of any wrongdoing on my part," Goldstein said.

"Perhaps not, but if you step out of line, if there's any trouble with a whisper of your name attached to it, I'll make it my life's work to bring you down."

"Understood."

Davonna trudged up the road to the house lugging three bags of sheets and pillows. She paused to rest, set the huge bags in the dirt, and looked out across the island. It didn't matter how long she'd lived here, or how many times she'd walked to town; the warmth of the sun, the chirruping cicadas, even the dust that looked like the will-o-the-wisps made her smile. Greece was untamed; in the way Scotland was untamed. The rolling hills, the difficult soil, and the hardiness of the people—they were kindred spirits from afar. And after the last few weeks, that was a kind thought indeed.

She walked through the gate and up the drive. She didn't bother to look at the house. It had somehow receded into the background. She nudged open the front door, placed the bags to the side, and found a note from Miriam that said she'd taken the car for a long drive around the island and had taken a lunch basket. Davonna held the note lightly in her hand and sighed. She felt like the little sister again, left behind because she'd make too much of a fuss or be too great a burden, left behind like baggage.

She hated that Miriam had to witness this horrible time. Where was the justice in John's death? Wasn't it obvious that she hadn't killed him? But was it? She liked to think that Captain Savva was unsure of her guilt, but he was difficult to read.

The arrest, and the looming threat of incarceration, stalled her joy at being free. Or perhaps that's what she told herself; perhaps she was stuck, frozen, because she was incapable of moving on, incapable of free thought or ownership of her mind.

That was the greatest pain of all; John's wheedling fingers corroded everything he touched. Davonna slumped to the floor in a heap. She didn't feel like a forty-something woman. She felt like a child and an old woman all at once, stuck in childish thinking and worn out beyond comprehension. Perhaps that's why Miriam left: to be free of the cold despair and to live in the sun once more.

There was a great, heaving knock on the door, and Davonna twisted around. It couldn't be Miriam already. Had she come back to get her little sister and take her away for one happy afternoon? Davonna pushed the bags against the wall, the plastic crinkled loudly. She flung open the door, ready to tell Miriam to wait so she could go get a bottle of water, but it wasn't Miriam in her scarf, tied around her glorious hair, like the Queen. It was her now, regular visitor Captain Savva, who looked both harassed and expectant.

"Hello," Davonna said, flatly. Her joy and happiness whooshed out the door like a popped balloon.

"I was wondering whether I could have a word, Mrs. Fitzroy," Savva said. He played with his fingers and gazed at her in desperation.

"My attorney has advised me not to speak to you without her present," Davonna said. And if she could've seen herself then, she would have been proud—proud of the steel in her eyes, proud of the regal tilt of her head, proud of her strength (even if it was feigned).

"I'd like to speak to you as... a friend."

Davonna's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, are we friends?"

Savva smiled and he looked handsome, shorn of his professionalism. "I'd like to think we are. Whatever you tell me will be strictly off the record."

Davonna shuffled her feet and bit her lip. "Come in."

"Thank you."

Savva followed and frowned when they didn't turn into the sitting room, but instead walked to the back of the house and through the tall double doors into a library. Davonna smiled at his confusion.

"I thought we'd talk in here. The drawing room is for acquaintances."

"Thank you," Savva said, and took a seat in one of the tufted leather armchairs.

"This has always been my favorite room. John didn't read. He didn't read a single book after he graduated university. Actually, he probably didn't read any in university either," Davonna mused. "Do you read, Captain Savva?"

"I do. But I'm picky because I tend to fall asleep."

Davonna smiled, but she couldn't understand Savva's issue. "What is it you wanted to ask me?" She pulled her legs tight beneath her and looked at the man before her with trepidation.

Savva hesitated, considering his way forward, and Davonna wondered whether he'd thought about what he was going to say. "I found your passport, Mrs. Fitzroy."

Whatever Davonna thought he might begin with; it was not that. She stared at him without blinking. The silence lengthened between them, and Savva opened his mouth to repeat his statement, when Davonna found her voice.

"Where was it?"

"It was in an old, padlocked metal toolbox. It was hidden by a false bottom."

"Was there anything else?"

"No, there wasn't."

Davonna could barely maintain her composure, thoughts and emotions swirled around her mind like snowflakes in a blizzard. "Why was it in there?"

"You said your husband had taken it perhaps two years previously?"

"Yes."

"You also said he'd taken it to punish you. Why would he want to do that?" Savva pressed lightly.

Davonna frowned at the Persian carpet and was miles away. How could she possibly answer? "He was always in control."

"What do you mean?"

Davonna looked at him, her eyes full of pain, and she hesitated. It all hinged on what she said now, and whether she could trust this man with her life.

She swallowed, the saliva caught in her parched throat. "Can I trust you, Captain Savva?"

"What do you mean?"

"Against self incrimination... can I trust you not to use what I say?"

"I'm not here professionally, but I would like to know. I'd like to help you."

Davonna could hear the pleading in his voice and in a moment, a strange fleeting moment, she was ready to tell him. To let it all go.

"John told me where to go, where not to go, when to go, when not to go, who to see, who not to see, what to do, what not to do, what to think, what not to think... when to have sex, and when not to have sex."

Savva blinked. In a rush, it all made severe sense. The woman who didn't grieve her husband. The woman who couldn't look a man full in the eye. The woman who walked miles in the heat with sacks full of groceries. The woman who puked when told her husband was murdered. The woman with weary eyes. The woman full of pain. He understood it all now.

"I've shocked you," Davonna said, tonelessly.

Inside she was tormented. Her stomach was back in knots, and her heart thumped so wildly against her chest she thought it might burst. Wild thoughts careened through her mind. Savva had lured her here, under false pretenses, to get a confession, to find the final evidence. He was here to throw her into some dark cell. Her friend! Hah!

"No, you haven't shocked me. It makes sense."

"What makes sense?"

"Your behavior."

"I didn't KILL him!" Davonna shouted, half rising from her chair.

Savva smiled and waved his hand for her to relax. "I don't believe you killed him, and I'm not sure I ever thought you did. Unfortunately, what I believe doesn't matter. The evidence points to you, or at least it did, until today. There are, however, questions, I do have."

"Go ahead." Her bottom lip trembled. Dear God, she thought, let this be over soon. It was too much to bear—standing upon the edge of a knife, waiting for the blow to fall.

"Did John ever hit you?"

"Yes." It did not occur to Davonna to lie. She had already passed the point of no return.

"How often?"

"He hit me when I misbehaved. When I wasn't 'turned on' enough during sex. When dinner wasn't ready on time or burnt or poorly made. When the house wasn't clean. When I talked to someone he didn't like. For a hundred different reasons. It was my fault he hit me," Davonna recited. She pulled herself out of the pain, and hovered above the woman on the chair. She didn't want to feel her pain, didn't want to drown in the trauma.

"Was it regular? The abuse?"

"It wasn't only physical. He manipulated me. I belonged to him. I can't sleep in my own bed. I can't talk to anyone without his threats, his presence hanging over me, like a guillotine blade. I am... I haven't owned my own mind for a long time."

Savva stared at her horrified, and Davonna bit her lip. Was she imagining the sympathy and pain in his eyes? Was it pity or revulsion? Did he care? Did he hit his wife too?

"I... I am so sorry, Mrs. Fitzroy,"

"Davonna," she said, "... since we are friends now and you know everything."

"Do you know how John treated other women, the ones before you?"

"He liked to control me. I don't know what he did to other women, but I assume it wasn't easy for them."

"I've spoken to a friend of his from The Royal Horseguards. This friend went to university with him."

"Peter Burroughs."

"Yes, Peter. Peter stipulates that during university John hit a girlfriend after she made a joke about his poor performance in bed."

Davonna only smiled weakly.

"Does that sound like him?"

"Yes," whispered Davonna. "He was always very prideful, especially in that area."

"I see."

"I don't know what this has to do with me, or my arrest." She slumped into the chair. Defeat fell all around her.

"Peter Burroughs went to dinner with John while they attended the conference in London and said John was severely upset about something you'd done. He used the word "betrayed." Do you know what he was referring to?"

Davonna gaped at the man across from her. "I have no idea. The day he left, all we talked about was the list for the garden. Which I lied about, we didn't write it out together. John inspected the garden, wrote down what I needed to do, and said if the list wasn't finished before he got back there would be consequences."

"I thought as much," Savva said. "Did you argue? Did you speak to someone or go somewhere he didn't like?"

"No, I rarely say more than 'hello' to Ioannis and Theodora. I sometimes speak to Thanos when I'm waiting for the bakery to open. But John was always at work."

Savva stuck his hand inside the pocket of his blazer. "I managed to get the phone records for John's office phone at the hotel. There's a call from the UN Interpretation Service."

"What? I haven't spoken to them in years."

"It was a three minute conversation."

"What did they want? What did he do?"

"Well I'm afraid that part becomes a little hazy. My sergeant called the office today and was informed that they had asked for your information because of a job opening. Because of how he reacted with Peter Burroughs, John must have taken it to mean that you had applied. I assume that was why he felt you had betrayed him and why he said you would pay for it."

"But John never said anything about a call from the UN! When did he receive it?"

