Through Rose-Colored Glasses: Ryn Davis Mystery Series, #2

By AB Plum

Hope. Renewal. Murder.

Ryn Davis's widowed mother turned tricks to provide butter for their daily bread.

Fans of rock star Stone Wall call Ryn a whore--in a class of her own--for staying with the abusive music legend. Hey, the prime suspect in his murder, she inherited his $250-million-dollar estate.

So what if Ryn uses the money to run Esperanza House--a place of hope and renewal? So what if thirteen ex-prostitutes live there with their kids mastering computer skills to stay off the street? So what if a hundred percent of the women are working the program with great success? Once a ho, always a ho.

Then, a 3-alarm fire destroys the Esperanza House dorm. The body of a 13-year-old girl is found in the rubble. Brutally murdered. The women rally around the inconsolable mother while fighting their own despair. Who will track the killer of the daughter of a former ho?

Old nightmares and current obsessions drive Ryn to undertake a search for justice. One dead end after the other finally brings her face-to-face with the murderer. Her discovery rocks her to the core and threatens to destroy Esperanza House.

Can she look the other way?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AB Plum
• Release date: Mar 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393234234

Book preview

Chapter 1

"You're dead, bitch," a gleeful, asexual voice purred.

POP! POP! POP! POP!

The exploding discharge shattered the midnight quiet in the large, book-lined office. Ryn Davis fell face forward across her cluttered desk—sure she'd been shot. The first deafening notes of Onward Christian Soldiers drowned out her galloping heart.

Onward coronary. Hands sweaty, Ryn grabbed the padded arms of her chair. Inch by inch, she raised her head, and her heart roared in her ears. She stared at the blinking computer screen.

Across the room, sprawled on the blue velvet couch, Maj raised her orange head and meowed in complaint.

It's okay, Maj. Ryn pressed her chest into the desk, tilted her head toward the computer, and turned down the volume. Everything's okay, Maj.

Which was true as long as she didn't take into account the snub-nosed, smoking gun barrel pointed at her left ear. In the middle of the monitor's fifty-two-inch screen, the drawing of the silver-handled revolver was graphically detailed and quite realistic. A white flag unfurled from the barrel. An audio message announced, "BANG! BANG! YOU'RE DEAD, BITCH!"

Steady rivulets of blood dripped down the crisp, black letters and plunked in a crimson pool under the flag.

The miracle of computer technology. Ryn pushed up to sitting, closed her eyes, and massaged the tightness in her chest with one hand. With the other, she rubbed her burning eyes. The insides of her eyelids felt like new emery boards. She stopped rubbing but kept her eyes squeezed shut, her hand over her heart. The image of the red hibiscus on Stone's chest shimmered in a corner of her brain.

Take a deep breath. Count to ten. Then open your eyes. She pinched the inside of her elbow and inhaled.

How many times in the past six months had she saved herself with these magical instructions?

She exhaled through her mouth and nose. Silence ticked around her as she counted, Five, six, seven … Except for the first few days after she'd discovered Stone's body in their bed, this trick had almost always worked … ocho, nueve, diez.

Counting in Spanish—the ole delaying tactic. Of course, nothing calmed her like sleep.

She opened her right eye first. Whaaat the hell?

She opened her left eye and stared at the empty screen, shaking her head, gouging both eyes with the heels of her hands.

Had she flipped out? Imagined the gun on the screen? Hit the wall, now that she'd started a new life?

Now that she didn't dream every night about a huge red hibiscus blooming in snow?

The professorial voice of Dr. Timothy Dodson echoed in Ryn's brain like a tape recording. Weeks, months—sometimes years—after a trauma, a neuron misfires in the brain.

Hadn't she told Dr. Tim that she, like everyone else in the twenty-first century, had heard about Post Traumatic Stress? Had read about people surviving war, freak accidents—and the sudden, unexpected, brutal death of a loved one. Had kept to herself fears the little white pill she'd taken to sleep six months ago was, in fact, a time bomb ticking in the canyons of her brain.

Her mental DVD player clicked on. Dr. Tim leaned across his polished desk and continued his lecture. Survivors often became irritable, depressed—violent, even.

She wanted to remind him he'd forgotten feeling zapped by survivor's guilt, but Dr. Tim was on a roll. Overreaction to sudden, unexpected noises is typical.

God knows you jump at a hair falling, she muttered.

