Friday, December 8, 2023

#Review - Shards of Glass Michelle Sagara #Fantasy

Series: Chronicles of Elantra
Format: Paperback, 512 pages
Release Date: November 28, 2023
Publisher: MIRA
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy

Michelle Sagara is the New York Times bestselling author of The Chronicles of Elantra series. Shards of Glass is loosely connected to Sagara's Elantra series, and centers on Raven, a new student at a Magic School that has been frozen in time and space. To reawaken and survive, the Academia needs students—but someone seems bent on killing them.

"This magical thrill-ride is a treat." —Publishers Weekly on Cast in Wisdom

The Academia, once an elite proving ground for the rulers of the world, has been frozen for centuries. Now its strange slumber has ended, and a new Chancellor, an orange-eyed dragon, has reopened its lecture halls and readied its dorms. In order to thrive once more, however, the Academia needs fresh blood—new students with a passion and talent for learning.

One such student, Robin, has the perfect recruit in mind: his friend Raven, an orphan who lives in the dangerous Warrens. Robin grew up in the Warrens, and he wouldn't have made it if not for Raven. He knows she’ll be safe at the Academia, where her unusual gifts can be appreciated.

But when students start turning up dead, the campus threatens to collapse completely. Raven and Robin will not let that happen to their new home…if they can survive long enough to figure out who—or what—is trying to kill them.


Michelle Sagara's Shard of Glass is set in the authors Chronicles of Elantra world. This book is set at the Academia, which you might be familiar with if you read Cast in Wisdom featuring Corporal Kaylin Neya. Kaylin was the one who discovered the Academia after it was lost for so long. The school, both as an institution and in the person of its sentient building and grounds, Killianas, is recovering, but it appears someone is trying to belay that recovery.  

This story does not focus on Kaylin, rather Robin, who we met in Cast in Wisdom, and Raven, a new character who is obsessed with collecting glass pieces, and was Robin's only friend until he disappeared. Raven, like Robin, lived in the Warrens. Raven is very much a mysterious character for most of the story with her obsession with finding glass shards that nobody but her can see. It was Robin who gave her the name she now carries. 

It was Raven who protected Robin when they were living on the streets of Elantra running errands for the Grey Lady. But Robin was apparently stolen by powerful people and taken to the Academia where he was stuck for years while the outside world moved on without him. Raven, though, never forget. Raven knows that people in the Warrens have been disappearing and not returning. She knows to stay away from the Barrani because they are dangerous. 

She knows that those who were taken will never be missed never missed. Those like Robin who became an orphan after tragedy took his entire family away from him. Until one day, Giselle, the Grey Lady takes Raven to the Academia where she reunites with a Robin. Because of her curiosity, Robin knows that Raven will be safe at the Academia, and it is a good thing that she shows up when she does. Raven is the one who finds clues nobody can see. Raven is the one who finds hidden rooms that even Killian can't see, and he can't see Raven.

The Academia, once an elite proving ground for the rulers of the world, was frozen for centuries. Now its strange slumber has ended, and a new Chancellor, an orange-eyed dragon known as Lannagaros, has reopened its lecture halls and readied its dorms. In order to thrive once more, however, the Academia needs fresh blood—new students with a passion and talent for learning. But when students start turning up dead, the campus threatens to collapse completely. 

Raven and Robin will not let that happen to their new home; if they can survive long enough to figure out who—or what—is trying to kill them. Robin and Raven will have to work with some characters you should know if you have read the reset of the authors Elantra series. Characters like: Terrano, who always seems to get in trouble. Starrante, the Arbiter from the Library who looks like a giant spider. Serralyn, one of the Barrani along with Valliant who chose to attend the Academia. There is also an appearance by Barrani Hawk Teela and Sedarias who is the leader of the Barrani who were stuck together for a century.

*Thoughts* So, let's not say this story is a spin-off. It's a side show that happens at the same time as the authors Kaylin Neya series. As I said, Kaylin does not appear in this story, but she is mentioned as the one who found the Academia. While the story does focus on the school, and the fact that someone is killing students, the key here is Robin. Robin vaguely, fleetingly remembers another life. Another life with a mother, a sister, and a brother. Another life that didn't involve struggling to survive while living in the Warrens. But it has been years since he's been in stuck in the Academia and his memories of who he is, and what happened to his family finally awakens with the arrival of Raven and the Gray Lady. Raven is a really interesting and complex character in that you really need to pay attention to the things she does, especially she she starts seeing things nobody else can see.





Thursday, December 7, 2023

#Review - The Spy Coast by Tess Gerritsen #Thriller #Espionage

Series: The Martini Club # 1
Format: Kindle, 341 pages
Release Date: November 1, 2023
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Source: Amazon
Genre: Espionage / Thriller

A retired CIA operative in small-town Maine tackles the ghosts of her past in this fresh take on the spy thriller from New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen.

Former spy Maggie Bird came to the seaside village of Purity, Maine, eager to put the past behind her after a mission went tragically wrong. These days, she’s living quietly on her chicken farm, still wary of blowback from the events that forced her early retirement.

But when a body turns up in Maggie’s driveway, she knows it’s a message from former foes who haven’t forgotten her. Maggie turns to her local circle of old friends—all retirees from the CIA—to help uncover the truth about who is trying to kill her, and why. This “Martini Club” of former spies may be retired, but they still have a few useful skills that they’re eager to use again, if only to spice up their rather sedate new lives.

Complicating their efforts is Purity’s acting police chief, Jo Thibodeau. More accustomed to dealing with rowdy tourists than homicide, Jo is puzzled by Maggie’s reluctance to share information—and by her odd circle of friends, who seem to be a step ahead of her at every turn.

As Jo’s investigation collides with the Martini Club’s maneuvers, Maggie’s hunt for answers will force her to revisit a clandestine career that spanned the globe, from Bangkok to Istanbul, from London to Malta. The ghosts of her past have returned, but with the help of her friends—and the reluctant Jo Thibodeau—Maggie might just be able to save the life she’s built.

The Spy Coast, by Tess Gerritsen, is the first installment in the authors The Martini Club series. Key Characters: Maggie Bird, and Acting Police Chief, Jo Thibodeau. It has been 16 years since Maggie retired from the CIA and made her home in Purity, Maine which is pretty isolated from the rest of the country. She purchased Blackberry Farm from the previous owner, and is perfectly fine visiting with her friends, her neighbor Luther Yount, and his granddaughter Callie, while running off annoying foxes who target her chickens. 

Maggie isn't aware of it yet, but her past, as well as a former colleague named Diana Ward, who she worked with in Operation Cyrano in Malta, is about to rear its ugly head. Diana, who was living a comfortable life in Paris, escaped a bad ending from two men who wanted her dead. Someone, it appears, has leaked her name. Diana made plenty of enemies, and those enemies haven't forgotten what happened 16 years ago while she and Maggie were chasing a Russian spy known as Cyrano. 

Back in Purity, Maggie gets a visit from a woman named Bianca Miskova who says Maggie is missing and that there has been a breach of the Agency records. The only file accessed was Operation Cyrano which took place 16 years ago in Malta. But when Bianca turns up dead in Maggie’s driveway, she knows it’s a message from former foes who haven’t forgotten her. Who is Bianca really? CIA? SVR? Why is she searching for Diana? Who killed her and why? What was Operation Cyrano, and why is the agency revisiting it?

Maggie turns to her local circle of old friends—all retirees from the CIA—to help uncover the truth about who is trying to kill her, and why. This “Martini Club” of former spies (Lloyd and Ingrid Slocum, Ben Diamond, & Declan Rose) may be retired, but they still have a few useful skills that they’re eager to use again, if only to spice up their rather sedate new lives. Complicating their efforts is Purity’s acting police chief, Jo Thibodeau. 

More accustomed to dealing with rowdy tourists than homicide, Jo is puzzled by Maggie’s reluctance to share information and by her odd circle of friends, who seem to be a step ahead of her at every turn. As Jo’s investigation collides with the Martini Club’s maneuvers, Callie is kidnapped and a cryptic message "a life for a life" is left for Maggie. Maggie’s hunt for answers will force her to revisit a clandestine career that spanned the globe, from Bangkok to Istanbul, from London to Malta. The ghosts of her past have returned, but with the help of her friends—and the reluctant Jo Thibodeau—Maggie might just be able to save the life she’s built.

*Thoughts* This, apparently, is the authors first foray into Espionage thrillers and yes, she did a good job. She mentions that Maine is a place where retired spies go to retire. Not sure if that was such a good idea, knowing the world we live in today. This story alternate's between the present, and 16 years ago culminating in a major loss for Maggie, and an end to a promising career. I honestly have nothing good to say about Diana. Jo is in a curious position now that she knows who the Martini Club really is, and what they are capable of. Also, could it be possible that Maggie has been blinded by what happened 16 years ago to see what is right in front of her in the form of romance? We shall see. 





Tuesday, December 5, 2023

#Review - The Crimson Fortress by Akshaya Raman #YA #Fantasy

Series: The Ivory Key Duology # 2
Format: Hardcover, 432 pages
Release Date: November 14, 2023
Publisher: Clarion Books
Source: Library
Genre: Young Adult / Fantasy / Epic

In this thrilling, action-packed sequel and conclusion to the critically acclaimed Ivory Key duology called “a dream”* (ALA Booklist, starred review), royal siblings Vira, Ronak, Kaleb, and Riya battle vengeful enemies, centuries-old mysteries, and their own personal demons in order to save their country from ruin.