"Three days before he left for London."

"I swear he never said anything to me. I haven't applied or called about a job!"

"Please relax, Davonna, I've already spoken to them. They wanted to approach you about a managerial position."

"But what did he mean? Making sure I would pay... I haven't paid..."

Her eyes filled with a terrible fear and they locked on Savva's. She went cold, as though her blood had turned to ice. She couldn't breathe. The walls had all fallen away and she was standing on the edge of an abyss, waiting for the monster within to devour her.

Savva looked sideways at her for a moment and then his eyes went as round as a pound coin. He sunk back against the back of his chair. He deflated in the leather chair, as if the force of gravity had somehow doubled.

"He killed himself," they said together.

Savva left Davonna as quickly as he could and went straight to the police department. The question of what to do swung, like a pendulum, in his mind. He pulled himself out of the cycle to find himself sitting in his office chair, thumbing through files.

"Have a minute?"

Savva jerked his head around, in the doorway stood Rallis. Savva grunted and motioned him through.

"Your handwriting specialist called me."

"That was quick."

"He called to say definitively they are the same person."

"How on earth could he know that?"

"He said, about the list for the garden, you can see it in the shape of the g's as well as the random letters which are written in cursive. Also the writer is, without a doubt, left handed."

"He'll testify?"

"Well, he said to give him a couple days to double check, but he's sure."

"Damn..." whispered Savva.

"Something wrong?" Rallis leaned forward and put his hand on the edge of Savva's desk.

"John Fitzroy wrote the garden note. Mrs. Fitzroy told me," Savva said. "But what's interesting is that Fitzroy's girlfriend swore up and down that Davonna wrote the second note—the one with all the demands."

"She couldn't have done. Aside from the obvious fact that she's right handed, precluding ambidexterity."

"John Fitzroy forged the note in order to cast suspicion on his wife."

"You don't know that."

"I spoke to a friend of his, an old colleague. Fitzroy ranted about his wife's 'betrayal' and vowed to make her pay. Then he goes on to show his mistress and his friend this 'note.' He created the evidence to frame her."

"You think he wanted her to be a suspect?"

"I think he wanted her in prison."

"Why?"

"What started all of this was the situation with Anthony Goldstein. The hotel was failing, the evidence he was blackmailing Goldstein with was stolen: he was ruined.

"Then he receives a phone call at work three days prior to the London trip. The phone call was from Mrs. Fitzroy's former employer. It's the proverbial ball drop, something snaps. The night before he leaves, Mrs. Fitzroy sees him go into the garage and stay there for an extended period of time. It fits with the evidence. Mrs. Fitzroy doesn't have any knowledge of the Morgan—she could have done something simpler, and more hotheaded, if she wanted to get rid of him.

"So, John knows the gig is up. Who knows what Goldstein would do to him? He saws halfway through the brake lines, concocts a story, spreading lies about how awful his wife is. The friend I spoke to, Peter Burroughs confirmed John had been violent to a girlfriend before. It's not a leap at all to conclude that John Fitzroy cut the brake lines on his car in order to frame his wife for murder. He even turned around so he could go off the cliff and make it look like the car was out of control."

Rallis whistled. "What a piece of work. But there's no way to prove it."

"I'm going to give it all to her lawyer. Then I'm going to go upstairs to tell Kleitos about my reservations."

"You could get fired."

"What do you think this is about? Huh? This is about an innocent woman who is being traumatized by her husband—even after his death. This is about justice and the law. I don't care about my job. Let him fire me. I'll still be called as a witness. I'm the lead on this case."

"You're talking about blackmailing Kleitos into dropping the charges."

"No. Blackmail entails a 'you do this so I won't do this' sort of agreement. I'm going to call Sofia Gabris now. It's Kleitos' decision whether he sees the light or makes it harder for himself down the line."

"Bloody hell, man," Rallis said, smiling as Savva frowned. "It's what the English say, isn't it?"

The two men laughed before Savva remembered himself and sobered up.

"I'll back you with Kleitos," Rallis said quietly.

"No."

"Savva, you aren't the only one with professional ethics. John Fitzroy committing suicide with the intention of framing his wife for his death is the only answer that fits with all the evidence."

"Yeah, well, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

He picked up the phone, still pleased with himself, but worried about what Shayma would say. What would happen when he was fired and their income dropped to nothing? But he saw her smiling face, the woman who had come out of the sea, saw her clear belief in right and wrong, and in God's providence. He didn't believe in it; but she could. He was happy to support her.

Sofia Gabris answered on the second ring, and was immediately furious that he'd spoken to Davonna alone. Savva had to shout before she fell silent. He laid out the facts. It was quiet on the other end of the line when he'd finished.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't want an innocent person to be hurt."

"I've heard rumors about you, Captain Savva."

"Oh yes?" Savva replied, but he didn't care to hear. All he wanted was quick compliance.

"I've heard that you're fair, that you follow the law, and that you're a bit of a loose cannon as far as the department is concerned."

"Sounds about right."

"I'll hire you as an investigator for my firm, if you get sacked."

Savva blinked, "I'm not sure I'm ready to work for a bunch of lawyers just yet."

"I'll owe you. You're a good man," she laughed and hung up.

Savva rolled his eyes at the ceiling. He picked up the phone and called the desk sergeant.

"Colonel Kleitos in?"

"Yes, Sir. Shall I pass you on to his office?"

"Nah," Savva said. He scooped up Fitzroy's file and headed upstairs. "Afternoon, Sir," Savva said, as he strolled through the doors to the office.

Kleitos looked up from his briefcase, and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "What is it, Savva? I've got a meeting in ten minutes"

"I'd like to let you know my thoughts on the Fitzroy case."

"Oh, good god, man. Can't it wait?"

"No, it can't, Sir. I have good reason to believe that Davonna Fitzroy did not, in fact, kill her husband."

"Oh, you do, do you?" Kleitos said, slowly. His face turned sharp and he steepled his fingers as he spoke, "And precisely what makes you believe that? Hard evidence I suppose?"

"Yes, Sir, evidence."

Savva proceeded to lay out what he'd collected: the passport: Davonna's testimony about their marriage; John's time in the garage; the handwriting analysis on the notes; Anthony Goldstein's confession; and ended with Peter Burroughs and John's previous violence.

"That's it?"

"She didn't do it, Sir."

"That's supposition."

"Supposition, Sir, is what was used to arrest her. We have no hard evidence linking her to the crime. In fact," Savva said, working hard to control his tone, "... the only prints on the tool used to cut the brake lines are John Fitzroy's."

"Which can be explained because he used the garage."

"Yes, Sir, he used the garage, not Mrs. Fitzroy. She's rarely seen driving. The only explanation, which fits, is that John Fitzroy staged his death to look as though his wife had killed him. He was going to be ruined financially, if not worse, and he chose to get back at Mrs. Fitzroy after receiving a phone call from the UN."

"You go too far," Kleitos sputtered.

"Rallis will back me up on this."

"I don't give a damn who backs you up, Savva! Davonna Fitzroy will be tried and found guilty and be sentenced with the maximum allowed."

"Not with my help, Sir."

"What? What did you say?"

"I can't go against my conscience. I'll be frank, on the stand, about my reservations. All the defense has to prove is there's another explanation for what happened and Anthony Goldstein is sitting pretty on a silver platter just waiting to be served. The state has to prove beyond a doubt that only Davonna Fitzroy could have done it."

"I'll have your badge."

"Go ahead, Sir. I'll still testify the same way. Sofia Gabris has also been made aware of my thoughts on the case. I'm sure there's a high chance that Mrs. Fitzroy won't be found guilty. It'll look badly on you, Sir, when you could have dealt with this before trial."

"God damn you," Kleitos sputtered.

"Sir, respectfully, you don't have anything to threaten me with. You either remove the charges or not. It's up to you." Savva stepped back and enjoyed the delightful array of colors on Kleitos' face. It was like watching the sun set over a thick bank of clouds.

He was in the parking lot when his phone rang. Kleitos' office. A wide, gleeful smile broke over his face.

XVIII

Τώρα που ζω, θέλω να γδω τα πιθυμάω κι ορίζω, κι άμα, σα φύγω να με κλαίς,χάρη δε στο γνωρίζω.

Now that I am alive, I want to see, to wish and own, when I'm gone and you cry for me I won't know it.

Savva pulled into the driveway of the Fitzroy House, but didn't bother to look up at it. He had it memorized the exact number of red shutters on the front (four), the number of marble pillars (twenty-four), and the number of feet between the garage and the kitchen door (one hundred). How long had it been on his mind, the pink house with its strange occupant? It was like the unfinished song that rolls around in your mind for days on end or the book you lost at the precise moment that the man stuck alone on a mountain was eating his last meal.

But at least, here it was, the ending, the ever-elusive answer. Savva pulled up, directly in front of the huge glass doors. The day was closing; already the island had started to cool. The wind bore a faint hint of the sea. It rippled the hem of his suit coat, pulled at the dark green hedges like a lover, and bore the whistling merry tune of the waves and the cicadas across expanses of olive groves and fine houses and graffitied ruins.