A white explosion filled the screen. Ryn flinched. Every muscle tensed for flight. She clenched her jaw and fought the instinct to jump out of her chair. Sweat dripped in her eyes as an over-sized pair of purple sunglasses blinked at her on the computer screen. A laugh caught in her throat.

Stupid. Stupid. Dumb-ass stupid.

She tapped her forehead with the tip of a yellow Number 2 pencil. Knock, knock. Anyone home in there?

The rose-tinted glasses, studded with sequins, apparently functioned as a non-verbal message: User Error. She'd made a logic mistake in the interactive multimedia story she was creating.

Must've been a doozie of a mistake.

Or had she fallen asleep for a nanosecond? Dreamed she'd seen a gun? And heard the shots, music, and that creepy voice?

Sleep deprivation can cause hallucinations, Dr. Tim intoned. She rubbed the back of her neck. She knew all about sleep deprivation. She'd had more than a few nightmares after Stone's mur— Her mind balked.

Murder. She hated the word. Each syllable. She hated each letter in each syllable in the damn word. She broke out in a cold sweat pronouncing the two syllables. And the memory of the man she'd loved, lived with, slept with, fought with as a murder victim kept her staring, night after night, at the ceiling, listening, always listening, for those two lethal shots she hadn't heard six months ago.

Ryn slammed that door into her mind shut. Tight. The bats in her belfry loved to frolic any time between midnight—when she went to bed—and five in the morning when she gave up on sleep. Right now, twelve forty-seven in the AM seemed like a good time to call it quits. She'd started working on her newest project around eight, finished one segment of her multimedia story, and kept on working without taking a break. No wonder her imagination hijacked her brain.

She opened her top left-hand drawer and pushed notes, highlighters, and a magnifying glass on top of the mess already crammed inside.

Truth was, she'd kept herself busy all day. Meetings all morning at La Segunda Esperanza House. Lunch with Whit Duncan, a Silicon Valley CEO interested in her proposed apprentice work program. Conferences with three of her favorite students updating their resumés. The overbooking kept her on the run until 6:30 when she met Beau.

If MacArthur Genius Awards went to drummers, Beau would win, hands down. Too many drugs and too many rock concerts, though, had cost him too many little gray cells. After Stone's murder, Beau had pulled her back from the abyss. In turn, with his full agreement, she became his legal guardian. His gentleness soothed her on most of the crazy days, but she was glad that after a quiet, companionable supper, he fell asleep watching TV in the media room.

At the keyboard, she punched three keys, watched THAT'S ALL FOLKS come up on the screen, and switched off the computer, listening to the shut-down hum of the CPU. Now was not the time to get mopey about Stone. What made today—which marked the six-month anniversary of his death—any harder to get through than yesterday or tomorrow?

That question, for some irrational reason, sent her pulse racing again. Maj yawned and arched her back. Ryn caught the yawn and stretched too, standing on tiptoe, fingers reaching for the high ceiling.

She saw, out of the corner of her eye, the study door inch open. Her heart jumped and then raced. She bit her lip and dropped down hard on her heels. A squeak—like a very small, terrified animal—gurgled out of her.

Ryn? A whisper.

Goose bumps jockeyed up her arms, reversed direction, and swarmed back down to her wrists.

Ryn? Louder this time.

Right up until Beau, on tiptoe, massive shoulders hunched forward, waddled through the door, she was sure she was going to see Stone.

The rock star. Who sent teenagers and twentysomethings screaming in ecstasy whenever the black curl fell across the middle of his smooth, wide forehead.

The man whose touch had made Ryn's blood boil—in and out of bed.

What time is it? Beau broke the spell. He covered his gaping mouth with a chubby paw.

No more trips down memory lane tonight.

Late. She willed her voice to normal. Beau, the professional drummer, would pick up on the slightest vocal ping of residual fear. Almost one o'clock.

That's why I'm tired. He yawned wider.

What'd you do to your cheek? She touched under her right eye.

I don't know. Beau dragged his stubby fingers down the long, jagged crease from under his left eye to his jawbone. His fair skin was flushed the deep scarlet of a child out too long in the cold. His brilliant blue eyes had the stunned, unfocused gaze of someone still asleep. Aren't you sleepy?

Maybe after a hot bath. Resigned to a few minutes of chitchat, she turned off the desk lamp and walked toward him. What woke you up?