The search for the Ivory Key has brought royal siblings Vira, Ronak, Kaleb, and Riya closer than they have been in years as they try to restore magic and stability to Ashoka. But despite finally getting their hands on the long-lost key, uncovering its cipher has proved more complicated and dangerous than they ever expected.

Their missions force them to split up and disperse across Ashoka and beyond. When a rash decision by the council strips Vira of her power, her journey to reclaim her throne takes on new meaning. Kaleb travels to the neighboring country of Lyria to uncover its emperor’s motives and meets a prince seeking answers of his own. Ronak’s efforts to escape his arranged marriage and exonerate his brother lead to a series of risky deals that only bring him closer to what he’s running from. And Riya’s newfound power has turned unpredictable, but her search for answers only raises more questions.

When their attempts at decoding the key release an ancient power, the siblings must align to face the past and save their future once and for all. In a quest that culminates in a deadly labyrinth, there’s only one way they will succeed: together. 

The Crimson Fortress, by Akshaya Raman, is the second and final installment in the authors The Ivory Key duology. In this action-packed sequel, royal siblings Vira, Ronak, Kaleb, and Riya battle vengeful enemies, centuries-old mysteries, and their own personal demons in order to save their country from ruin. The search for the Ivory Key has brought royal siblings Vira, Ronak, Kaleb, and Riya closer than they have been in years as they try to restore magic and stability to Ashoka.

But not everything is what Vira expected. Vira is Maharani of Ashoka. Ashoka has 3 weeks left before the countries defenses are weakened by the lack of magic in the land. Vira has been betrayed by the former Captain of her Guard, and will  also end up losing her title of Maharani in a coup staged by a Council that seeks to make a very bad treaty with their enemies in Lyria. Riya is the former Raven who left the family to go out on her own. Riya desperately wants to know more about her magic, or to get rid of it permanently. Riya's journey to peace of mind is as twisted as one can get without losing oneself. 

Until 2 weeks ago, Ronak thought everything was going well. He had planned on leaving Ashoka and boarding a ship. He gave up months of his life for Kaleb. Even worse, he made with Ekta turned out to be a really bad idea. Now she wants more from him. Kaleb, who was accused of killing his mother, has fled the country for Lyrian where he meets his cousin, Dayana. Kaleb soon finds himself working as a spy for the Heir to the throne, Lukas, while also trying not to let people know who his mother or father was for fear that he would become a liability.

Despite finally getting their hands on the long-lost key, uncovering its cipher has proved more complicated and dangerous than they ever expected. They have encountered not one, but two secret societies (Order of Remayura and The Kamala Society) that seem to be battling each other. When their attempts at decoding the key release an ancient power named Niveda, the siblings must align to face the past and save their future once and for all. In a quest that culminates in a deadly labyrinth, there’s only one way they will succeed: together. 

*Thoughts* Overall, this is definitely an action packed story that has betrayal after betrayal, and it is not often I say this but, thank goodness this is only a duology. The ending is done pretty well. Riya finds her happy ending, Riya wants to become a treasure hunter like her father and travel the globe, Kaleb has found his own happiness in Lyria where he can finally get to know his extended family, and maybe a bit of love while he is at it. Ronak ponders his future, but here's hoping he ends up on that ship he once wanted to escape on.





Monday, December 4, 2023

#Review - Uncanny Vows by Laura Anne Gilman #Fantasy #Historical

Series: Huntsmen # 2
Format: Paperback, 384 pages
Release Date: November 28, 2023
Publisher: Gallery / Saga Press
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy / Historical

Following the events of the high-stakes and propulsive Uncanny Times, Rosemary and Aaron Harker, along with their supernatural hound Botherton, have been given a new assignment to investigate…but the Harkers believe it’s a set-up, and there’s something far more ancient and deadly instead.

Rosemary and Aaron Harker have been effectively, unofficially sidelined. There is no way to be certain, but they suspect their superiors know that their report on Brunson was less than complete, that they omitted certain truths. Are they being punished or tested? Neither Aaron nor Rosemary know for certain. It may be simply that they are being given a breather or that no significant hunts have been called in their region. But neither of them believes that.

So, when they are sent to a town just outside of Boston with orders to investigate suspicious activity carefully, the Harkers suspect that it is a test. Particularly since the hunt involves a member of the benefactors, wealthy individuals who donate money to the Huntsmen in exchange for certain special privileges and protections.

If they screw this up…at best, they’ll be out of favor, reduced to a life of minor hunts and “clean up” for other Huntsmen. At worst, they will be removed from the ranks, their stipend gone—and Botheration, their Hound, taken from them.

They can’t afford to screw this up.

But what seems like a simple enough hunt—find the uncanny that attacked a man in his office and sent him into a sleep-like state—soon becomes far more complicated as more seemingly unrelated attacks occur. The Harkers must race to find what is shadowing them, before the uncanny strikes again, and sleep turns into murder—and the Huntsmen decide that they have been compromised beyond repair.



Uncanny Vows, by Laura Anne Gilman, is the second installment in the authors Huntsmen series. This series falls into the category of gaslamp fantasy in which the story combines elements of Gothic horror, urban fantasy, and historical fiction set mostly in the 1800's with some exceptions like this series. Key characters: Rosemary and Aaron Harker. Huntsmen, according to the Church, were damned, their blood unclean, unholy by the Fey. Yet for Rosemary and Aaron Harker, the Church was less important than being ready to stand against the Uncanny as not being prepared could lead to being dead.  
 
The year is 1914. America—and the world—trembles on the edge of a modern age and World War. Political and social unrest shift the foundations; technology is beginning to make its mark. But in the shadows, things from the past still move. Things inhuman, uncanny. And the Uncanny are no friend to humanity. Rosemary and Aaron Harker have been effectively, unofficially sidelined. There is no way to be certain, but they suspect their superiors know that their report on Brunson was less than complete, that they omitted certain truths. Are they being punished or tested? 
 
Neither Aaron nor Rosemary know for certain. It may be simply that they are being given a breather or that no significant hunts have been called in their region. But neither of them believes that. So, when they are sent to a town just outside of Boston with orders to investigate suspicious activity carefully, the Harker's suspect that it is a test. Particularly since the hunt involves a member of the benefactors, wealthy individuals who donate money to the Huntsmen in exchange for certain special privileges and protections. If they screw this up…at best, they’ll be out of favor, reduced to a life of minor hunts and “clean up” for other Huntsmen. 
 
At worst, they will be removed from the ranks, their stipend gone—and Botheration, their Hound, taken from them. They can’t afford to screw this up. But what seems like a simple enough hunt—find the uncanny that attacked a man in his office and sent him into a sleep-like state—soon becomes far more complicated as more seemingly unrelated attacks occur. With Hunter Jonathan Scheinberg in the area instead of in Europe with other experienced Hunters, the Harker's must race to find what is shadowing them, before the uncanny strikes again, and sleep turns into murder—and the Huntsmen decide that they have been compromised beyond repair.

But both siblings are aware that they are walking on glass. They know the Treaty that kept the peace between Fey and Humans is on tenuous ground after the events of Brunson. But their quarry may not be the only uncanny in town. Botheration and Aaron both sense something else, something shadowing them. Something old, dangerous and likely fey. Aaron and Rosemary couldn't be more different. Aaron, who is experimenting with magic, the same magic that cost him his mother and father, has a pretty curious background that makes most Hunters look down on him thinking that he has more other in his blood, than human. Meanwhile, Rosemary seems to addicted to a drug called Blast which gives her a little more energy.
 
This book ends on a sort of cliffhanger. There is an Old One introduced via several chapters, and in the end, this Old One seems to be keeping a keen eye on the Harker's and what they do next. Let's hope the sequel to this book answers the questions that remain unsolved, and that the Harker's don't find themselves being sent to Europe where a majority of other Hunters have been sent. 


Chapter One

One
WINTER WAS SLOWLY releasing its grip on New Haven. Across the campus, trees budded and bloomed, the midmorning sunlight just warm enough to convince the young men to open their coats and abandon hats, but chill enough that they did not linger, heads down, hands tucked into pockets, brightly colored scarves fluttering. Then the bells tolled eleventh hour, and the graveled paths cleared as though by magic, leaving the campus Green still once again.

At the western edge of the Green, a three-story house filled most of a corner lot. Surrounded by a low stone wall, a small plaque at the entrance announcing that the house was property of the university. It, too, was quiet. The white-trim porch boasted a comfortable-looking quartet of chairs and a low mahogany table, as though waiting for warmer afternoons for chess, or some other decorous pursuit.

Past the front door, however, that quiet gave way to chaos. Chairs had been overturned, rugs shoved aside, and the ornately papered walls had been ripped in places. In the middle of one room, Aaron Harker pivoted, arms windmilling as he tried to keep his balance without losing sight of his prey, a gray-green figure the size of a cat and the shape of a frog, if a frog were to rise up on two feet and scurry like a ferret.

“Stop them,” a familiar, breathless voice called. “Stop them!” His sister Rosemary, across the room, was holding an iron poker in one hand and a broom in the other, looking like a demented version of Lady Liberty guarding not a harbor but the exit out of the room.

Aaron pivoted again and swore. “What the blazes do you think I’m trying to do?”

The imp he’d been struggling to catch slid between his legs, leaving a trail of slime across his boots, and Aaron, lifting one foot out of the mess, pivoted a third time, getting dizzy from his attempts to follow the creature. They’d managed to chivvy the creatures from the upstairs rooms, but evicting them from the building entire had been more of a challenge. There were at least eight that they’d caught sight of, but they hadn’t exactly been able to line them up and count them.