Savva pulled open the glass door and let himself through. Sharp, cool air blew softly in his face and he relaxed, letting his shoulders fall. He closed his eyes, just to take pleasure in the moment, and then he raised his hand, with a strange smile on his face, and knocked sharply on the door.

Davonna sat, curled on a chair, where else but in the library, looking east, staring unseeing at the garden. How much more time was left to sit here in the stability of her books? Would she soon be tied to a prison schedule in a concrete room with nothing to keep her sane? Would she succumb to the uselessness of life behind bars? Would she ever survive? Would Savva just continue on, trying to solve cases without a second thought for her?

Davonna put her hands over her face, horribly defeated. It was all too much ... too much for any mind to process. Why? Why? When had life gone so terribly wrong that her husband felt the only recourse she deserved was to go to jail for his murder? Why?

But there was no answer. There was only heartbreak and silence. A knock sounded on the door, loud, insistent. Davonna rose mechanically and walked across the hall towards the front doors.

"Captain Savva?" she said, uncertainly, as if she didn't know whether at this moment he was friend or foe. Was it possible for him to be both?

"May I come in, Mrs. Fitzroy?"

"Yes," she said. Her mouth had turned to sandpaper; she couldn't form a more polite response.

"Where would you like to sit?"

Davonna couldn't move her feet, all she could do was blink and pick at the hem of her white silk shirt.

"May we sit in the library?" he asked.

He led her gently, as though she was an injured wild animal. He took her hand in his and walked slowly, padding over the Persian carpets, past the marble busts and the expensive pastoral landscapes hanging on the walls, and through the thick doors to the quietness of Davonna's sanctuary.

Even my own chair, Davonna thought, as he set her into it. Was this the behavior of a foe? Did they so softly lead you to your demise? Did they sit across from you with such a bright smile?

"It's good to see you again." Her voice was strained, as though her throat had been ravaged by a hacking cough.

"I wanted to come and give you the news in person."

"I'm going back to jail, aren't I?" Large, fat, painful tears slid down her cheeks. Tears of remembrance. Tears of frustration. Tears of fate.

Savva half stood and scooted his chair close. Davonna cringed at the sound of the scratch marks on the pristine floors. He once more took her hand in his. His dark eyes were hung with sorrow, but suddenly his brows unfurled and his cheeks rose and his teeth appeared. He was lovely in a way she hadn't seen before. There was goodness about him like a light.

"My boss," Savva began, but he couldn't help smiling hugely. "My boss and the prosecutor have decided there isn't sufficient evidence to charge you with John's death and the evidence in fact forces us to rule John's death a suicide."

Davonna convulsed forward, her hand flew to her mouth, and she looked out at Savva with wide, uncomprehending eyes. He smiled and then his body too convulsed and in a moment they were laughing. Laughing like two old and very dear friends over a joke not heard for decades.

She held onto his hand like an anchor. All around her something began crashing down, like a glass ceiling during an earthquake. Her head fell back against the chair and she met, whatever it was that was shattering, as though they were drops of rain on parched land or snowflakes caught on the tongue.

How long did they sit there, holding onto each other, laughing, crying for joy, unable to contain the tide? Did Savva really pull out a handkerchief and wipe his eyes? Did people still carry those around? Did she really hiccup herself into seriousness only to collapse into laughter once more?

"Your sister will think we've gone mad," Savva said, with a tail-end chuckle.

"That ship sailed a long time ago."

"Maybe she'll be friends with mad people."

"I'd like that."

They looked at each other for a minute or two. Davonna grinned, amazed at the change in Savva. He looked a thousand times lighter and more peaceful, and there was a gleam in his eye as though any moment now he'd announce that he was off to travel the world: to drink margaritas in Mexico, climb Everest, and dive the Great Barrier Reef.

"Have you talked to Sofia?"

"I have. She offered me a job, but as I've managed to still retain mine; I had to give my regrets."

"I'm surprised she didn't tell me."

"I asked her not to. This is my way of making it up to you."

"You were only doing your job, Captain."

Savva waved his hand as though he was shooing away a pesky fly. "Alexandros, please, now that we aren't at cross purposes anymore."

"Alright," she said with a smile. "I'm glad you came to tell me yourself. I don't think I would have laughed as well with Sofia."

"Perhaps not. I'm happy to help."

Another happy silence filled the room. Davonna finally let go of Savva's (no, Alexandros's) hand and curled back into the chair comfortably. She turned to look out the window. The slowly setting sun had turned the garden into a symphony of color, all pinks and oranges and blue-tinted green.

"It's a beautiful view."

"I was only ever happy in this room and out there."

Alexandros looked up; a frown replaced the mirth and peace. "You don't have to tell me, but I'm here if you need someone to listen."

Davonna didn't look at the police officer with his strange ways and kind heart. She looked out to the garden and saw herself, that week—the week before John died, toiling away. The dirt caked under her nails. The way her scalp burned, even under the hat. The sharp stings of rose thorns. The unending line of hedges to be trimmed and trees to be shaped. The burn in her shoulders as she wielded the heavy shears hour after hour.

"I'm not sure how it happened. We met in a normal way. He was good looking and had a solid career. He was charming. Our life was happy. John had an inheritance from his parents. And I, I had a large savings, it's how we could afford this, John insisted on 'the best' and I let him. Most of the money is tied up in this house. I insisted that the money my parents left me be put in a time-controlled account, he said no, he wanted to invest, and I said I'd already done it. He was furious.

"He changed right as he made the decision to move for work. I didn't want to. It was a lot to give up; the profession I'd spent my entire adult life preparing for. But in the end, I did. We moved. I don't know whether he saw that as total submission, whether he could get away with anything because we'd moved away from all I'd ever known.

"Of course he started the affair with Megan, and every day I became less and less..." Davonna struggled to find the word, "... human to him."

Savva heaved a sigh, but Davonna, she was firmly in the past, reliving those changing days.

"He forced himself on me every night. He hurt me. Some were worse than others. But I never told him no. How could I? He controlled my life by then: the money, the house, where I went and whom I saw. Somehow I'd married a monster. I've said it before... but I know it's true.

"I tried so hard to be good, to do even more than he asked. To never give him recourse to hurt me. I brought up his affair with Megan once, at the very beginning. I never asked him to be faithful. I did everything I was supposed to do... and it still happened." Davonna broke off, overcome by the weight of it, by the insanity.

"You think you could have prevented it?" he whispered.

Davonna looked up with a start, just remembering that he was there and that she'd spoken aloud. "I thought so."

Alexandros put out his hands and held both of hers. "I've investigated so many rapes over the years that I've lost track. The facts might be different, but a common thread held every case together—it was never the victim's fault. There is nothing she, or he, could have done differently. We like to tell ourselves, the media especially, that the girl was drunk or she wore revealing clothes or she was flirting at the bar, or that the young man was gay, and, it's very subtle, but somehow they deserved it, they did something to cause themselves to be assaulted.

"They weren't smart enough to stop someone from raping them. We blame the victim because it would be too horrifying to accept the fact that men rape because they want to and there is precious little that can be done to prevent it. Because sometimes life is random and unspeakable horrors can happen to anyone—no matter how perfect you are." Alexandros took a deep breath, and held tighter to Davonna's hand. "My daughter Minerva died in a boating accident on the Aegean. Well, that's the official version. Her boyfriend raped her. In his lust, and his narcissism, he thought she owed him. He forgot about the boat. He raped her and moments later the boat crashed into a massive rock and tore open the hull. He managed to escape, but she drowned. He let her drown so she couldn't tell anyone what he'd done."

Davonna looked at Alexandros, her eyes as big as saucers, her hand covering her mouth. The lightheartedness which filled the room, only minutes before, was gone, not even a wisp of it remained.

"I didn't tell you to upset you, just to let you know that you aren't to blame. You never were."

"But I never left..."

"You loved him. That's not a crime."

"I'm so sorry about your daughter."

Alexandros leaned back, finally letting go of Davonna's cold, thin hand, and smiled. "She was a beautiful girl, but not just her face. She was kindness incarnate. I couldn't have been more proud of the woman she was. All a parent could ever hope for their child... she had it."

"You miss her."

"Every day." Alexandros stood and walked to the massive windows. "You'll be alright, Davonna, one day you'll look back and it will be better. Something good will come from all this."

"Thank you for what you did."

Alexandros turned, a frown creased his brow. "I just did my job."

"Oh no," Davonna said, standing up and joining him. "You did so much more. I owe you my life."

She looked across at the man who'd been through the whole ordeal as well and something broke inside her. It was deeper than the crash of the splintering ceiling... there was a fissure in her very soul and it was letting in light.

In front of her, Savva had tears in his eyes. He opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment the door swung open.

"Have I missed something?" Miriam's sharp accusatory tone echoed around the room.

Alexandros blinked away the tears and slipped the mask of professionalism back on. "I've come to tell Mrs. Fitzroy that the prosecutor has decided to drop the charges. She's a free woman."

"Well, it's about time," Miriam seethed.

"Captain Savva was kind enough to come himself and tell me. It wasn't a personal vendetta, he was doing his job."

Miriam looked daggers at Savva before rolling her eyes and nodding in Davonna's general direction.

"I'll see myself out, Mrs. Fitzroy. I am sorry for what you have been through, and I wish you smooth sailing from now on."