Pain from his cheek pressed against the edge of a pillow? Had he heard the gunshots? Or maybe the music?

Doubtful. She'd shut down her computer damned fast.

Beau yawned wide enough to unhinge his jaw. I needed to go to the bathroom.

Ryn smiled. Nothing like biological needs to curb midnight fantasies. After five years on the concert road with Beau Peep Scott, Stone, and the rest of The Stoned Gang, she knew Beau had a bladder the size of a peanut.

All that pounding on his drums made him have to pee, he'd stated.

Aren't you ever going to bed? He took a step toward the sofa, his index finger over his mouth.

Without warning, a collage of unidentifiable hotel rooms zoomed through Ryn's mind: The Stoned Gang relaxing —Stone, Beau, Rip, and Repeat—dazed but wired at the same time from their concert.

The memories unwound as she watched Beau, wagging his index finger at her, sneak up on Maj.

A sudden, unwanted image flashed: Amber—the fifth member of The Gang. Sprawled in a chair. Feet splayed out in front of her. Those startling turquoise eyes slitted as she smirked.

More often than not, Amber had clapped just as Beau stood within arm's reach of Maj. The cat would streak out of the room like a furry orange comet.

Now, eyes half closed, front legs tucked under her chest, Maj shifted her weight, getting comfortable. Her cobra tail flicked back and forth.

Can Maj sleep with me? Beau inched forward another step and stilled every muscle.

Of course. Just don't let her out to prowl the house, okay? I can't sleep when she's sneaking around like a cat.

Beau snapped his fingers and laughed. That's what Stone used to say, remember?

Before Ryn could say she remembered, Beau made a dive for Maj as the phone shattered the quiet. The Fanged Beast—Stone's name for his nemesis—yowled, leaped off the sofa, and flew past a frozen Beau.

Check my bedroom, Ryn advised, holding her hand over the mouthpiece.

Is this Kathryn Davis? The male caller's irritation grated in her ear.

A snap of anger crackled in her fried brain. Why the hell had she answered without checking caller ID? She glanced at the clock. Who is this?

Damned if she compounded her stupidity by chatting with some rude jerk at one in the morning.

Not after the day she'd had.

This is Captain Kirk Wetherill. Impatience hummed on the line. I'm with the Alta Vista Fire Department. You'd better get over here before your Esperanza House burns to the ground.

Chapter 2

Phew! Why does it stink so much in here with the windows closed? In the Volvo's passenger's seat, Beau lifted his head, wrinkled his nose, and sniffed the air with bloodhound intensity.

Shake shingles. They burn fast. Ryn assumed Beau wasn't referring to the smell from the sharp, acrid sweat running down her ribcage.

It smells like a big barbecue.

Stomach lurching, Ryn shuddered. A clear snapshot of charred flesh exploded behind her eyes. No one dead, she muttered under her breath. Captain Wetherill repeated it twice. No one dead.

Don't you think it smells like a barbecue? Beau ducked his head to see out the windshield.

To get him off that subject, Ryn said, I think it stinks, and I bet the neighbors are foaming at the mouth. Far below them, a spiral of dense, white smoke—thicker than fog—wafted upwards.

You sound mad.

No, I'm not mad. Ryn softened her voice. Beau might not do higher math in his head, but the musician in his brain picked up every nuance of speech. Eyes on the road, she downshifted for the second hairpin curve, trying to stay as close to her side of the narrow thoroughfare as possible. I was thinking the neighbors are probably going to give us hell. You know most of them went crazy when they found out about Esperanza House.

Yeah. Beau adjusted his seat, seeming unaware of the drop-off on her left plunging four hundred feet to the canyon floor. I never did understand why they said all those mean things.

That makes two of us. But Captain Wetherill said so far all the neighbors' homes are okay. That's what they're worried about right now. Their own homes. She didn't try to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

No one dead. No one dead.

Shouldn't we call the dorm and make sure everyone's okay? Beau reached for the the cell phone in its cradle.

No! Ryn batted his hand away, saw the hurt in his eyes, and rushed to explain. We don't want to upset them.

Why would phoning upset them? Beau's bottom lip scrunched up in a pout.

For Beau, inputting numbers on the cell was always a dicey situation at best—even during daylight when Ryn was driving slowly and could repeat the number while watching him out of the corner of her eye. Several years ago, frustrated by an electric can opener, Beau had thrown it through the kitchen's sliding glass door.