“Slippery little bastards,” he muttered, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. He’d discarded his jacket and cap across a chair in the parlor, and sweat was making his shirt stick to the small of his back uncomfortably, as though it were deep summer rather than only mid-April.

“Above you!” Rosemary warned, and Aaron looked up to see an imp swinging from the chandelier, screeching insults when it realized it had been spotted. Aaron had just enough time to calculate the likely weight-bearing capabilities of the fixture before the chain gave way, the imp falling with an ear-piercing shriek, followed by the bulk of the chandelier. Clear crystal beads rained down like hail, bouncing and rolling all over the floor.

Aaron threw himself backward just in time, almost tripping over another imp. “Goddamn it.” It had been a long day, starting with an early-morning summons from the provost of the university, and Aaron was tired of playing nice. “Bother, I take it back. Eat them!”

The Molosser hound guarding the staircase gave a sharp bark, the sound resonating throughout the first floor and making the imps shriek again. Botheration let his lower jaw drop in what could almost be considered a grin, sharp white teeth and pink tongue visible, but since Aaron had not given an actual order countermanding the order to guard, he stayed put.

Most uncanny would wet themselves, coming into close quarters with a hound. Imps lacked that level of self-preservation.

“Pbbbttttthhhhtt!” They didn’t have speech, as such, but the meaning was entirely clear, particularly with the gesture the fallen imp made, spoon-fingered hands cupping between its legs before scurrying out of reach. But that movement put it nearer Rosemary and her poker, and she took the opportunity to whack it face-first into the wall.

The remainder of the imps, rather than being dismayed, let out another round of rude cheers, sounding remarkably like the brothers of the university fraternity house they had infested.

“That’s enough out of you.” Two hours of this, and Aaron had reached his breaking point. Although he’d been doing his best to avoid touching them until now, Aaron reached down and grabbed the nearest one by the scruff of its slimy neck, punting it toward Rosemary. With the reflexes that made them an effective team, she swung her broom, hitting the imp square in the chest and sending it flying, falling in a crumpled heap by her previous target.

“Two down, six to go,” she said with grim satisfaction, dropping the now-broken broom handle and hefting the poker with both hands. “Who’s next?”

The remaining imps scrambled up the draperies and over furniture, but Rosemary was clearly just as tired of trying to do this peacefully. Within thirty minutes they had subdued the remaining creatures, leaving them groaning in a pile on the parquet floor.

“We asked you to leave quietly,” Aaron reminded the pile. “It didn’t have to be like this.”

From the bottom of the pile, another rude noise sounded.

“They’re imps. I told you asking nicely wasn’t going to work.”

Aaron glanced at his sister, her curls falling from the braid that had been coiled neatly that morning, her face flushed with exertion, then down to where her fingers still gripped the iron poker, and bit back the response he was going to make. Stepping closer, Aaron gently uncurled her fingers where they’d clenched hard enough around the metal bar to turn her knuckles white, taking the poker from her and putting it aside. “You all right?”

“Yes. Of course.” She sounded offended that he’d even asked. “The day a pile of feral imps is anything more than an annoyance, it’s time to retire. Let’s just get them into the box and be done with this.”

On a proper hunt, there would be a body to dispose of, either by burning, burial, or sinking in a deep body of water, ideally one without strong currents. But while imps were a nuisance to civilized folk—or university students—they weren’t particularly dangerous, and their corpses would turn the soil noxious. While meeting with the provost, the Harkers had arranged for a wooden crate lined with flat iron plates to be left by the side of the house. Once they had secured the imps within, an employee of the university would haul them back out into the countryside. Odds were something out there would eat them before too long, which was likely why they’d come into town in the first place.

Their mistake, Huntsmen remedied.

After reclaiming his jacket, Aaron fixed his collar and slicked his hair back before replacing his cap. There was nothing to be done about the sweat, but from a distance, he looked respectable once again.

Taking the coal shovel from the fireplace, he used it to lift the first of the knocked-out imps, gingerly carrying it out the front door to where the box waited, half-hidden by the thick trunk of an elm tree. Unpainted wood, half as tall as Aaron and twice as wide, the stenciled lettering on the box’s sides suggested an earlier incarnation, but it didn’t need to be pretty to be effective.

It took several trips to clear the house, even with Rosemary disdaining the use of the shovel and merely dragging them out, one in each fist. Each body made a wet, hollow noise as it thumped against the others, and several of them twitched faintly but otherwise remained knocked out. The iron plates couldn’t kill them, not merely by contact, but they did enough damage to keep them docile for a while. Hopefully, long enough for them to be dumped somewhere far away.

When the last of the pile had been deposited, Aaron let the lid drop shut a final time, the iron latch falling into place with a satisfying clank.

“And good riddance,” Rosemary said. “We should do one more tour of the house, but I suspect they all came out to play once you threatened to set it on fire. Which, by the way, and I shouldn’t need to remind you, is never the answer.”

Aaron sniffed at his sleeve, then his hand, and made a face. “Fire might be the only thing that gets this smell out. And the ooze… ugh.”

She clucked her tongue at him. “It’s not that bad.”

“No, it’s worse.”

Rosemary rolled her eyes. “And they say women are too dainty for this work. Fine. I’ll clear; you wash your hands. Bother”—and she called the hound over from where he’d wandered to relieve himself—“guard!”

The hound settled himself a few feet from the box, nose on paws and gaze intent on his target. After using the garden pump to splash the worst off his skin, Aaron leaned against the stone wall and studied his four-legged companion. “A lot of help you were,” he said. “Although I’ll grant you I wouldn’t want them in my teeth, either.”

Bother’s erect ear twitched, acknowledgment that he was being spoken to, but otherwise he did not respond.

Aaron shifted again, his skin twitching. Rosemary could tease him all she liked, but he could still feel the weight of imp ooze. It would take more than a splash of cold water to erase the memory.

“Mr. Harker?”

Knocked from his wistful thoughts of a long hot bath, Aaron’s left hand reached for the bone-handled knife at his hip even as he turned, relaxing only when he saw the two men standing on the other side of the wall. The speaker was the provost, a stern-faced man with a slicked-back mustache that would have better suited a younger man, and a pinched look between his eyes. His suit was now covered by a long black coat, a fashionable derby set on top of his head, and a blue-and-white knit muffler similar to those worn by the students wrapped around his neck, but the sour expression on his face was the same they’d seen in his office a few hours earlier.

In comparison, the man next to him was an expressionless shadow in brown, a short coat and uniform with its polished black buttons up and down, and buffed black shoes underneath, immediately identifying him as a member of the Messenger Service. The service seemed to choose their employees based on unremarkableness; Aaron suspected that even if he stared for an hour, ten minutes later he wouldn’t be able to recall the shape of the face under the cap or the color of his skin.

“Mr. Harker,” the provost said again, clearly annoyed that Aaron had not responded already. Aaron was thankful Rosemary was still inside; beyond the fact that the man had summoned them like tradespeople, the provost clearly had little use for women, and Rosemary had no use for men who had little use for women.

Aaron nodded once, waiting; he saw no need to confirm that he was, yes, still Mr. Harker.

“It’s done?” the provost asked, his tone somehow managing to be both hopeful and disdainful. In response, Aaron nodded toward the box, even as something within thumped once, weakly, and then fell silent. Then some mischief took over his tongue, and he said, “You should warn your boys about leaving food out. You never know what’s going to come to dinner.”

If possible, the provost’s scowl deepened.

And then, because if he was going to be treated like a tradesman, he might as well act like one, Aaron said, “You have our fee?”

There was a moment where Aaron thought he might have pushed too far, but the provost reached inside his coat and withdrew a slender brown envelope, which he handed to Aaron over the wall.

There was a temptation to brush his hand against the man’s sleeve, to see if he would jump back in polite horror, but the weight of the messenger waiting made Aaron simply take the envelope, slipping it into his own coat pocket.

Huntsmen worked for the greater good of humanity. But they had bills to pay, too.

The transaction completed, the provost wasted no time departing, acknowledging neither Aaron nor the messenger beyond a brusque nod.

Both men watched him leave, then the messenger turned back to Aaron.

“Aaron Harker?”

“That’s me,” he agreed. Unlike the provost, the messenger had reason to confirm his identity.

The man handed him an envelope of his own. This one was a simple cream-colored envelope, sealed with a delicate bronze drop of wax pressed with a plain signet. Despite its travel, the corners were undented, the paper itself unmarked, as though other letters had been afraid to touch it.

Orders from the Circle, in Boston.

There was a bitter irony somewhere, Aaron was certain, that now was the moment the Circle chose to resume contact. Not that there was a rule against Huntsmen working directly for anyone, thankfully. The stipend they received from the Circle covered the basics, but not much beyond that, and while the Harkers did not live extravagantly, there were books and wine and new shoes to be acquired on a regular basis, and Botheration was not inexpensive to feed.

And there had been no official hunts coming their way for several months now, which had meant a smaller stipend.

No hunts, no communication at all. Because of Brunson. Not that anyone would say so. But the Harkers had grown up knowing that they were slightly beyond the pale, knowing that they had to prove themselves more than others, and he knew, even if Rosemary wouldn’t admit it, that they were being censured.

And yet, there was no way the Circle could know what had really happened in Brunson. Their report had been clear: an uncanny had murdered three people, and a fourth had died during the hunt, of causes unknown. All truth. Simply not… all the truth.