"Thank you."

He didn't try to touch her again, although she was seized with a desire to hug him. He just inclined his head at Miriam and left as quietly and as unexpectedly as he had come.

"What on earth happened between you two?"

Davonna leaned against the windows and thought longingly of the bathtub upstairs. "They've ruled John's death a suicide."

Miriam stuttered her shock and then launched into a tirade.

"I'm tired," Davonna said, and Miriam fell silent immediately. "I think I'll take a bath. Perhaps a glass of wine."

"Davonna, what are you going to do, I mean beyond the bath? You're free, you can go home. Home—home"

"I haven't figured that out."

The bags were packed, the flight booked, and all that remained was for Miriam to board the ferry. Davonna woke early with a strange weight on her chest. The house would be empty in a few hours. There wouldn't be anyone to cook for, no one's sheets to change, no company to sit in the gazebo with and reminisce about childhood.

But then, Miriam wouldn't be looking over her shoulder either. Davonna would be free, unencumbered by her sister's ideas of convention and her own guilt. Behind the facade, Davonna knew that Miriam was tormented by the fact she hadn't noticed what John was doing—that she didn't intervene when she could have.

Davonna sighed, twitched back the curtains, flung open the shutters, and looked out into the early dawn. It was so calm, the soft breeze caressed the leaves, pushed them against their mates, mimicking the sound of falling rain, orchestrating a private symphony. Davonna leaned out the window, closed her eyes, and drank in the music and the peace. Her fingers grasped the windowsill, but in her mind she floated out the window, over the garden, up the hill, and then hovered over the sea, skimming its face with the tips of her fingers.

"Where are you?"

Davonna turned. Miriam stood in the doorway, still in her black pajamas, her hair loose and tangled, slung over one shoulder. There were dark smudges of black under her eyes, perhaps she hadn't removed all her mascara the night before. "I was flying."

"Where to?"

"Just over the island," she said, and looked back out the window. Miriam frowned behind her. "What time do you have to leave?"

"The ferry leaves at two," Miriam answered

"It's peaceful this morning," Davonna said, wistfully.

"Are you alright?"

"You didn't notice the sunrise?"

"No, I was asleep."

"I've always loved the mornings."

"Come on, let's go eat breakfast."

Davonna didn't move, but continued to stare thirstily out the window. Miriam bit her lip, hesitated for a moment, and then making up her mind, walked forward and steered her downstairs.

"What is it?" Miriam said, setting down a plate of poached eggs and avocado toast.

Davonna stared at the plate, as though she had only realized they'd come downstairs. She shook her head experimentally. "I'm sorry, I was miles away."

"Are you alright?" Miriam said, nervously. "I don't have to leave if you aren't well."

"No, your family needs you home. I'm fine. I just blanked out."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Being alone."

"I don't have to leave," Miriam repeated.

"It'll be good for me. I need to process it all. I need to be able to cope on my own and not always have someone to fall back on."

"That's not a terrible thing to have."

"How will I grow? How will I get better, if I never learn to be alone?"

"It wasn't right what he did to you. He treated you terribly."

"Yes, he did," Davonna said slowly. "But now he's gone, and I'm free. I'm seeing the psychologist Sofia suggested."

"But are you? Are you free?"

Davonna stared at her sister. The kitchen fell silent as a tomb around them. It was only the sound of their breathing that filled the space. It was as though they'd fallen into a movie, shards of memory flipped and furled around her; John's car being slowly swallowed by the sea, Ioannis waving a tearful farewell, Miriam's fierce face when Savva arrested her.

Davonna bowed her shoulders under the weight of it. Was it possible to carry on? What would she do? Where should she go? Should she go at all?

"I'm fine," she heard herself say. "Sit and eat."

Miriam dithered on the spot but eventually grabbed her cup of tea from the counter and sat across from Davonna. They didn't speak, but the silence, which continued to fill the kitchen, was now a kind one. The sun shone through the window, bright and full, glinting off the stainless steel appliances and copper pots hung on the walls.

Miriam finished her tea and went silently upstairs. Davonna stood by the sink, absentmindedly washing the dishes. Was it that long ago that John's schedule and mood ruled her day? She felt the tug, even now, to start on chores, to dust and vacuum and mop and bend over crevices to ferret out dirt.

At times it was as though he was still there, still hovering. The weight of it settled over her chest. Even the reality that she wouldn't be going to jail did nothing to displace it. John had framed her. He was happy thinking of her rotting away in a Greek prison, forever tied to the spot he'd chosen—her final resting place.

Davonna covered her face with her hands, forgetting they were covered in suds. She sputtered and plucked a towel from the oven door. Her hands shook, her knees wobbled. She collapsed. Fell onto the floor. Watched the abyss come closer, carrying John's face with it. His sharp laughter rang out, echoing inside her skull, and shattering the illusion that he was gone.

She looked up; her breathing shallow, shaking uncontrollably, barely clinging onto the edge of reality. Her eyes caught an item out of place. She blinked. There on the table, one of her cups, the purple Queen Victoria collection. Miriam. She clung onto the idea of her sister, at first only the name, and then the sound of her laugh, the way her eyes crinkled into slits, and then memories... on and on until she came to the earliest memory she had. Playing on the grounds of Culzean Castle in Ayrshire. Miriam dipped her toes into the fountain in the garden when their parents weren't watching.

With a gasp, Davonna opened her eyes. Scotland was gone. Whatever it was had passed. The darkness was no longer visible. She was back in the kitchen, on the cool floor, the sound of Miriam packing coming through the ceiling. But she was exhausted. She tried to pull herself up, but her arm refused to move. The thought of Miriam finding her, worrying, refusing to leave, acted like a stimulant and she managed to life herself onto a chair.

"Do you want to go to the beach, sit for a while?" Miriam said, reentering the kitchen a few minutes later.

"Are you all packed?"

"Yes, but it is such a nice day. Let's get some gelato and sun ourselves. I want to have something to show for my vacation."

"You're tan."

Miriam smiled, her eyes crinkled. "Get your keys."

They piled the suitcases into the back of the black BMW and pulled out the driveway, windows down; Beyoncé blaring on the radio. Davonna looked over, laughing as Miriam belted out the lyrics. She looked over and smiled as the wind picked up Miriam's hair and blew it back and forth across Miriam's face; her cheeks were a warm red and her eyes sparkled.

They pulled up at the beach with a skid, sending rocks flying. Davonna winced, checking that no one had noticed. Miriam practically skipped to the gelato stand and then, realizing she didn't speak Greek, turned and told Davonna what she wanted.

"A green tea and a limoncello," Davonna told the stall owner. He was older with shock white hair and chapped lips. He looked like a vacationing Santa Claus.

"This is the life," Miriam sighed.

They unrolled a large towel from the car and spread it on the sand. The sun beat on them with unquenched ferocity. Davonna's skin prickled in the warmth. But the heat was wholesome, like nothing dark or evil could survive its unrelenting beating. Here and there teenage girls lay out on towels in bright bikinis. It looked like a postcard.

"I'm not sure I'll survive England," Miriam said, lying out on the towel, one hand flopped over her eyes to protect them from the sun.

"Is it the clouds?"

"Yes," Miriam said, dramatically. "How can I go back, knowing you're here soaking up all this glorious sun?"

"Bring Seamus, Alba, and Flora back with you."

Miriam peeked out from under her arm. "When?"

"In a couple months?"

"You'll have to beat us away with a stick, especially when Alba finds out beaches like this exist."

"Have you any idea what you're going to do? Where you'll go?"

Davonna couldn't look at Miriam to answer, and so cast her eyes out over the sea. The waves sparkled in the sun, as though a hundred thousand diamonds floated on the surface, waiting to be scooped up. "I don't know. What do you think I should do?"

"I want you to come home. You can reapply to the UN, or go to work for the government, but you would be close—that's all that matters."

"I suppose."

"You can't stay here, not after everything."

"It's funny," Davonna said, without taking her eyes from the diamond-strewn sea, "before John died, I dreamed about finally being able to leave, but I don't feel that anymore. Perhaps I just wanted to leave him. I don't mind the island now... in fact; I think I've grown to like it. I have friends here."

"Yes, but think of all that's happened," Miriam said, doggedly. "It won't be healthy for you to live in that house with all those memories."

"He can't live forever. Not even his memory can live forever. He's already dying a bit, every day."

"Please come home," Miriam said. She threw her arms around Davonna, pulling her close, clutching her to her chest.

Davonna patted Miriam softly on the back like a fussy child. "I will. Just not permanently, not right now. Maybe someday."

"I didn't think you'd come." She broke away and wiped her eyes.

"You'll go home to your job and your husband and your daughter and your house, and I won't press on your mind so much."

"Yes, you will!"

"Yes, but you weren't meant to take care of me your whole life. Go home and enjoy your family. They must miss you terribly."

Miriam couldn't answer. She simply nodded and wiped her tired eyes again, looking sorrowfully at her empty gelato cup. They relaxed, sat and watched the waves, listened to the chatter around them; comfortable in the company of someone it is possible to be silent with. Davonna rose after a while and took their cups to a trashcan and shaking out the towel. Miriam stared forlornly at the ocean.