If he threw the phone through the windshield, she might or might not be able to keep control of the car.

Grabbing at a thread of composure, Ryn said, Some of the kids might still be sleeping. The little ones? Don't you think the phone would wake them up?

They'll sleep through sirens and yelling, but the phone will wake them?

The phone's in the kitchen—a long way from the bedrooms. Look! Beau forgot the phone for the moment, tugged at her right elbow, and pointed through the glass.

Ryn gripped the steering wheel, resisting the urge to knock his hand away. The guardrail wouldn't stop a low-flying bat, and plenty of drivers had learned that lesson the hard way.

Fire department must have loved getting up here.

You see? Beau turned to look at her, releasing her sleeve.

Yes. I see. Acid washed into her stomach. She wished she could drive with her eyes closed. Wished she could wake up from this nightmare. Or better yet, plunge into a sleep-induced oblivion.

Oh, wow! Beau pointed again.

Over the trees, off to their left, great orange fingers reached for the stars, blotting out the night sky. Grayish-red embers sailed away, carried by the breeze like balloons cut free. A glowing, crimson cinder landed on the tan Volvo's filthy hood—a sooty blowfish swelling and then dying out.

It's awesome, Beau breathed.

Ryn shivered. Awesome and awful. How many of those tiny sparks would burn up in mid-flight? How many of them would kindle new flames on the ground? Or smolder on the roof of one of the three satellite buildings—so far spared?

She swiped at the sweat running off her eyebrows. Get a grip on your mind-bending. She flexed her stiff fingers on the steering wheel.

Two weeks before Christmas and no winter rains yet to keep the deadly fairy shower from starting another fire next door. Ryn clutched and shifted for the last curve. At the same time, thankfully, they were in Northern California. No Santa Ana winds to fan the sparks into a full-blown conflagration miles away.

Remember your blessings.

Swiping at her face again, she remembered. No one dead. No one hurt.

No damage to the dorm—home to seven women and their seven kids.

No damage to the neighbors.

Records and computers destroyed?

Replaceable. She released a long, loud sigh.

It is beautiful, isn't it, Ryn? Beau's eyes, glittery with excitement, glowed with their own blue fire.

No wonder boys shouldn't play with matches.

It's too scary for me to think it's beautiful. She braked for the sharp turn into the back entrance. Heat hot as a furnace filled the Volvo, and her scalp felt like a sponge.

Will everything be burned? Beau shrugged sweat off his face with his shoulder.

I don't know. I think the filing cabinets—and anything that's all metal—will be okay.

But how long before we can open the cabinets? Or search through the debris? A rat—or some invisible rodent—was gnawing away at her stomach. Her right hand twitched on the steering wheel.

We have insurance, right?

Yesss. Surprised, Ryn continued. We have insurance. You know what that means?

Beau bobbed his yellow head. I think so. Stone explained it to me once—when he wanted me to sign a paper for insurance. You know, in case something happened to me?

Without waiting for Ryn's reply, he spoke in a serious tone she rarely heard. All of us in The Stoned Gang had insurance for accidents. Even Amber.

The mention of Amber's name stabbed Ryn in the heart, and she sucked in a sharp breath. Beau didn't know how much she hated hearing Amber's name—even now, six months later. She wasn't going to cry because Beau mentioned Amber's name, was she?

Let it go.

The squeal of tires too near the edge brought her back. She let up on the gas and forced herself to listen to Beau.

And I bought insurance for my guitars and my record collection.

And that's what I did for Esperanza House. I made sure to buy enough insurance. Just in case.

Forget Amber extending that little white pill.

Stop. Put the memories of Stone away for now.

Concentrate on the fire.

Most of the things we lost will be paid for by our insurance company. Once they got through the fire department's eighteen million questions. Captain Wetherill sounded like a real by-the-book tightass on the phone.

Can't be any worse than Jericho.

A choked laugh fell out of Ryn's mouth. Please God, LAPD Lieutenant Adam Jericho did not have a fireman clone named Captain Kirk Wetherill. Despite Amber's confession and conviction, didn't Jericho—in the most secret corner of his heart—believe Ryn had gotten away with Stone's murder?

Next to her, Beau was still on insurance. So, we have insurance. I was pretty sure we did. Like a wise old man, he crossed his arms over his chest, nodded his head, and pronounced, That's good.