Sensing Aaron’s mood, Bother chose that moment to stand up, drawing attention to himself. The messenger, to give him credit, didn’t flinch at the approach of the massive beast but stood his ground, his gaze fixed on the human, not hound.

Aaron rubbed a thumb across the wax seal, though not hard enough break it. “Are you supposed to wait for a response?”

“I was not requested to do so, Mr. Harker.”

“Fine.” Aaron tucked the letter into his pocket, equally careful not to crease it, and pulled a quarter coin from the other pocket, offering it to the man. “Thank you.”

When Rosemary reappeared a few minutes later, her own attire and appearance repaired, both Aaron and Bother had their attention fixed on the imp box, only the envelopes heavy in his pocket proof anyone else had been there at all.

She stepped off the porch steps and stopped. “What happened?”

He couldn’t resist. “Why do you think anything happened?”

She just stared, hands on her hips, until he relented, pulling the envelopes out to show her.

“Finally,” she said, exhaling her relief, stepping forward to reach not for the envelope with their pay, but the one with their new assignment. He pulled it out of her reach just as her fingers touched it and, when she scowled at him, tilted his head to indicate the two burly workmen approaching from the Green, a heavy handcart pulled behind them.

“It can wait until we’re home,” he said.




Friday, December 1, 2023

#Review - Good Girls Don't Die by Christina Henry #Horror #Thrillers #Suspense

Series: Standalone
Format: Paperback, 336 pages
Release Date: November 14, 2023
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Horror / Thrillers / Suspense

A sharp-edged, supremely twisty thriller about three women who find themselves trapped inside stories they know aren’t their own, from the author of Alice and Near the Bone.

Celia wakes up in a house that’s supposed to be hers. There’s a little girl who claims to be her daughter and a man who claims to be her husband, but Celia knows this family—and this life—is not hers…

Allie is supposed to be on a fun weekend trip—but then her friend’s boyfriend unexpectedly invites the group to a remote cabin in the woods. No one else believes Allie, but she is sure that something about this trip is very, very wrong…

Maggie just wants to be home with her daughter, but she’s in a dangerous situation and she doesn’t know who put her there or why. She’ll have to fight with everything she has to survive…

Three women. Three stories. Only one way out. This captivating novel will keep readers guessing until the very end.
 


Christina Henry's Good Girls Don't Die is a story that follows three women who wake up in a fantasy like world reminiscent of an episode of Black Mirror. The main players are Celia, Allison, and Maggie. The book itself is broken into 4 sections with 1 section each for the three main players. Celia wakes up in a house that’s supposed to be hers. There’s a little girl who claims to be her daughter and a man who claims to be her husband, but Celia knows this family—and this life—is not hers. 
 
Even though she has a New York State drivers license, and even though she clearly has some skills as a restaurant owner and cook, there is something at the back of her mind telling her that this is all wrong. Then things spiral out of control. A woman who Celia argued with ends up dead, and she receives a phone call saying "You're going to pay for what you've done. Women like you always get what they deserve." Is this some sort of survival game? Someone did this to Celia. Someone stripped her of her life and now it is time to fight back. It appears that someone intends to treat Celia like she's one of the Stepford wives by stripping away her entire identity. 

Allison is supposed to be on a fun weekend trip with her best fiends Cam and Madison. When her friend’s boyfriends (Brad & Steve) unexpectedly shows up and invites the group to a remote cabin in the woods, Allison is weary about being a third wheel. To make matters more twisted, Alli is an aficionado of horror classics. Let's call this scenario Cabin in the Woods.  She knows most if not all of the signs that something is wrong. No one else believes Allie, but when the car they were riding in is destroyed, and one by one her friends are attacked and left for dead, Allie knows that someone has picked her for some sort of sick survival game.
 
Maggie wakes up to find that she is with 8 other women who seemed to have been chosen for some sort of survival game. The people running the game claim that they have no right to refuse anything they are told to do or they will lose someone close to them. In Maggie's case, that is her daughter who she fought tooth and nail to get away from her psycho ex-boyfriend. Maggie allies herself with a woman named Sonya to try to get though the maze and the ending that wakes for them. Let's call Maggie's scenario a cross between the Hunger Games and the Maze Runner.

At the end of the main characters parts in the story, they each find a door where the have escaped from a mob of men who want them dead. Maggie, Allison, Sonya, and Celia now have to figure out why they were chosen in particular. There are hints along the way that should give readers a clue as to why they were chosen, and who is responsible. Let's just say that the twists at the end of the book are not only surprising but unexpected. It is mentioned quiet a few times along the way that these character think of themselves in terms of books like Hunger Games, Truman Show, and Black Mirror.
 



CHAPTER ONE

mysterybkluv: who else here loves cozy mysteries best?

poirotsgirl: cozies are my fave, esp if they have recipes in the back

mysterybkluv: ngl it would be great to live in a small town where there are lots of low-stakes murders and I could solve them while working in my family restaurant

tyz7412: lol living the dream

"Mom."

"Earth to Mom. Come in, Mom."

"Mom, I'm going to be late for the bus!"

Celia shook her head. The small person beside her was blurry, out of focus. Did she need glasses now?

And why was this person calling her "Mom"?

Celia blinked hard, once, twice, and the little person came into focus. A girl-maybe ten, eleven years old?-staring at her expectantly, holding an open backpack.

"What?" Celia asked.

"My lunch," the girl said. "I need my lunch. Did you drink enough coffee this morning?"

Celia looked down. In front of her, on a white countertop, was an open cloth lunch bag. Inside it there was already a plastic bag of sliced apples, a bag of all-natural puffed corn snacks (cheese flavored), and a chocolate soy milk.

A piece of waxed paper lay unfolded on the counter. What is all this disposable packaging? I would never buy things like this.

"Mom!" The little person was getting really insistent now. "Sandwich!"

Celia couldn't think. She needed this small girl to leave so she could organize her thoughts.

Why does she keep calling me "Mom"? I don't have any children.

"Two minutes!" the girl screeched.

There was a loaf of wheat bread and a package of cheese from the deli next to the waxed paper. Celia took out two pieces of bread.

"One piece in half! Mom, what's wrong with you today?"

"Sorry," Celia said, cutting the single slice of bread in half. "How much cheese?"

"Two pieces! Come on, come on!"

You're old enough to do this yourself, Celia thought as she folded the bread around the cheese, wrapped the sandwich in waxed paper and shoved everything in the lunch bag. The girl grabbed it, stuffed it in her pack and sprinted toward the door.

"Bye, love you!" she said as she threw the door open, then slammed it shut behind her.

Celia walked like a sleepwalker to the window next to the door and peered out. The little girl was running down a long inclined driveway toward what appeared to be a country road. Across the street there was nothing to see except trees, tall trees that looked like older-growth maple, oak and ash.

The little girl reached the end of the drive just as a yellow school bus pulled up in front of the mailbox. She clambered onto the bus and it pulled away.

She's gone. Now I can think.

Footsteps sounded overhead and Celia glanced up at the ceiling in alarm. The steps moved across the floor, and a moment later Celia heard someone large coming down the stairs. She couldn't see the stairs from where she stood. The kitchen was attached to a dining room on one side and a hallway on the other. Celia peered into the hall. The bottom of the stairs was at the far end.

A strange man rounded the banister and headed toward her, frowning at his cell phone as he walked. Celia backed away from him, her heart pounding. Her butt bumped into the edge of the counter. She scrambled around it and positioned herself close to the door so she could run if she needed to do so. She looked down at her feet. Socks. Not even slippers. There was a pair of low shelves positioned next to the door with shoes neatly arranged on them. One of those pairs should be hers. But would she have time enough to figure out which pair, put them on and get out the door?

"Hey, babe, I've got a ton of meetings this morning," the man said. "I'll stop by the restaurant at lunchtime."

Who is he?

The man was very tall, at least six inches taller than herself, and she wasn't a small woman. He had dark hair cut in what she thought of as "millennial fund manager" style and wore a well-tailored gray suit. He had a gym-toned look about him and altogether gave the impression of someone who belonged in a city. This impression was reinforced when he pulled on an expensive-looking wool overcoat. His shoes, Celia noted, were very shiny.

He leaned close to her and kissed her cheek absently, still looking at the phone so he didn't notice the way she inched backward. She caught a whiff of his aftershave, something musky and heavy. Her nose twitched.

"See you later," he said, and disappeared out the same door as the little girl.

Celia went to the window and pulled one blind up to peek out. The man who'd called her "babe," the man who'd kissed her goodbye, had gotten into a black Audi SUV that was parked at the top of the driveway. He backed down the drive and pulled out onto the road, heading in the opposite direction of the bus.

An Audi. City guy, she thought again, and then wondered why she thought this.

Because I live in a city and I see those kinds of guys all the time, she thought, but the thought was like a stabbing pain in her head. She looked around the kitchen, then out the window once more.

Clearly, she did not live in a city. Why did she think she lived in a city?

But now, finally, all the people were gone from the house and she could stop and think.

The kitchen was large and had a white countertop that wrapped around half of the room and then extended out on the third side as a breakfast bar. There were stools lined up along that side, facing the dining room.

Celia pulled one out, sat on it and stared at the rectangular dining room table and chairs, done in some heavy dark wood that she never would have chosen for herself. She didn't like dark wood, didn't like the formality of it, and she definitely didn't like anything that looked like it would need regular polishing. Celia hated to clean, and she particularly hated to dust and polish. That dining room table represented everything she didn't want in a piece of furniture.