The ferry terminal teemed with travelers. Davonna placed her wide-brimmed hat with the black ribbon on Miriam's head and kissed her on the cheek. They held hands in a quiet sort of way, oblivious to everyone around them.

"Be safe. If you need me, I'll come. I'll come whenever," Miriam said, through thick tears.

Davonna smiled and nodded, and then the horn blew and Miriam walked away swiftly, with every step her poise and calm and assuredness returned, she was going back to what was familiar, what was controllable, what was not life and death; what was not mired in confusion.

Miriam turned at the last moment, before the ferry swallowed her. Davonna caught sight of the cream hat, flopping in the breeze, and Miriam's hand beating the air in farewell. Davonna raised hers and from afar they looked like generals saluting each other at the end of a long battle. Then, as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone, into the belly of the ship.

Davonna turned and walked slowly back to the car, her sandals slapped the asphalt in a weak sort of way. Miriam's question rolled over and over in her mind: where would she go? Now that she could go anywhere and do anything ... what would she choose to do? Did she really mean what she told Miriam? Was John really gone? Or would he follow her forever?

Davonna Fitzroy's home turned into a hive of activity after Miriam left for England. Florists arrived and dropped off a colossal load of massive arrangements; coreopsis and white heather and irises. A caterer pulled up with three be-suited helpers and silver carts laden with covered dishes. There was even a quartet in cream linen pants and blue button up shirts and polished black dress shoes, which clicked on the hardwood floors. They passed through the house, lugging their sound equipment and instruments, and into the garden like a tremendous monochrome parade.

By seven o'clock on a warm Saturday night, three months after John's death, the sounds of Verdi and Beethoven drifted across the hedges that bordered the road, drifting down through the wandering hills, and settling on copses of olive trees. Davonna stood by the glass front doors in a loose cerulean damask dress with gold embroidery and organza flutter sleeves. Standing there she looked for the first time... alive. There was a fire, a purpose in her eyes and they were clear, as though she'd been racked with fever and was now suddenly cool.

Ioannis and Theodora were the first to arrive. They walked hand-in-hand down the drive, their smiles growing brighter with every step. As Theodora wrapped her arms around Davonna, a string of cars pulled into the circular drive.

Aris and Spiros stepped out of the first with their wives, their loud, boisterous voices spilled out in front of them. Thanos stepped out of the next with his mother, a tall elegant woman with wide, blue eyes and curly grey hair. Out of the last car stepped Alexandros and Shayma Savva. Aris glared and rolled his eyes, and walked up the stairs. Everyone had passed through when the Savvas reached Davonna.

"I am so happy you came," Davonna said, and shook Alexandros's outstretched hand.

"I don't think your friends agree."

Shayma dug her elbow into his side. "Will you stop?"

"We haven't had the pleasure, Mrs. Savva, it's an honor to meet you."

"You were too kind to invite us."

"I hope I'm not keeping you from your good work, Alexandros told me what you do."

"Oh, no," Shayma said, waving her hand dismissively. "They can mange one night without me. Besides when do I have the chance to dress like this?" she said, sweeping her hand along the length of her long black dress.

Davonna smiled. Shayma Savva was not at all what she had imagined. Alexandros seemed to shrink a little in her presence, as though he cared too much what she thought and never wanted to disappoint her.

"It's lovely, Mrs. Savva."

"Shayma, please."

"Shayma..."

"Okay... let's get in and get food," Alexandros growled.

The two women rolled their eyes, and Davonna led them through the house. Shayma looked around her with pleasure, her eyes taking in the breadth of the house and all it's finery.

"I thought we'd eat outside tonight," Davonna said.

She led them through the house and out the open patio doors. The rest of the party gathered around seven tall tables covered in white silk, all holding glasses of wine and chatting merrily. They looked askance at the Savva's, but Thanos stepped forward and shook Alexandros's hand. Aris deliberately hung back, his face a mask of anger.

"Thank you so much for coming," Davonna said, after they all had drinks in hand, and the music lulled.

The small company turned toward her. There were tears in many eyes and Theodora frowned in concentration.

"I wanted to say thank you to all of you who have stood by me through this horrible summer. I never imagined my life would become so public, but I also never imagined how many friends I would gather in the process. I'm in your debt," Davonna said, and raised her glass to them. She took a deep breath and turned her gaze on Alexandros who stood by himself, closest to the terrace doors.

"But most of all, I am indebted to you, Alexandros. Thank you for not giving up."

Even Aris raised his glass and toasted the Captain. Shayma looked at Alexandros with a quiet, ferocious pride. Davonna motioned for the quintet to continue and asked everyone to start eating. As the sun began to set, lights sprang into being across the garden. It looked like a picture out of a children's fairy tale, an enchanted garden lit by magic and fireflies.

"I'm sorry your sister couldn't make it," Thanos said.

Davonna was sitting alone on a bench in the garden under a canopy of delicate lights and wisteria.

"I didn't tell her."

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure. Perhaps, I wanted to have my friends with me."

"Have you decided what you're going to do?"

"No, not yet."

"Will you leave?"

"Is that what you'd do?"

"Maybe," Thanos said.

"Do you regret staying here and not working in Athens?"

Thanos hesitated, "No, well, not as much as I used to."

"Thank you for being so kind to me."

Thanos' eyes widened and he reached his hand tentatively out to her. "It wasn't kindness. It was... I... I care about you, Davonna."

She smiled and placed her hand over his. "I wish I wasn't such a wreck, Thanos. You deserve someone whole, not someone you have to carry."

With that, she walked slowly away to the far edge of the garden where the wall separated the Dukas' property from her own.

"Did you turn him down?" Ioannis' voice rose quietly from behind her.

"I suppose I did. Will he be alright?"

"Do you mean 'will he give up?' No, I don't think so. But I suppose that's to be expected."

"Oh," Davonna said, prodding a loose stone with her foot.

"What are your plans?"

"It's everyone's favorite question today."

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright. I understand."

"We all care about you," Ioannis said. "Have you considered a psychiatrist?"

"Yes, I've been going to one my attorney suggested. She's quite good."

"Theodora used to practice. Even widows whose husbands die natural, unexciting deaths go for help, and under your circumstances..."

Davonna smiled and patted Ioannis' arm. "Perhaps we could talk next week?"

"Of course."

"I'm off to get another," Davonna said, motioning to her empty glass.

She walked through the garden, past Alexandros and Spiros who were deep in conversation, and into the house and the solitude of the library. Only it wasn't empty, Shayma whirled around, her cheeks coloring.

"Oh Davonna, I'm so sorry. Alexandros told me about the library, and well, I couldn't pass up a quick look."

"It's alright," Davonna said, with a knowing smile, "I saw you come in. I wanted to have a quick word with you in private."

"Oh?" Shayma said. Davonna motioned for her to sit.

"I want to get involved with the refugees." Shayma blinked. A strange silence fell. "I want to help."

"Well, we'd love to have you," Shayma managed to say. "Lord, knows we can use it. When do you want to come?"

"No, you don't understand me. I want to do more than just coming to the camp. I have so much extra room here. At least three rooms could be converted into a sort of headquarters. We could organize the relief effort from this house. It's so empty, so big, and it's useless." Davonna said, trailing off, in front of Shayma's blank, incredulous face.

"You're serious?"

"Everyone deserves security and help when they're desperate... and I'm in desperate need of purpose. Please say you'll have me."

"I hope you know we aren't in the position to turn down any help," Shayma said, thickly. "I don't think Alexandros will believe me when I tell him."

"You don't give me much credit, do you, Woman," Alexandros said, as he walked into the room.

"Didn't your mother teach you not to eavesdrop?" Shayma barked.

"The police breed that rule out of you," he said, with a grin. "We'd love to have your help," he said, and stretched out his hand toward her.

Davonna took it. She looked back and forth between them; between Shayma's unshed tears and Alexandros' proud smile and their eyes that sparkling in the dim light.

"I want to be useful."

If you enjoyed Mrs. Fitzroy, please take a moment to leave a review on  Amazon.com Want to Read More? Go to authorrachaelwright.com to download her first novel, The Clouds Aren't White, and to sign up for her mailing list.

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The first chapter of the next installment of the Savva series, A Solitary Reaper, to be published in October 2018, begins below.

Captain Savva Book Two: A Solitary Reaper

I

Adam Harris found the body on the 57th minute of his hike up Mount Lepetimnos.

All he'd eaten that morning was an orange, so it was no surprise that he slipped, cursed the shifting rocks, and plunged his hand into a cactus. He bounced on the balls of his feet, with cries of "damn-it," bit back tears, sucked the fleshy pad of his thumb, and pulled out the spines with his teeth. He shivered, his uninjured arm flailing in a Tourette-like tick, he peered over the ravine, across the grass bent sideways like a balding man's comb-over, across the smear of orange roofs flung like errant paint splotches, out to the blue carpet of the Aegean.

In the middle of the trail, exhaustion settled in and he collapsed onto a rock. It dug into his left leg. He sneered at God who happened to be in the direction of Mitilini. Down there, a thirty-minute drive away, was his wife. The thought of her, her claw-like hand rooting around his crotch, sent a rumble through his nauseated stomach. He jumped to his feet, climbing with abandon, to forget her, and the thirteen cacti needles embedded between his fingers.