You never know what takes and what doesn't.

Ryn concentrated on driving, her surprise at Beau's knowledge about insurance dropping into a pigeonhole at the back of her brain. Right now, she had to get over the shakes. Think about how to provide classes again as soon as possible. Twenty-three women depended on her promise to train them to become financially independent. And, with a little luck, emotionally strong.

The issue at the moment, though, was how do you teach computer skills without computers? And, fire or no fire, what work do you give seven instructors, a receptionist, a secretary, a fundraiser, two cooks, and three maintenance workers—all expecting their full salaries?

Good thing Stone left that $250-million-dollar nest egg.

In the silence, Beau cleared his throat a couple of times and then started hacking like a southern boy weaned on cigarettes.

How can you see? The smoke makes me cry. He scrubbed his eyes and coughed twice.

Better drink some water.

Thanks to Captain Wetherill's advice, she'd brought along several large bottles of water and half a dozen wet washcloths. Thanks to Beau, she could stop driving herself crazy with a mile-long list of worse-case scenarios and concentrate on being practical.

Beau uncapped one of the bottles and chugged with the gusto of a man in the desert.

The smoke surrounded them now, burning Ryn's nose, the back of her throat, and her eyes. Her mouth felt as dry as her shirt felt wet, stuck to her back.

The temperature inside the Volvo hovered at what felt like noon in the Sahara. The smell—scorched, filled with bitter resins—entered the car and sat between them like an unclean hitchhiker.

Who said the human race has harnessed fire?

Ryn blinked back tears. Hand me one of those wet cloths, will you?

Braking, she sucked on the cool, damp cloth for a second, and then swiped at her face. A sudden explosion caught her by surprise, making her jump. Head up, she listened to the noise of the fire, a starved predator with greedy jaws snapping and popping while it consumed everything in its path.

You sure it's okay for us to get this close? Beau pressed his nose against the window.

I'm sure. Remember, though, you promised to wait in the car while I talk to Captain Wetherill.

How long will you be gone? Beau asked, his voice small.

Not long.

Fingers crossed. Wetherill had informed her she had to stay in the car when she arrived. Civilians got in the way. Got hurt. When he was a hundred percent sure it was safe, she could leave her car.

And Wetherill can take a flying leap.

Once Ryn saw with her own eyes that the women and children were okay, she'd return to the car and—like an obedient first grader—watch her brick and wood dream go up in smoke.

A few feet past the back gate, the Volvo's front tires hit a pothole at the same moment the huge, old live oak tree behind the house cracked, as if struck by lightning.

Ryn's heart blasted through the top of her head, and her whole body shook.

Beau's eyes rounded. It—that tree—it-it exploded!

One by one, as if in slow motion, the gnarled limbs broke away from the trunk and crashed through the blazing roof. Ryn clapped a hand over her chest.

Beau slapped his hands over his ears. She stopped the car and reached for him, her reply drowned out by a thunderous boom. Then, the rest of the roof collapsed—all at once—sucked down like a swimmer in an undertow. Dirty-faced mimes, the firemen held onto their bucking hoses, mouths open, shouting mute commands.

Ryn put her arms around Beau and counted four streams of water slamming into the front and sides of the classroom wing. The rap of knuckles on her window broke her trance. Through sheer willpower, she released Beau and turned her gaze away from the hypnotically beautiful scene.

An exhausted-looking policeman, his trim, black, military moustache rimmed with ashes, leaned down as she lowered the window. He yelled, You the owner? Kathryn Davis?

In a shaky voice she didn't recognize, Ryn acknowledged she was. With five fire trucks and that many patrol cars around the house, the policeman informed her she'd have to wait awhile.

He leaned against her door, keeping her in the car, and predicted, The first TV news vans ought to be here any minute.

Glad now for an excuse to look away from the charred building, she said, I'm surprised they didn't arrive with the fire trucks,

We set up a roadblock at the main entrance. The cop straightened and checked over his shoulder. But the press always finds a way and here they are now.

Beau twisted around in his seat. Channel Thirteen, he intoned. "First with the News."

The policeman cupped his hand behind his ear. Hear that bugle? With a short laugh and a quick salute, he left, calling, I'll be right back.

What bugle? Beau demanded. TV reporters don't have bugles, Ryn.