"I didn't buy that," she murmured. "I have a round oak table."

Again, there was a little stabbing feeling between her eyes, and she rubbed the spot with her forefinger. Obviously she didn't have a round table. The two people who'd rushed out of the house seemed to think she lived there, that she belonged there.

And that guy, that guy who kissed me goodbye-he did look a little familiar.

"He said he would see me at the restaurant. Do I work at a restaurant?"

She had a vague memory of her hands collecting dishes from a table, of tucking a notepad into an apron.

Maybe I drank a lot last night. Or maybe I had a mini stroke or something.

The only thing she knew for sure was that her first name was Celia.

She stood up again and walked into the dining room. At one side of the room there was a large cabinet with glass doors on top and drawers on the bottom. The cabinet matched the dining set, and she crinkled her nose at it.

I hate that matchy-matchy thing. I bet all the dishes are in a matching pattern, too.

When she opened the glass doors, she confirmed that her prediction was accurate. All the tableware and serving plates were in a matching pattern, a kind of country floral that made her think of wedding registries.

On the wall opposite the cabinet there was a large, posed photograph of three people. The background was soft gray, like they'd been in a photo studio. There was Celia, sitting next to the tall dark-haired man. They both wore white-cabled fisherman-style sweaters. The lunch-demanding little girl stood in front of them, positioned so that she was halfway between them. She, too, wore a cabled sweater, this one in pink. All three of them had the slightly glazed eyes and overly toothy smiles that came with posed photography.

This is my family? Celia thought, then told herself, more firmly, This is my family.

There was obviously something wrong with her today. Amnesia seemed unlikely. Early-onset dementia?

It can't be dementia. I'm only thirty-four.

"Ah!" she said, and clapped her hands together. She'd remembered something else. She was thirty-four.

Okay, okay, you just need to walk around for a bit and then you'll remember everything. Maybe you just didn't sleep well or something.

She paced slowly through the dining room and into the living room. Leather furniture-more yuck-a huge entertainment system, several more photographs of herself and her family caught in various activities: eating drippy ice cream cones, building sandcastles, taking a picture with a certain mouse at an amusement park. Regular family things.

There was something about the pictures that bothered her, but she looked at them for a few minutes and couldn't put her finger on it, so she moved on.

She climbed the stairs and found four rooms upstairs-two bedrooms, one office and a bathroom. The little girl's bedroom had posters of Korean pop stars and a pile of soccer gear in the corner. The carpet was pink and so were the walls. It wasn't to Celia's taste, but then it wasn't her room, so it didn't matter.

The second bedroom wasn't to her taste, either, but apparently this was her bedroom.

The bedroom I share with that strange man, she thought, with a trickle of unease.

Like the furniture downstairs, everything in the bedroom was made of heavy, dark wood, with a thick blue carpet underfoot. She didn't like wall-to-wall carpeting, and yet it was everywhere in this house. On an end table on one side of the bed there was a wedding photograph of a younger Celia smiling next to the strange man. Beside the photograph was a brown leather purse.

Brand name, high-end. I wouldn't have bought this for myself. It's a waste of money. The Audi guy must have bought it. He seems like the type to care about stuff like this.

Celia sat on the edge of the bed and emptied the purse onto the dark blue comforter. A large wallet fell out, along with a pack of Trident spearmint gum, a package of tissues, a bottle of hand sanitizer, a powder compact, a hairbrush, a cherry-flavored ChapStick and some business cards.

Standard purse contents, but like the photos she'd seen downstairs, something seemed to be missing. She just couldn't think of what that something might be.

She opened the wallet and found a New York State driver's license with her photo on it. The name listed was "Celia Zinone." She said the name to herself. It seemed right, unlike everything else she'd experienced so far. There was a debit card and two credit cards in the same name, and a few more family photos-mostly the posed kind-in the photo flap. All the photos were of her immediate family. Did she have no parents? No brothers or sisters or nieces or nephews?

Celia picked up the stack of business cards. They advertised Zinone's Italian Family Restaurant next to a cartoon of a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Her own name was listed underneath as the owner, and beneath that was the address and phone number.

I run a restaurant. Okay.

She again had a flash of memory-of stirring a giant pot of sauce, of folding ingredients into layers of lasagna.

"He said he would see me at the restaurant at lunch," Celia said.

She looked at the business card again. So she should probably get dressed and take herself to this restaurant. Maybe going to work would help her remember more.

Terror clutched at her for a moment. It was as though she stood beside a dizzying abyss, with no real sense of self, no memories, no knowledge of what she'd done the previous day or even that morning before the little girl started shouting about her lunch.

Black spots danced in front of her eyes and her heart seemed like it was trying to escape her chest. Her breath came in hard pants and she heard the wheezy quality of it, an inability to get the oxygen all the way to the bottom of her lungs.

She dug her fingers into the comforter on either side of her legs, feeling the material scrunch beneath her hands.

Calm, calm, calm. Breathe, breathe, breathe. You're okay. You're not in danger.

Hard on the heels of that thought came another one. Why would I be in danger?

Celia forced herself to take deep, calming breaths, and after a few moments, her heart rate slowed, though its beating still seemed unnaturally loud to her.

I just need to go to the restaurant and then things will click into place. But how will I get there? I'm not sure where I am in relation to it.

She glanced over the items on the bed and realized what was missing. A cell phone. Surely she had one. Where had she left it, though?

She checked all the surfaces in the bedroom and found two charging stations on top of the dresser. Assuming the strange man (your husband) didn't carry two cell phones, then one of the chargers was for her phone.

Why wasn't it in her purse? She always kept her phone in her purse when it wasn't on the charger. She didn't like to use it in the house.

Celia grabbed on to that thought the same way she'd done with the memory of her age. It was something concrete, something solid that she knew about herself for certain. She avoided using her phone in the house because she didn't want to be one of these people who mindlessly scrolled all day.

But she couldn't find it in the bedroom, no matter how many drawers she opened or pockets she checked. She did note the type of clothes in the closet-conservative-looking sweaters and button-down blouses in low-key colors, lots of beige and gray and black and soft pastels. The sight of them made her feel, again, that these weren't things she would have chosen for herself. She was more of a happy-print skirt and quirky T-shirt girl.

For a third time her forehead stabbed with pain, and she wondered if she needed to hydrate more, or perhaps a migraine was coming on.

A loud ringing echoed through the house, the sound of an old-fashioned rotary dial phone. The noise pulled Celia out of the bedroom and down the stairs in search of the source, and she ended up back in the kitchen, where she'd begun




Thursday, November 30, 2023

#Review - The Helsinki Affair by Anna Pitoniak #Thrillers #Espionage

Series: Standalone
Format: Hardcover, 368 pages
Release Date: November 14, 2023
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thrillers / Espionage

IT’S THE CASE OF AMANDA’S LIFETIME, BUT SOLVING IT WILL REQUIRE HER TO BETRAY ANOTHER SPY—WHO JUST SO HAPPENS TO BE HER FATHER.

SPYING IS THE FAMILY BUSINESS. Amanda Cole is a brilliant young CIA officer following in the footsteps of her father, who was a spy during the Cold War. It takes grit to succeed in this male-dominated world—but one hot summer day, when a Russian defector walks into her post, Amanda is given the ultimate chance to prove herself.

The defector warns of the imminent assassination of a US senator. Though Amanda takes the warning seriously, her superiors don’t. Twenty-four hours later, the senator is dead. And the assassination is just the beginning.

Corporate blackmail, covert manipulation, corrupt oligarchs: the Kremlin has found a dangerous new way to wage war. Teaming up with Kath Frost, a fearless older woman and legendary spy, Amanda races from Rome to London, from St. Petersburg to Helsinki, unraveling the international conspiracy. But as she gets closer and closer to the truth, a central question haunts her: Why was her father’s name written down in the senator’s notes? What does Charlie Cole really know about the Kremlin plot?

The Helsinki Affair is a riveting, globe-trotting spy thriller—but this time, with a refreshing female-centric twist. Perfect for fans of John le Carré and Daniel Silva, this book introduces Pitoniak as a singular new talent in the world of spy fiction.

 

Anna Pitoniak's The Helsinki Affair is the authors follow up to Our American Friend, Necessary People, and The Futures. Pitoniak aimed to give readers a female heroine in the same league as the men in classic spy thrillers and I think she did a valiant job. 40 something Amanda Cole is a brilliant CIA officer following in the footsteps of her father, who was a spy during the Cold War. Amanda has worked for the CIA for 17 years. She is now in her second year as Deputy Station Chief for the CIA in Italy.

One day, a possible Russian defector by the name of Konstantin Semonov approaches the America Embassy claiming that he has important information about Senator Robert Vogel whose life may be in danger in Cairo, Egypt. Though Amanda takes the warning seriously, her superiors don’t. Twenty-four hours later, the senator is dead. And the assassination is just the beginning. After the Senator dies, Amanda is summoned back to the States where she assumes the new title of CIA Station Chief. 

Amanda soon learns that Senator Vogel's Chief of Staff has discovered some cryptic notes about ongoing Russian operation, directed by the GRU unit 29155, that manipulates the stock markets using viral social media posts. *This is not all that far fetched since a whole lot of Fake News is spread by Trolls and Bots in both Russia and China* The Senator's notes also mentions Amanda's father name (also a CIA agent). Amanda decides to push ahead and not recuse herself from discovering the truth.