"Agghhh ..."

A scream tore its way out of his throat. He stood on the side of a mountain, mouth gaping, screaming at the island, imagining the rocks were his slut of a wife, or her limp cock state senator lover, or the twenty-year-old American Airlines representative who wouldn't refund the tickets to Greece, or the old women at the capitol with their simpering honey stares--desperate for a new piece of drama to take back to their friends to devour over afternoon tea at The Brown Palace.

"Screw you all!" he screamed. "You! And You! And YOU!"

He wheeled around and landed a well-aimed kick at the nearest boulder.

"Damn it!"

With stinging cheeks, a throbbing hand, a now a sprained ankle, Adam picked up a softball-sized rock and hurled it at the town of Mitilini. It fell ... about forty miles short, but clanged merrily on its half-mile journey back to the ground.

"That limp-ass cock," Adam muttered. He leaned against a knotted, wind twisted olive tree for support. "I'll destroy him. I'll go to the press. He can't ... do ... my wife and get away with it ..."

Adam kept up a string of insults, of wild, half-formed plans to decimate his rival. But in the back of his mind, he knew these were weak protestations. He hadn't done anything for four months. He'd taken her to Greece. If he was that sort of man--the punch and ask questions later--he'd be halfway to a divorce and the senator (with his disgusting pomaded hipster haircut) would have resigned in the flood of accusations of adultery.

"It's still illegal in Colorado," he told a stony faced rock.

When it didn't respond he kicked at a trembling tuft of grass. Its little fingers waved in the dry, early morning breeze. What was he doing on Lesvos hiking a miserable mountain? He should've been enjoying the pool. He plucked his new, grey, neoprene shirt off his sweating back, pulled down the polyester black shorts, and re-tied the lace on the left, dusty, shock-absorbing hiking boot.

The trail wound up the side of the mountain like a snake sunning itself on a rock. Adam followed it as though it lead to answers ... or would somehow disgorge him ... a different man. Why wasn't he a jerk? Why didn't he bulldoze? Why wasn't he a man with a deep tan and hard eyes? A man who knocked out the man who was screwing his wife. A man who walked with a swagger and didn't stumble.

"Didn't stumble," he shouted and tripped over a rock no bigger than his iPhone.

He shimmied his way the last few feet to the summit. With a massive grunt, he scrambled over a boulder, and found level ground. He wiped his forehead with his shirt, guzzled water from his camelback, and turned to face the view. The sea was a heartbreaking blue, and in every direction Lesvos produced dark fields of green.

The thrill of silence birthed curiosity, and he set out to explore. Worries scattered with the sea breeze. What he'd imagined as a flat space on top was another small hill, with three olive trees flung there by an errant hand, but with no real hope of their survival. For this was not a place where people often came. There was no water. No shade. Only the far off twinkling calls of birds. The soft moan of the sea. The gurgling sounds of the wind as it tore like a flash flood over the forgotten hills. The clear sharp scent of olives on the wind. He walked, scuffing his boots in the loose dirt, hugging the edge, sending rocks spinning down the sheer face, but his mind turned inexorably back to humanity.

Adam sunk to the ground, moaned as his needle filled hand brushed across his thigh. Blinked. Blinked. A blue shoe with a reddish-white sole poked out under a rhododendron bush. He cocked his head like an overbred Labrador, and scuttled around on his knees to peer into it. A rock skittered. A plaid shirt, attached to arms and a torso, snapped as a sea breeze tore across the hilltop.

Adam leapt back and screamed; a high-pitched screech lost on the wind.

* * *

Sergeant Stelios Booras of the Hellenic Police--based out of Mitilini, was snoring on the couch; his long thin legs trailed over the edge, a wool-appliqué pillow stuck to his morning stubble. The sun shone through the front windows, across his body, onto the trailing quilt, to a circle of silver on the floor. The diamond cast a rainbow onto his face. One hooded eye propped open. A diamond on a wooden floor that hadn't been swept in a week.

His hand went automatically to his phone, propped on the arm of the couch, in case it rang. He pressed her name, his mind whirring. Was there an argument he hadn't made last night?

"Theia?"

"What do you want?"

He lurched up, as though she could see him slouching on the couch. "I thought we could talk."

"What about?"

"Why you left."

"I left because we're done."

"If it's about your mother, I'm sorry I called her a ..."

"Stelios," Theia sighed. "It's not my mother."

"Let's go out tonight, we can talk ..." Stelios stopped and pulled the phone away from his ear. It vibrated. Dispatch's number flashed on the screen.

"What, Stelios?" She spat out his name like a profanity.

"Can I call you right back?"

"You called me!"

"I know, just a minute, it's..."

"Work," Theia finished. "Don't bother. We're over."

Stelios growled at the ceiling and switched calls. "What?" he hissed.

"We got a call about a body on top of Mt Lepetimnos. Private Kaikas will pick you up in twenty minutes, Sergeant."

Stelios hung up, stepped over the ring, stripped off yesterday's shirt, and flung himself into the shower.

Eighteen minutes later, Private Eleni Kaikas, bright white smile, curly hair pointing in all directions, one hand clutching a steel coffee tumbler, pulled up. The police SUV gleamed in the sun. He folded himself into the passenger seat. Kaikas said good morning, as he buckled, but Stelios ignored her and her bright cheerfulness, choosing instead to stare moodily out the window. Theia's last words coated his mind. Could a five-year relationship end in a single night?

They drove for a half hour in silence before turning on to what looked like an old game trail. The dirt road ended at a small lot. It held one other car: an aging blue Ford with a cracking 'I love Greece' bumper sticker. Stelios unraveled his legs from the confines of the car and melted under the sun. Heat waves rippled off the rocks and the undulating grasses cracked in the parched air. Even as sweat pooled in the small of his back, and his armpits began to itch, the thermometer rose higher and the hypnotic heat ripples grew until they consumed the mountain in front of him.

"Coming, Sergeant?"

Private Kaikas stuck her hands under the straps of her camelback and pulled her blue uniform cap down over her frizzy brown hair. She stood straight; one hand hooked on her duty belt the other adjusted the neckline of her shirt. She looked like she'd been born in the uniform, so well did it fit her. The small breasts helped.

Stelios heaved a withering sigh. "Let's get this over with."

"Will you call the Captain?"

"If I deem it necessary."

"A body at the top of Mt Lepetimnos isn't necessary?"

"Depends on who it is," Stelios mumbled.

"What's that?"

"Nothing. Let's go."

Kaikas set off down the trail, her thick mass of pinned curls swung and bounced across her back. Her legs flew out underneath her like a deer's and Stelios, even with his long gait, struggled to keep up. She was probably one of those people--the outdoorsy types. Meanwhile, his wine soaked stomach heaved at the sight of the towering mound in front of them.

Kaikas vaulted over a boulder the size of Stelios' desk. "My boyfriend and I hiked this last week!"

"Brilliant." She'd probably slept in her own bed, eaten a full breakfast, and consumed four of her eight recommended glasses of water. Stelios groaned--of course he'd forgotten to eat.

"How was your weekend?" Kaikas asked, emboldened by the intimacy of the forced march.

Could the damn woman read minds? To avoid her searching gaze, Stelios plopped into a large patch of shade, and guzzled water. Such blessed relief. "Fine."

She oscillated from foot to foot. "How are your wedding preparations coming? October, isn't it?"

Stelios peered around the corner, down the trail, and then up, squinting at the curved mound of rock at the top. It was dizzyingly far away.

"Sergeant?"

"What?"

"The wedding?"

"Fine. Let's keep going. I want to get this done."

A half hour later Stelios' fingers curled around the lip. The red face that materialized a second later had to be American.

The man offered a smooth pale hand. "Kalimera, I'm so glad you're here."

"Sergeant Booras and Private Kaikas, Hellenic Police," Stelios said in English.

"I'm Adam Harris ... he's over there," Adam said, pointing to the rhododendron bush.

Stelios walked over to the corpse, picking his way over potential evidence. The body sat upright against a wide, flat boulder. Eleni turned to Adam Harris, pulled out a notebook and pen, and took his statement.

Stelios dropped to his knees, leaned left, and followed a horizontal trail of blood from nose to the back of the head. Or what should have been the back of a head. It was now a mass of dried blood, shattered bone, and pale bits of brain matter.

"Gamóto," he swore. "Have you touched anything Mr. Harris?"

Adam Harris and Kaikas turned to him; both faces blank. "I checked for a pulse, Sergeant, on the left side of his neck."

Stelios' eyes narrowed; blood seeped out of the American's face and sweat beaded on his temples. "You didn't touch anything else?"

He frowned from Booras to the flapping plaid shirt. "No. Why?"

"I'm calling Savva," Stelios said to the wind.

* * *

Captain Alexandros Savva held his wife's hand as he drove the highway, which hugged the sea. In the breeze from the open window, her greying black hair twisted and snaked across her round, lined face. She wore bright red lipstick this morning and a pink wrap dress, so pale it was almost white. Shayma Savva was not a thin woman, but curvaceous and witty and with the voice of an angel. Alexandros, not prone to emotional overtures, brought her hand to his mouth, and kissed the back of it.