She coughed down a reflexive chuckle. He was being sarcastic.

I figured. Beau nodded, paused, and asked, "Does he hate the media like you?"

Can't hate the media that much, right?

I don't hate— She stopped. Why lie? To Beau or to herself? I doubt it.

After Stone's murder, the media vultures hunted her down, printing lies, spreading rumors, broadcasting innuendoes that had her convicted of the crime almost before she had accepted Stone was dead. She hated those slimeballs. All of them. Except …

… except for The REal McCoy. Beau grinned at her.

Bet you thought Beau hadn't noticed.

Suspicious he was trying to delay her, Ryn opened her car door. Time to find the women and children. "McCoy did help us—me—out, you know." Even if he is a member of the sleazeratti.

I know, Beau stated, his gaze veering away when a new burst of sparks caught his attention.

What? She wanted to shout at him. What do you know?

Did Beau know McCoy wanted more than her friendship? Not that McCoy had ever said anything. Each time they'd set a date for him to come north, one of them had to cancel.

You said McCoy's article for his rag about La Segunda Esperanza House was excellent. Beau tossed out his rag as if he read The New York Times cover to cover.

It was excellent, Ryn agreed and stepped outside. "Better than any coverage in the legitimate media."

Which she'd told McCoy.

Which only made it harder for him to understand why she held his job against him.

Okay, he worked for a sleazoid newspaper but that didn't make him a sleazarrati, did it?

Before Ryn could win the mental battle with herself, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She yelped and bit back a scream at the smoky, soot-covered face up close and personal. In the murky light, his nose covered with a thick, white cream reminded her of the frosted bulb in a refrigerator. Fine threads of red intersected his blackened corneas. In the outside corner of his right eye, the threads had congealed in a large blood clot.

He got right to the point. We've had a new development.

She sucked in a breath and held it, heart racing, hands wet. He didn't have to tell her. She knew what had happened.

Easier to wait than to ask WHO, isn't it?

We found a body.

Ryn squeezed her eyes shut. The quicksilver image of Stone's body in their bed surfaced. The red hibiscus bloomed from his chest. She saw the funny angle of his head. Remembered thinking, at first, Stone was playing a game. Trying to scare her—one of his favorite pastimes. Then, she plunged through time and space when her mind confirmed what her eyes had already told her.

The hot air made catching her breath hard. When she opened her eyes, the roar in her ears reduced the raging fire to a sigh, but the pain in her chest tightened. Chin up, she straightened her spine and met Captain Kirk Wetherill's icy stare.

Maybe her ears had misheard the despair in his voice.

Maybe her eyes had misread the rage around his mouth.

Maybe her imagination had misjudged the slump in his shoulders.

And maybe a thousand angels can dance on the head of a pin.

Who? she croaked, unable to get control of the trembling parts of her mind.

Chapter 3

Marta Fuentes, twenty-seven-year-old mother of thirteen-year-old Elena, stood surrounded by a knot of women and children in a bed of trampled pansies. Three or four whispery voices chanted the rosary in unison. From time to time, several birds trilled—quick, staccato chirps that rose above the thrum of human voices. The children—including three preteen boys—clung to each other. Whimpering. Eyes huge—as if dilated. The burning building mesmerized them.

One of Ryn's favorite students, Marta Fuentes had the kind of beauty that caused wars in the ancient world. Fragile as a china doll, she had the regal posture and unblemished, golden skin that always made Ryn think she must have come from royal Aztec stock. Only royal genes carried such high cheeks and thick, inky lashes. Her waist-length hair, blue black and wavy, gleamed like the pelt of some sleek water animal.

On this night, Marta stared at the blaze with vacant, tearless eyes that told Ryn she didn't see the orange glow or feel its searing heat. Did she recognize any of them?

Aren't you going to say something to her? Beau jabbed Ryn in the back.

Stop that! She jerked away from his reach. Why did she have to say something? She couldn't move. Her fingers and feet had gone as numb as her mind.

Beau lumbered toward the circle of women. In slow motion, the circle broke open to make room for his huge body. Ryn was sucked into the past like a swimmer swept out to sea. From six months ago, the dreamy, disjointed sense of seeing and hearing everything through a glass wall came rushing back.

"Vaya con Díos, Marta," Beau whispered, joining hands with the women on either side of him.

Signs of the cross flashed, and fingers in the