Teaming up with Kath Frost, a fearless older woman and legendary spy, Amanda races from Rome to London, from St. Petersburg to Helsinki, unraveling the international conspiracy. But as she gets closer and closer to the truth, a central question haunts her: Why was her father’s name written down in the senator’s notes? What does Charlie Cole really know about the Kremlin plot? Will she protect him and risk the career she prizes above everything? Or will Amanda sacrifice her beloved father and shatter his reputation to prove her fealty to the agency to which she has dedicated her life?

*Thoughts* The story goes back and forth in time between Amanda’s current operation and her father’s time as a spy in Helsinki in the 1980s. Both stories involve double crosses, traitors and the whole trust factor. I will say that I felt nothing for Charlie. People like him should have been imprisoned for life. One of the key factors in this story was Russia's ability to manipulate stupid Americans into doing what they asked. One could also say this about American business owners doing business in China where you are required to allow them to own a piece of your company which leads to theft of intellectual properties. 

If you are asking yourself if it was a coincidence that I read two Espionage thrillers back to back, the answer is no. I just happen to like stories from the 1980's and 1990's when Russia and the US had not only double agents, but sometimes triple agents. When the US was funneling money and weapons to the group who would one day be lead by Osama bin Laden in Afghanistan, while the Russians were using traitorous CIA agents to leak important information that would have exposed all of deep cover CIA agents in the Middle East. Do I have an underlying hatred for the CIA? You are damned right.




Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE


It wasn’t exactly the sensible thing to do, standing outside in the hot noon sun in July in Rome. Semonov paced back and forth, mopping his brow, his handkerchief long since soaked with sweat. No, this wasn’t sensible. He ought to have done as the Romans did, escaping the summer heat by stopping at Giolitti for a cone of gelato, or napping in a shuttered bedroom, or fleeing the city altogether for the breezy hills of Umbria. But Konstantin Nikolaievich Semonov was not standing here, pleading to be admitted to the American embassy, insisting that he had urgent information to share, because he was an entirely sensible person.

In his air-conditioned booth, the soldier hung up the phone. “You need to make an appointment. No one can see you today,” he said.

“Sir!” Semonov exclaimed, leaning toward the pinprick holes in the glass. “You are a Marine. I am speaking to you as a fellow military man. I am an officer in my nation’s army. My nation which is Russia.” A needless emphasis, as ten minutes earlier he had slid his passport under the bulletproof glass barrier to identify himself. “You must understand. I have information that matters today. Not tomorrow, not next week.”

In fairness to the soldier, Semonov was a hard man to take seriously. His shirt buttons strained to contain his plump stomach. His pockets jingled with loose change. Behind his round glasses, his eyes were wide and guileless. But when the Marine hesitated for a moment, Semonov’s instinct, which was well-honed, told him to seize his opening.

“I am from Moscow.” Semonov lowered his voice. “I am here in Rome on holiday with my wife. It would not be possible for me to communicate this information while in Moscow. The nature of my work means that I am closely watched. Do you understand? The nature of my work has also exposed me to certain information that I believe your officials will value.”

“Even if that’s true,” the Marine said, “you still need to make an appointment.”

The Marine was no more than twenty-four or twenty-five years old. Crew cut, clean shave, trim as a sharpened pencil, a good soldier, a rule follower. To grant exceptions to the rules—to take pity, for instance, on a sweaty stranger with a thick accent—required the seasoning of age, which he didn’t have. And so Semonov realized, with some reluctance, that he would have to resort to blunter tactics.

Semonov stood up straight. A change passed over his features, like a shadow passing over the sun. Staring at the Marine, he said: “My information concerns Robert Vogel.”

The tiniest flinch in the young man’s brow as he registered the name.

“Senator Vogel’s flight is due to land in Cairo in one hour,” he continued calmly. “His life is in danger.”

As postings went, Rome was one of the sleepiest. It had its perks, of course. The glamorous garden parties at the Villa Taverna, where the American ambassador plied his guests with crystal flutes of prosecco. The wine-soaked weekends in the hill towns of Tuscany. The simple ability to walk safely home from the embassy without an armed escort. But Amanda Cole would have gladly given up any of those perks for the chance to do her job.

Her real job. The job she had trained for. Back in Washington, when she received news of this posting, her boss in the Directorate of Operations only shook his head, both sympathetic to and bemused by her obvious disappointment. “Enjoy it,” he’d said. “Try to make some memories, Cole. You’ll be glad to have them when you get to the next Third World bunker.”

Italian-style lunch breaks were another perk of the posting. On any given day, between the hours of noon and 3 p.m., most of her colleagues were nowhere to be found. They went home to eat and take a midday siesta, or they enjoyed a leisurely meal at one of the city’s finer restaurants, entertaining a source on the government’s dime. They had learned to take the work for what it was. If they were bored, at least they were bored in comfort.

On that hot July afternoon, Amanda Cole was halfway through her two-year posting as deputy station chief for the Central Intelligence Agency. She was forty years old—though everyone said she looked much younger—which meant that she’d been in this line of work for almost seventeen years. It was the only career she’d ever had, if you didn’t count her stints as bartender and dishwasher and au pair. After graduating high school, she had no interest in college. Beyond that surety, her sense of her future was painfully unclear, so she decided to travel the world, paying her way with a series of short-lived jobs. It wasn’t until she eventually came home and started at the agency that she learned to channel her restless curiosity to more productive ends. To succeed in the Clandestine Service required an appetite for the world’s chaos. Travel had whetted that appetite.

Her success, over time, had made her more disciplined. Amanda knew how to play the game. From the moment her flight landed at Fiumicino, not a single word of complaint had passed her lips. She nodded, smiled, acted the team player. And yet she wasn’t exactly one of the gang. The ambassador’s dinner parties, for instance. They tended to run late, but Amanda always left early. After she had slipped away, when her colleagues were deep into the Montepulciano, they sometimes speculated. Was she running something off-the-books? Was she trying to set an example? In any case, they agreed, among themselves, that there was something obnoxious about her workaholism.

Regardless of her reasoning, the fact was that Amanda was the only person there, in Rome station, to answer the phone on that summer afternoon, and to tell the young Marine not to admit this strange Russian man to the building. This was a problem for their embassies around the world. All kinds of people liked to bang on the gates and demand an audience. Ninety-nine percent of the time, they were utter kooks.

After hanging up, Amanda stared at her computer screen, trying to regain her concentration. She was in the midst of approving a spreadsheet of expense reports, which (no one ever warned you of this) comprised a significant portion of her work as deputy station chief.

The phone rang again. She picked it up and said, irritably: “You know, Sergeant, if you want to talk to me so badly, you can just ask me on a date.”

“He says he knows something about Senator Vogel,” the Marine said. “He has all the details about his trip to Egypt.”

“Bob Vogel?” Amanda sat up slightly. “What else did he say?”

“He said…” The soldier hesitated. Amanda could imagine the young man’s gaze flicking back to the visitor, wondering if repeating the words would make him sound like an idiot. “He said Senator Vogel’s life is in danger.”

She could have laughed at the melodrama of it. But when she glanced around, taking in the deserted station, the dull windowless chamber with its beige walls and gray carpet, with its lone fiddle-leaf fig plant yellowing in the corner, she found herself thinking, Anything is better than these spreadsheets.

“Fine,” she sighed. “Send him up.”

At least the conference room had a window and made for a change of scenery. Amanda slid a bottle of water across the table. Konstantin Nikolaievich Semonov took it gratefully and gulped it down. Amanda raised an eyebrow and said: “Would you like another?”

“Please,” he said. “It is very hot today.”

Despite the air-conditioning, Amanda noticed beads of sweat kept gathering on Semonov’s brow. She noticed too the wedding ring on his right hand, and the meticulous care with which his shirt had been patched and mended, and the gold watch on his wrist. She folded her hands atop the table. “So,” she began. “Mr. Semonov. I understand you have some information you’d like to share with us?”

“I apologize. My English isn’t very good,” he said.

“It sounds quite good to me. But if you’d rather continue in Russian, we’ll have to wait until one of my colleagues returns, because I don’t—”

“No,” he interrupted. “I am your guest, of course we will speak English. But I say this because I must have misunderstood. You work on economic affairs for the U.S. State Department?”

“That’s right. I’m an attaché in the economic section.”

“But my information does not concern economic affairs.”

“Well.” She smiled brightly. “It’s July in Italy, Mr. Semonov. The embassy is a little bare-bones at the moment.”

“I see.” After a long pause, staring at her, he said: “So you are Amanda Clarkson. Amanda Clarkson, the economic attaché.”

She could perceive, beneath his sweaty brow, a deeper perception. Something inside her twinged to attention. The detached part of her brain carefully registered it as another data point.

“That’s me!” she chirped.

“Very well.” Slowly, he nodded to himself. “Very well, Amanda Clarkson. Even if you are the economic attaché, I hope you can help me. I come to you today with information concerning Mr. Robert Vogel. He is a senator in your country, from the state of New York. A powerful man, I understand. An aging man, too. I have read reports that his health has been declining recently.”

Another twinge. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve heard that, too.”

“He is part of a delegation en route to Cairo. Yesterday evening, the delegation boarded a plane in Washington. In less than an hour, that plane is due to land. A military convoy of the Egyptian government will escort the Americans from the airport to the Four Seasons, where they are staying. Tonight, at six o’clock, the convoy will escort the Americans to the Heliopolis Palace, where they will be dining as guests of the president.”

He could have googled this, though, she told herself. It would only take a few minutes.