He dropped her at the massive St. Valentine-colored mansion, all pink and red and white, where the refugee relief efforts for the island were headquartered. Shayma disappeared with a backward wave. Savva stroked his full dark beard and his chocolate-brown eyes closed as he dreamed of driving home; brewing a latte, taking it to the back garden, and breathing in the morning. If he was lucky, his neighbors would still be out of town and their radio would be off. But a sharp infuriating ringtone echoed from the glove box and his morning bliss was snuffed out like a candle.

"This had better be good, Booras."

Stelios stood, the wind whipping pale red dust across his jeans, looking down at the corpse. It leaned against the pile of diatomaceous earth like he'd laid down for a rest. Sort of. If you ignored certain irregularities. "I was dispatched to a report of a body this morning, Sir."

"What happened?"

"Murdered. Back of the head is bashed in."

"Where are you?"

"Mt Lepetimnos."

"Where?"

"There's a trail. You can see the whole island from here. But it's two and a half kilometers from any road."

"Have you called for transport?"

"There aren't any helicopters available, Sir. I asked. Hellenic Police are raiding a drug cartel tonight so they're tied up. I've called the medical examiner and rung HQ for more men to carry the body down. It's a good thing he isn't fat," Stelios said with a weak chuckle.

"Don't laugh."

Alexandros Savva might be gruff, bordering on rude, to those whose incompetence or political aspirations he couldn't stand, but he had a firm and unwavering belief that morbid jokes of any kind had no place in a murder investigation, especially when crouched beside the mangled remains of a human being. They had a solemn duty to the dead, but also to the families, and belittling a life never put them closer to a killer.

"Sorry, Sir," Stelios said. "If you drive to the station, you can follow the boys to the trailhead."

"Which medical examiner is on call?"

"Dr. Panteleon."

"Good."

Savva hung up; thankful Stelios hadn't crowded in details of the scene. Never theorize before, always wait for the evidence, never come with prejudice, and never assume you know the answer. It's what Savva drilled into every officer who came under his considerable influence.

Savva's grey Saab, a police SUV, and the medical examiner's white van, arrived an hour later. A shaky, ashen-faced Stelios was propped against a wooden trail marker. Savva glanced from Stelios to the mountain behind him. A life-threatening climb in the withering heat--the horror. The back of the ME's van banged open and Dr. Panteleon pulled out a canvas stretcher. One of the young police officers handed Savva a three-liter bottle of water. Savva contemplated his new, but ten-year-old, hiking boots and sighed.

"It's about an hour up, Sir."

"You said its two kilometers."

"It's all up-hill."

"I hope you left someone at the crime scene."

"Yes, Sir, Private Kaikas."

"Who?"

"She's new, Sir, transferred a few months ago from Athens."

"Let's hope everything's intact when we get there." Savva waved for the other officers, scene-of-crime kits hoisted on their broad shoulders, to start. They stepped off the gravel road and onto the red dirt. "Is this your second time up?"

"Ugh, you should have been there, Sir. Kaikas ran up. It was all I could do not to look like an out-of-shape fool."

"Are you?"

"Yeah," Stelios confessed, "I am. Kaikas said she hiked this last week. No body."

"Good."

"He looks like a two-day body to me."

"Let's wait for Panteleon to give us time-of-death. Tell me about the hike," Savva said with a grunt.

"This is it, Sir. It's rocky. It's steep."

"Is this a popular hiking spot?"

"I'll ask Kaikas. Maybe she knows."

"Who found the body?"

"A tourist. American. Out for a morning hike."

"Such derision. That bad?"

"Everything he's wearing is new. He probably bought it just for the trip. Superiority complex as well, like he did us a favor by calling."

"Really?"

"Yep."

Savva turned around to face a florid-faced Stelios. "Are you always rude this early in the morning?"

Stelios stared at him, wide-eyed. "I'm sorry, Sir."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Sir," Stelios said, taking a half step forward.

Savva blocked him. "I'll ask you one last time."

The answer dribbled off his tongue like an upturned olive oil bottle. "Theia broke it off last night."

"Broke what off?"

Stelios' arms flailed like loose threads. "The wedding. Our engagement."

An officer, twenty feet in front of them, turned around at Stelios' shout. Savva waved the loitering officer off, and turned back to Stelios. His voice softened. "What happened?"

Stelios ran a shaking hand through his mussed hair, leaving streaks of red dust behind. "I don't know. We argued last night ... about everything: groceries, the trash, sex. It just exploded. She screamed and screamed and then her eyes glazed over. She dropped her ring on the floor and said we were over. She left," he ended lamely.

"And?"

"I called this morning. I thought we could talk, but before she could say anything, dispatch called. I asked if I could call her back. She knew who was calling. She screamed some more. So I hung up and hiked up to this damned body."

"Booras," Savva growled.

"Sorry, Sir."

"I get it. You're upset, but either be professional or you can go back to headquarters and I'll work the case with Private Kaikas."

"Yes, Sir."

Savva nodded, put out a thick freckled hand, patted the younger man's shoulder, turned, and resumed their trudge. Stelios and Theia had been an on and off again item since their school days. That loss, no matter what the circumstances, was excruciating. He cast around for something to say unrelated to women. But all that came to him was the sound of his wife's voice as he stood in the shower. "Kupía Savva, invited you for dinner tonight."

"I'd be thrilled, Sir."

They hiked in silence. Breath hitched in their throats, sweat rolled in their eyes, and the sun roasted their foreheads, and sent up popping lights in their vision. Savva grumbled. With every step his boots rubbed and rubbed and rubbed. Every movement was agony. But then, one by one the other officers and Dr. Panteleon scrambled over a lip and disappeared from sight.

"Kalimera, Captain Savva."

Savva studied the overeager face of a young woman with wild curly hair. Private Kaikas and no other. She radiated joy from her twitching fingers to her bright fingers. "Where is he?"

The small crowd parted to expose a male body, propped against a rock like a discarded sack of animal feed. Blood had dried in rivers across his face and his head lolled sideways on his chest. Savva swallowed against the knee jerk reaction to walk away. It was an inert body, a body that did not know the fear it instilled in the nine people gathered around it.

Stelios led a tall, wiry man over. He was pale and wiped his hands repeatedly on his trousers. Large stains emanated from his armpits. "Sir, this is Mr. Adam Harris. He found the body."

Indeed Stelios and Adam Harris could be father and son, so alike were they with long noodle-like limbs and thin lined faces. But a wariness coiled in Adam Harris' quick moving, green eyes.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Harris," Savva said in accented English. "I'm Captain Alexandros Savva." Adam Harris grimaced as he struggled for speech. "Where are you from Mr. Harris?"

"Colorado," he moaned, "the United States."

"I had a layover in Denver once," Savva said dreamily. "Your mountains put ours to shame."

"But your sea is mesmerizing, Captain."

"It is." Savva let a comradely silence build between them before starting in. "Tell me, in your own time, what happened."

Adam inhaled, rubbed his arm, and closed his eyes. "I left the hotel around six am, and drove here. A hotel employee told my wife about this hike and I decided to go. The mountain was deserted. I reached the top and turned to look at the view behind me and I saw him. At first I thought he was resting. Oh God, I didn't see ... his head. I said hello and then 'kalimera', you know in case he didn't speak English, but he didn't move. I said it louder. And then I saw the blood. I don't know how I missed it. I checked for his pulse; there wasn't one. I had to Google your emergency number. I waited, as the dispatcher asked, for your officers to arrive. It took a while. I haven't touched him ... well you know ... apart from checking for a pulse."

"Yes, it is a long hike. You've given your information to my officers?"

"I have."

"Sergeant Booras will call to schedule a time for you to come to the station and give us your statement. You're free to go back to your hotel. Would you like an escort?"

Adam shook his head, stepped away to leave, but craned his head towards Savva. "How are you going to get him down?"

Savva smiled wearily. "The same way you're going, Mr. Harris."

Adam grimaced, wished the officers a safe journey down, and then slipped over the ledge.

* * *

Savva turned from Adam's departing figure back to the body. He couldn't be much older than forty with a well-muscled body. He wore a simple grey v-neck shirt and beige hiking pants with cargo pockets. Quite unlike Savva's boots, this man's were well worn and still tied tight around his ankles. This was a man who took regular and vigorous exercise.

"What's he doing here?"

Stelios peered over Savva's shoulder. "Hiked?"

"With someone else? Alone? Are there any footprints?"

"No, Sir. It stormed last night, the wind would have obliterated them."

Savva turned to face the medical examiner. "Dr. Panteleon, is there an obvious cause of death?"

Dr. Lena Panteleon was a small stocky woman with close cropped blonde hair and perpetually frowning green eyes. She hovered over the body, balancing on the balls of her feet, looking as though she was about to take flight. Thick fingers, encased in white gloves, probed the back of the head, twisting it to see the extent of the damage.

"Apart from the obvious head wound? But see this trail of dried blood? I'd say he was hit from behind, fell forward, then the blood trickled down his face and dried before he was set against this rock. There could be more injuries. I can't say for sure it was the cerebral damage which killed him."

"Did he surprise the killer? Or did he hike with them and get hit from behind for his trouble?" Savva mused.

Dr. Panteleon said nothing. It wasn't a question she couldn't and shouldn't answer.

"What do you think, Sir?" Stelios said as he continued to hover at Savva's shoulder.

Savva sidestepped Stelios' proximity and his stale garlic laden breath. "Help the other officers process the scene so we can get back down and get him to the morgue. And check for blood splatter, see if you can pinpoint where the attack took place."

Dr. Panteleon stood and wiped a hand across her forehead. "His pockets are empty, Captain."

Savva licked his lips and bent back over the body. "Empty?Tiléfono?"

"No. No identification either."

He intertwined his fingers behind his back and leaned forward, over the body, like a guardian angel. "Do you think he's Greek?"

Dr. Panteleon peered at the bloody face. If one averted one's eyes from the crumbling mass at the back of his skull, the man could be taking a mesimeri, reposing against the rock with the olive branches wafting his face like an ancient philosopher-king being fanned by a slave. He had dark Mediterranean skin, sharp contoured cheekbones, and a contemplative look to his mouth like he'd been caught pondering some hidden secret of humanity. The pools of blood, cracked at split from the heat, obscured his eyes and distorted what could have been a handsome face. Savva shook his head. As he turned, in irregularity caught his eye and he pattered around the body to the left hand where it lay splayed in the dust.

"Did you notice these?"

Stelios and Dr. Panteleon surveilled him from where they'd begun to organizie the descent.

"What is it?" Stelios asked.

"These fingers are broken."

Dr. Panteleon walked over and bent over, her blond hair fell forward across her cheeks. The fingers lay in the dust, broken at such sharp angles that shards white bone had speared open the skin. Savva's stomach contracted. It must have been excruciating.

"You're right. The second and third. Why were these two broken? Was he holding something?"

"He's left handed."

Dr. Panteleon cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

Savva pointed at the fleshy side of the hand where it was tinged grey. "It's what happens as the hand drags across the paper." He lifted his left hand so Dr. Panteleon and Stelios could see the same smudge.

"He's left handed ..." Stelios said.

Savva turned to Dr. Panteleon who was busy placing bags over the hands. "Could the killer have stepped on it?"

"It's possible. X-rays will show if there's any evidence of remodeling."

"It's obvious it's recent. He couldn't have hiked up here like that," Stelios said indignantly.

Somewhere down below a raven screeched and the sun went behind a mere wisp of a cloud, casting the scorching hilltop in shadow for a moment. The sweat on Savva's forehead cooled.

"I'm being thorough," Dr. Patneleon said with a growl.

"That's enough," Savva said. "When can we move him?"

"Whenever you want. I'm finished."

"Stelios, check underneath the body, and dust surrounding rocks for fingerprints."

Savva turned away from the corpse; from a man who had a family and dreams and ambitions and here he was being poked and prodded with more indignities to come when all that was hidden was exposed for everyone to see.

Savva kicked a lone pebble off the cliff, scuffed at the thin dust, and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. If he ignored the scampering of police officers and listened to the birds and the far away cries of lambs in search of their mothers, he could pretend he lived in a simple world. In a world untarnished by murder. There was nothing glorious about this work, nothing bright or shiny to polish and present to the people. It was horrific, following in the train of killers, rapists, abusers, drug addicts, and picking up the pieces of fear--fear that had escaped its careful bonds.

Stelios' voice echoed across the hilltop and fell into the valley, as he ordered the other officers along. His voice had deepened beyond its normal tenor. Stelios still found joy and pride in what they did. He walked with a swagger (though he tripped on occasion) when ordering other officers about. But for Savva those times were long gone. He served the state with a heavy heart. He was good at what he did. He enjoyed the mental stimulation, but no parade of grateful citizens and booming trumpets played from him. He walked on for the dead. For people like this man who had lost what was most precious. If not for them he would've given up long ago.

Stelios sidled up alongside him and as one, closed their eyes against the reality of death. The living could afford to ignore it. "We're ready, Sir. Two officers will stay behind to finish processing the scene."

"Don't drop him," Savva grunted.

"We won't, Sir," came a warbling voice behind him.

Savva turned to the speaker, a stout muscular man (though barely old enough to drink) with a razor straight part in his thick brown hair, and a half-cocked smile. He stood with his weight placed on his right leg, as though he imagined himself Michelangelo's David. Savva couldn't grasp how physics still managed to keep the man upright.

Savva turned from this ridiculous sight. "Dr. Panteleon are you ready?"

"Ready."

"Drop the body and the one responsible works weekends with the Tourist Police."

A shiver went round the group. Stelios winced and tried to hide it by applying a thick coat of Vaseline. Savva stepped back and motioned for them to start.

Dr. Panteleon stepped in front of him. "Am I included as well, Captain?" she asked with a wink.

"You aren't a police officer and therefore don't work for me so I can't arrange your schedule. And I wouldn't imagine asking you to hold the stretcher," Savva grunted. "But," he leaned over conspiratorially; "I'm going to make Booras take turns with the men, just so he knows his summer is on the line as well."

"Are the Tourist Police that bad?"

Savva narrowed his eyes at the arguing men carrying their burden down the mountainside. "They all ask the same questions. 'Where's the beach? Where's the bathroom? What's the best restaurant? Which boats are for hire? Do you speak English?' The same questions but in different languages. It's maddening."

"I can't believe you've done it ... spoken to them I mean," Dr. Panteleon said as she lowered herself over the edge, her foot slipped in the loose gravel. "I took you for a recluse, Captain."

"On my good days; I am. It was three months. I thought I'd die. My superior officer had me in his office every week lecturing me on my manner; people complained I was too gruff." Savva broke off. "Booras, switch with Elias!" The pretend David, Savva couldn't for the life of his remember the boy's name, choked back a laugh.

Every five minutes Savva called out for a rest and a rotation. The stretcher shifted, tilted, and slipped as the men, sweat dripping into their eyes and down between their legs, stepped over boulders and ducked under trees and skidded over loose rock. Stelios shifted his hands on the stretcher and flexed his fingers and winced in the sun.

Savva brought up the rear, his eyes scanned the ground around the trail for evidence, anything cast away in a killer's haste. He stooped to peer into a patch of thorny bushes, which seemed a likely dumping place. Nothing. No spent cigarettes. No faded candy wrappers. No dilapidated plastic water bottle full of dirt. The chirping cicadas fell silent as he passed by; quiet as if they marked a moment of silence for death. He'd have to send up some uniforms to scour the area. They couldn't just do a quick pass at it.

After a half hour of relentless toil, knees obliterated by the steep trail and the loose shifting rock, Savva couldn't concentrate on peering through the undergrowth for evidence. Instead his eyes probed, like a man lost in the desert, for the next spot of shade. He prayed for a breeze, for clouds to cover the sun, anything for the heat to relent.

Stelios came back to sit with him on their fourth rotation. The group sat dispersed between three small olive trees, like blue sheep, sides heaving, tongues lolling out, desperate for relief from the sun. No one talked now. The body lay in its own spot, in a meter thick line of shade cast by an overhanging rock: as innocuous as a trucker's covered load of lumber.

Stelios bent to tie his shoelace. "I'm sorry about my attitude earlier, Sir,"

Savva's eyes flitted over Stelios' boots. Under a thin layer of dirt they were pristine, without the scratches on the sides, or the wear around the eyelets on the boots of the man in the body bag. "Forget it."

"It won't happen again; disrespect at a crime scene."

"No it won't."

When Stelios ambled off, his long legs barely unfolding as he stepped down to the men and motioned for them to pick up their once more, Savva rubbed his knees. He had to take more exercise. He had to get rid of the pudge. He couldn't become an old man. A plan, that's what he needed, a plan he could stick to, a plan instead of the taverna on a whim.

They passed into a gulley, remarkably and gloriously hidden from the sun. Savva dragged his soaking shirt away from his skin and almost tripped when he felt the first flat step. He would've collapsed to kiss the rocks if he'd been alone. A kilometer expanse of shifting sunbaked plain lay between him and the vehicles, but he could see them. Stelios called out for the stretcher-bearers to walk faster, spurned on as he was by the easy walk. The load grew lighter as the cars inched closer and the promise of an end to their funerary duties.

Savva watched with a frown as the stretcher was loaded into the medical examiner's van. The black body bag was little more than a blur before the white doors closed and Dr. Panteleon scurried over to the driver's seat and started the vehicle.

"I'll see you at the station, Sir?" Stelios said.

Savva turned around. "You'll need to shower and change first."

"That bad?"

"You've spent half the day scaling a mountain and then climbing back down with a body."

"It is that bad."

"I can smell you from fifty feet away."

"Alright."

"Meet me at my house after you've finished and bring something to eat."

Stelios nodded, motioned Kaikas over, and the two of them got into her car. Savva reached for the door of his grey Saab, the plastic handle burned underneath his sweaty fingers. He poured tepid water over the hand and turned back to the mountain. A body in the sea, he'd understand. A body could be weighed down, dropped a few kilometers out, with no one the wiser. Why then at the top of a trail? Why a rage-fueled attack? Was it planned? Had the killer meant the body to be found?