“The military convoy will accompany the American delegation for the duration of their three-day visit.” Semonov spoke with bureaucratic precision. “The Egyptian president is determined that their safety be absolute. He does not want his guests exposed to unstable elements. There will be one exception, though. Tomorrow morning, the delegation will be participating in a review of the Egyptian military. This is the primary purpose of the trip to Cairo. For the American visitors to assess the strength of their ally.”

She kept smiling, even as her pulse accelerated. Sure. Nothing unusual about this. Nothing weird about a Russian man walking in with detailed knowledge of the Senate intelligence committee’s movements.

“During this review the Americans will, of course, be surrounded by the military,” Semonov continued. “It will be the safest place in all Egypt. Therefore, there is no need for the convoy. The Americans will be free to move about, speaking to various generals, examining the artillery, interacting with soldiers. The review will begin at eleven a.m. At that hour, the temperature is typically thirty-seven or thirty-eight degrees centigrade. They will be assembled outdoors. There will be very little shade. The president has ordered that the review last no more than one hour. He is aware that several of his guests are older and may struggle in the heat. Unfortunately, his precaution will not be enough. Just before noon, Senator Robert Vogel will suffer a heat-induced stroke. He will be taken to the nearby hospital, where he will be pronounced dead.”

She swallowed. There was no mistaking this internal quiver. But now, right now, it was important not to spook him. “Okay.” Piano, piano, as a local might say. “Okay. Mr. Semonov. Let me begin with an obvious question. How can you know about a stroke before it happens?”

“I can’t. But there are certain chemicals that produce symptoms in the human body that appear very similar to those of a stroke. So similar that there is no reason to question the initial conclusion. Especially when the deceased is eighty-one years old and in frail health.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Semonov. What you’re describing sounds like an assassination.”

“Yes.”

“And how could you know about this assassination before it happens?”

“Because I work with the men who will carry out the assassination.”

“And where is that?”

He squeezed the water bottle in agitation, the thin plastic crackling in his hands. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“It’s not a question of—”

“Then I should leave. I shouldn’t be here!”

He began to stand, but Amanda placed a hand on his arm to stop him. “Mr. Semonov,” she said. “I want to believe you. I want to take this seriously. But to do that, I’m going to need more information.” She paused. “You work with the men who will carry out the assassination. Where do you work?”

The tension in his forehead was visible. “I work for the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation.”

“And which division, specifically?”

“The Main Intelligence Directorate,” he whispered. “The GRU.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Cole, are you drunk?”

Osmond Brown stood behind his desk, hands planted on his hips, narrowing his eyes at Amanda Cole, who had followed him into his office as he returned from lunch. Amanda Cole, who was more than thirty years his junior. Amanda Cole, who worked for him, but who never seemed to remember that goddamn fact.

Amanda closed the door and gestured for him to sit down. There was something especially impertinent about this coming from her, what with her slight stature and the childish freckles across her nose. He almost snapped at her (this was his goddamn office, he would decide whether to sit down), but then he shut his mouth and sank into his chair. Over the past year, Osmond had discovered that it was difficult to raise his voice at Amanda. She never flinched, no matter how much he yelled, and this was strangely deflating.

“He’s telling the truth,” she said.

“And how on God’s green earth can you know a thing like that?”

“Because he’s scared. He’s terrified. It’s not the kind of thing you can fake.”

“Did you ever stop to consider,” Osmond said, in his Mississippi drawl, which often grew exaggerated after a glass or two of wine, “that maybe the man is so goddamn terrified because he’s being dangled as bait to the Americans?”

“They would never pick a man like him for a dangle.”

“Oh yes. My apologies, Ms. Cole. I seem to have forgotten you’re a mind reader, too.”

“If the Russians were trying to sell us on an agent,” she continued, ignoring Osmond’s sarcasm, as she always did, “they’d pick someone who looks the part. Someone with an obvious motive. Greed, preferably. Greed is always the most convincing.”

Osmond scowled. “Let me guess. Now you’re going to tell me that your new friend doesn’t have a greedy bone in his body.”

She held up her wrist. “His watch. He’s wearing a TAG Heuer. So he’s well-off, he’s comfortable, but his shirt is mended in at least half a dozen places. He clearly isn’t materialistic. Not enough to make for a convincing dangle. The Russians only pick people who look the part. Semonov doesn’t, and he’s terrified. That fear is the information we’re working with. And in less than twenty-four hours, there’s going to be—”

“Whoa,” he interrupted. “Whoa! Hold it right there. You’re acting like we have to do something about this.”

“Well, yeah. Of course we have to.”

“Says who, Cole?”

“Says the evidence, sir.”

Across the expanse of his desk, Osmond regarded her. Despite his best intentions, he had allowed himself a glass—okay, two glasses—of Vermentino with lunch. How could he resist when it paired so beautifully with the sweet summer cantaloupe? But now he was tired, and he had a headache, and this whole thing sounded like a boondoggle, and Amanda was possibly the stubbornest person he had ever met. Dealing with this woman was one of the more exhausting parts of the job. And yet, he knew her kryptonite. Amanda Cole did, despite appearances, possess an essential kernel of respect for the Way Things Were Done. She would push back, but she wasn’t one to disobey a direct order. At the end of the day, he saw it as his task to remind her of her fealty.

Well, clearly she was all worked up about this. Why not indulge her a few moments longer, before he lowered the boom? So he settled back into his chair, folded his hands on his stomach, and said: “Okay, Cole. Let’s talk this one through. Let’s say we decide to believe this guy, this what’s-his-name—”

“His name is Semonov,” she interrupted. “Konstantin Semonov.”

“Sure. Okay. Let’s say we decide to believe this Semonov, and decide that the threat to Bob Vogel is real, and decide to act on it. We’d need to get word to Senator Vogel about what’s happening and tell him to skip the review. How do we do that?”

“Verbally. Send someone to tell him. One of our people in Cairo.”

“But when? Where? How? Every minute of the delegation’s schedule is accounted for. They have some downtime at the Four Seasons, but you can’t just have one of our people waltz in. Everyone in that hotel, from the maids to the managers to the goddamn window-washers, every person in that hotel is on someone else’s payroll. That hotel is wired six ways to Sunday. So if we send one of our people to deliver the message verbally, what happens when that person arrives at the Four Seasons and beelines straight for Senator Vogel? Hmm?”

The furrow of her brow softened slightly. I’m a good teacher, Osmond thought. No one ever wants to admit it, but I’ve got a knack for this part.

“You think they want to blow our network in Cairo,” she said.

“Bingo.”

Amanda nodded. Osmond was pleased. See, at the end of the day, he just wanted these kids (and yes, they were kids, he was older than most of their fathers) to be a little more careful. Not to get themselves killed for no good reason.

But instead of thanking him, she said: “I don’t buy it.”

He sighed. “And why is that?”

“He’s telling the truth. I’m certain he is. And don’t just say he’s their useful idiot, that his bosses at the GRU gave him this line to swallow and counted on him feeling guilty and running to the Americans. He’s smart. He’d see through it. He saw through my cover in about three seconds flat.”

“Look, Amanda, I get it. You’re bored out of your mind.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “Nothing happens in Rome. This isn’t where the action is. And they know that, too. They’re trying to use that boredom against you.”

“You’re really suggesting we do nothing about this?”

“I’m not suggesting. I’m telling.”

She shook her head, but her eyes went glassy. She tended to do this, to go quiet and retreat into cool detachment when she was overruled. Osmond respected her for fighting as hard as she did, but he also respected her for knowing when to surrender.

“We’re the soft underbelly,” he explained, feeling that pleasant flood of paternal benevolence that was, quite frankly, the only aspect of the job that still made him feel good. “Our networks in the Middle East are airtight. It wouldn’t work to target them directly. So the Russians try to take the back door. They plant a seed in Rome and hope the tendril reaches Cairo. All they need to do is keep an eye on Senator Vogel. If we send someone to meet Vogel at his hotel, bingo: they’ve just identified the Cairo network. It’s clever, isn’t it? So the best response, or actually the only response, is to do nothing. You see?”

But that was the point, Amanda thought. The scheme Osmond had just outlined was too clever by half. It wasn’t how the GRU worked. The many moving parts, the subtle contingencies: it lacked their signature bluntness.

Amanda left his office and walked through the bullpen, back toward the door that led to the rest of the embassy. One of her colleagues called after her (“Hey, Cole, that guy in the conference room one of yours? The fat guy with glasses? James Gandolfini past his prime?”), but she didn’t hear him.

She buzzed through the unmarked door, walked down a hallway, down a flight of stairs, down another hallway. Through the glassed-in walls of the conference room, she saw what her colleagues would have seen as they returned from lunch. Semonov, pacing back and forth, like a goldfish desperate to escape the confines of his fishbowl.

Amanda had been trying to figure out what to say, how to explain this failure of hers, but as soon as he turned and looked at her, he seemed to know. As she closed the door, Semonov shook his head. She felt a strange gratitude for his perception. It was a terrible feeling, having to deliver this kind of bad news, having to shatter another person’s desperate hope. Semonov had just spared her that feeling.

He sat down and dropped his head into his hands. She sat beside him, touched him on the elbow. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really, really sorry. I did everything I could.”

He was saying something, but his voice was muffled by his hands.

“Mr. Semonov?” she said. “I can’t understand you.”

When he lifted his head, tears were spilling from his eyes. “My mother died last year,” he said. “It was a spring day. The lilacs were in bloom.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m, um… I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Just before she died, she called me to her side, and she said: ‘Kostya, you have a soft heart. You must be careful. The world suffers when there are too many soft hearts.’ She was right! I’ve been a fool.” He shook his head. “A fool of the worst kind. I knew that this day would come. And what did I think? That I could stop it? Look at what I have done!”

Amanda slid a box of tissues across the table. Semonov looked at her with watery appreciation and blew his nose with a comedic honk.

Your menagerie, her best friend Georgia once called it. Your strange little petting zoo.

Bartenders in seedy dives, hostesses in swanky clubs. Taxi drivers with photographic memories. Hairdressers with a knack for gossip. Restaurant owners with private back rooms. Chambermaids and bellboys and window-washers at five-star hotels. They liked making the extra money on the side, and they liked how seriously she took them. They liked to feel that occasional brush with danger. Together they comprised her strange little petting zoo. It was part of the job, collecting people like this, although Amanda tended to hang on to the assets even when they had ceased offering any obvious utility.

Look at what I have done! Semonov had exclaimed. She was curious about what, exactly, he meant by that; what role he played in the Vogel story. The expense reports could wait. So Amanda patted his hand and said: “Tell me about your mother. What was her name?”

In late July the sun didn’t set until 8:30 p.m. As Amanda walked home, a benevolent twilight lit her way. Past the church that housed the famous Bernini carvings; past the imposing marble fountain that marked the terminus of an old Roman aqueduct; past the ancient Baths of Diocletian. The seventeenth century, the sixteenth century, the third century. “It sounds like you’re practically tripping over history,” her mother once said. And she meant it as a good thing, but history, Amanda knew, was a tricky Janus. History provided important context, but history also exerted a dangerous narrative gravity. If you expected the present to be a continuation of the past, you weren’t actually looking at the present through clear eyes.

“It’s like this,” Amanda once said to Georgia. “Remember how we used to see that old man feeding pigeons outside school every afternoon?”

“Hector? I loved Hector.”

“And you could reasonably assume that you’d see Hector every afternoon, right?”

Georgia squinted. “Why do I feel like I’m being set up?”

“But then one afternoon Hector doesn’t show up. And everyone is so surprised. Because if Hector does the same thing ninety-nine days in a row, then obviously he’s going to do the same thing on the hundredth day. But where is it written that the past ever predicts the future?”

“So you can’t bank on anything? Is that really how you look at the world?”

Amanda shrugged. “I mean, no. Not really. But I try to not be surprised when the pattern gets broken.”

But that night, on her walk home, she wasn’t engaged in such profound considerations. As Amanda squeezed past a crowd outside the Repubblica metro, she could only think about how hungry she was, having missed lunch thanks to Semonov. The refrigerator in her apartment was bare. For the umpteenth night in a row, she was going to have to stop at her usual stall in the Mercato Centrale. The market was housed in an old wing of the Termini station, just a few blocks from her apartment. Stalls sold colorful heaps of vegetables, creamy orbs of burrata, dimpled sheets of focaccia, blistered rounds of pizza. Her favorite stall sold fresh pasta and premade sauces. Amanda had been pleased to discover that this demanded no more effort than did a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese. And it tasted good and it was cheap. She had decided, a long time ago, that this was the easiest way to feed herself.

During her visit last September, Georgia had been appalled by this habit. “You can’t eat the same thing every night, Amanda. You know that you’re in Rome, right?”

“I just don’t care that much.”

“This coming from the girl who once ate a scorpion in Bangkok. Who once drank pig’s blood in Seoul. Who once—”

Amanda laughed. “Oh, yeah, you mean the girl who was a drunken shitshow and didn’t know what she was doing with her life? You mean that girl? Should we bring her back?”

“You’re not giving her enough credit. She was fun.”

“She was crazy.”

“Well, she’s still in there. I know she is. No amount of Talbots can cover her up.”

“This is J.Crew, thank you very much. And also, fuck you. I like Talbots.”

Georgia laughed. Curled up on the couch in the apartment in Rome, she prodded Amanda with her foot. “I don’t understand it. Your mom is so chic. And even your dad, you know, he has decent taste, in that boring Waspy way. And you, somehow, have the world’s worst style.”

“So this is my rebellion. Besides, who am I trying to impress? Other than my bitchy best friend?”

Georgia rolled her eyes. “It’s not about impressing anyone. It’s about a little self-respect.”

At the market, Amanda also stopped at the wine stall. She rarely kept wine in the house, but it had been a long day, and she needed it. She unlocked her apartment to find the air inside hot and stale, so she opened the windows in hopes of a breeze. Sometimes she wondered what the neighbors across the courtyard must think of her. This American woman who came and went at strange hours, whose freckles and smile suggested friendliness, but who never offered anything but the smallest of talk.

Ten minutes later, having changed into a ratty old pair of shorts and a T-shirt, she flopped on the couch with her bowl of pasta and a glass of wine. It had been a marathon day. Amanda and Semonov had covered a good deal of his life story. How he had hoped to work as a translator for the GRU, only to be assigned the considerably more boring job of fabricating passports and visas. How his wife, an Italian woman named Chiara, had moved to Moscow for work, which explained his presence in Italy: they were visiting her family. He and Chiara had met in a Moscow metro station. She was lost and disoriented, and Semonov helped her find her way. He couldn’t help smiling like a schoolboy when he talked about his wife. As the hours passed, Amanda had felt increasingly certain that he was telling the truth. She didn’t know why exactly; she just knew.

She stabbed at the pasta with her fork. Here was the problem, though. She had been wrong before. Maybe Osmond was right, maybe boredom was causing her to jump at the chance for excitement. And she was bored. Was this just ego at work? This yearning for motion, for action, this desire to prove that she wasn’t just sitting around, watching her muscles atrophy from neglect? Besides, she knew the odds. Years ago, during training at the Farm, she learned to be skeptical of walk-ins and defectors. Those things happened in the movies, not in real life. To recruit someone took work. The old-fashioned, time-tested, carrot-and-stick work of psychological manipulation. A Russian walks in and warns of a threat against an American politician? Things like that didn’t just happen. Not according to the agency. Not according, specifically, to the people at the top of the agency, who believed they had earned their way to those positions of power. The idea that the world was random—that the universe was the product of chaos—that just didn’t jibe.

But, see, on this particular point, she was stubborn. Like she’d said to Georgia: sometimes the world was random. But that look on Osmond’s face had kept her from pushing. She knew a losing battle when she saw one.

Semonov had eventually looked at his watch. He had to go; his wife would be waiting for him. “Where are you staying?” Amanda asked. And when he gave her the name of his hotel, near the Piazza del Popolo, she felt a small ping. Good, she thought. If it comes to it, that makes things easier. She walked him to the lobby and shook his hand. “Enjoy the rest of your time in Rome,” she said, in her friendliest we-know-you-have-a-choice-in-airlines tone. “And, Mr. Semonov—”

“Please,” he interrupted. “Call me Kostya.”

“Well, Kostya. Thank you for coming in and talking to me. I know it wasn’t easy.”

Amanda stood up and carried her bowl and wineglass to the sink. She recorked the wine and placed it in the cupboard. As she climbed into bed and switched off the light, she thought of how his face had darkened at their goodbye. He looked grateful for her sympathy, but mostly he looked sad; her sympathy wouldn’t change the course of events.

The night was hot and still. The fan at the foot of her bed did little to help. Amanda’s mind traced an endless loop. She should have done more. No. She had done everything she could. She thought of Semonov, at his hotel across town, and wondered if he would lie awake all night, too.

Osmond Brown was usually the first to arrive in the station, but that Friday morning, the door to his office remained closed. Amanda stared at it, puzzled, until one of her colleagues noticed. “He’s out today,” the colleague said. “Frolicking with the ambassador in Capri this weekend.”

“Right.” She nodded. “Forgot.”

She looked at the clock on the wall: 8:47 a.m. Having lain awake all night, she was almost delirious from lack of sleep. The morning stuttered by in minuscule fragments. 9:03 a.m.: writing her contact report. 9:17 a.m.: locking the bathroom door and splashing water on her face. 9:42 a.m.: making a cup of coffee. 9:45 a.m.: finishing the coffee. 9:47 a.m.: considering making another. Amanda wanted to be proven wrong. She had never wanted this so badly. There was a bar on Via Ludovisi, one block from the embassy. At 12:01 p.m., she decided, at the precise moment when Senator Vogel and the rest of the delegation departed the military review and returned safely to the Four Seasons, she would go to that bar and reward herself for her wrongness with a shot of tequila.

11:06 a.m. They would have arrived by now. 11:31 a.m. They would be moving among the troops, examining the artillery, talking to the generals. She turned off her computer screen so she didn’t have to look at the time. She gnawed on her thumbnail. She jiggled her knee. One of her colleagues glanced over in mild alarm, but when he noticed the look on her face, he thought better of asking her what was wrong.

Amanda turned her screen back on. 11:57, 11:58, 11:59 a.m. Noon! Noon on the dot! She broke into a giddy smile. “I’m going to lunch!” She jumped up from her desk and reached for her bag. “If the chief calls, tell him I got drunk and went home.”

“Uh,” her colleague said. “Really? You really want me to—”

But he was interrupted by a sudden, high-pitched chirping. Halfway across the room, Amanda froze. Every computer in the bullpen was emitting that identical electronic chirp. No, she thought. No, no, no.

“Holy shit,” the colleague said. “Holy shit. Cole! Did you see this?”

She felt her stomach plummeting.

“It’s Bob Vogel,” he said. “He’s dead.”