Laura turned and looked back down the long stretch of beach, the way she had just come. Robbie had phoned her from the car while Hathaway drove them as quickly as he could up to Catania. She knew it could be hours before they returned, and she decided to spend her time alone in a quiet walk along the sea's edge. It was a warm evening, and she wanted to continue past the developed part of the beach and go as far as she could, on to where the extensive greenhouses, in which the locals grew acres of produce, came down nearly all the way to the sea. It was still light, and she hadn't seen a soul for the last several hundred meters. At last she reached a rocky stretch where there was no more sand to walk on. Sighing resignedly, she turned to head back. But before she retraced her steps, she wanted a closer look at the row after row of largely temporary greenhouses that housed so much bounty. She started down one of the tracks between the structures, but heard a scrabbling sound to her left, and a sound that could have been a whimper or a gasp. More carefully now, she followed her ears, picking up bits of out-of-place scratching or rustling. She was sure she was following someone.

Unafraid, she moved cautiously, trying not to make any sound. But it was impossible to move in complete silence, and she bit her lip in frustration as she heard her quarry start an uneven, ungainly run. Then she heard a cry of pain, and the sound of a body hitting the ground. She strode confidently around the corner of the plastic-covered structure, and found herself facing a dark-skinned young man sitting up on the ground, grasping his ankle with his left hand and clasping something at his throat with his right, but showing neither fear nor pain in his expression; he simply watched her. His only movement was that of his fingers working over the hand-shaped pendant he wore. She stopped where she stood, and opened her arms and her stance to convey the idea that she was not a threat to him. Her face softened in sympathy and she smiled sadly. She knew only one word that might translate easily into any number of languages:

"Peace."

Laura and Fahrid made their way limpingly down the beach. He was obviously trying not to be dependent on her, and she tried to act as though there was no question he could have made his way without her. She knew his pain was increasing and that he would not make it much further, but she hoped fervently she could get him somehow to the hotel where the three Oxford representatives were staying, or to some sort of medical services, though she had no idea what was even available here. With every passing minute, that seemed less and less likely.

"Ngahhh!" He cried loudly, and lurched so hard that they both fell down. She got up immediately, and he apologized profusely in whatever language was his natural tongue. Laura fought back a sob. She didn't know where she could take him, didn't know how much farther she could carry him, didn't know his story beyond the fact that he was obviously trying to hide from authorities, and didn't know what would happen to either of them if the wrong authorities decided to intervene.

In despair, she plopped down next to him in the sand. She sighed deeply and looked him sadly in the eyes.

But Fahrid was not looking at her. He was looking past her, down the beach and out toward the waves. She followed his gaze and saw that there was someone swimming there . . . someone who was a man who drew himself up when he was in shallow water and who approached them with authority, despite being clad in only a swimsuit. And she saw that when he realized he was dealing with a woman and an injured young man, he diminished his posture. And he made himself into a mere man-who-had-been-swimming, and came up quietly and seemed very friendly.

"Buonasera, signorina, signore. Avete bisogno di aiuto?" Laura noticed how his kind eyes sparkled when he spoke. And despite not understanding a word of what he said, she knew he was not only not a threat, but that he would help them. What she did not know was that she'd just met Salvo.

They let Fahrid clean himself up in Salvo's shower and dress himself in a borrowed, oversized (though Salvo was not a large man, by any standard) shirt and trousers, and then Laura skillfully bandaged his ankle. Salvo watched this process intently, and when it was finished, he offered what food he had on hand—olives, bread, cheese, wine—to both of his guests. Laura was amazed at how young Fahrid looked when he emerged from the bathroom. He can't be more than sixteen, she thought. As she handed him food and drink, she stroked his shoulder reassuringly.

"You're safe here, you know. No one will harm you here."

He snapped his attention in her direction: "You understand English?"

She nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes. Erm, I'm Laura. You are . . . ?"

"I am Fahrid. I came from the ship that went down. I didn't want to go with the men who came looking for survivors."

"Oh, you brave thing!" She hugged him spontaneously, and he returned the embrace warmly. Laura understood that they had immediately established a level of rapport that reflected the trust between two non-natives in a foreign land.

Laura noticed that Salvo kept to the background, either making himself absent or else keeping himself unnoticeable, bringing more food and drink, turning lights on or off, whatever was required for Fahrid's maximum comfort.

When she asked him for his story, Fahrid poured forth a classic tragedy. He'd revealed that he was on the ill-fated immigrant ship when it went down, but he had been aware of the danger and so was not one of the unfortunates trapped belowdecks when it capsized. He and a friend had been trying to get to Croatia where, Jack had promised them, decent-paying jobs awaited. And yes, he'd dealt with the Englishman directly when it came to paying his exorbitant transport fee. It had taken Fahrid years to accumulate sufficient funds for the voyage. And then he had to manage the correct timing. Apparently, the man who referred to himself as "Jack Cornish" preferred to collect his own cash rather than have his men do it and take their own cut on top of it, so even after Fahrid had the ready money, he couldn't arrange passage until Cornish showed up to set the details.

When the ship foundered, Fahrid and his friend leapt into the heaving sea and swam toward the Sicilian coast. Fahrid hid out when he reached the beach and he soon saw the kind of men that were rounding up the survivors—and the techniques they used. He'd kept himself alive using his wits, but then twisted his ankle, and survival became very difficult. Then Laura found him and here he was. But now he was out the money he'd paid, wasn't in Croatia, didn't have a job, and hadn't seen his friend François since the sinking.

"But I am here, alive." He smiled bravely.

She smiled in response, but recognized the bleakness behind his smile. "Fahrid, everything will be okay. You're safe here. Relax."

He concentrated his eyes on her. "That man—" his look indicated Salvo "—I do not trust. He seems too interested." Then he relaxed a little. "But you I trust. If you trust this man, I trust this man. I trust you."

Salvo closely watched her conversation with the Tunisian. When Laura noticed the Sicilian's intense concentration, she cast him a questioning look, but he shook it off and said nothing. He has that look Robbie gets when he's onto something, she thought. Laura did not find "this man" completely trustworthy, even though she wanted to. She sensed he was adversarial in some way, though she couldn't say what. It seemed odd to her that he had opened his home to two strangers and did not seem the least bit interested in contacting authorities.

Fahrid touched Laura on the arm. "Will I have to go back? And . . . is there any way to find out what happened to François?"

When Fahrid mentioned the name François, Salvo straightened: "François?" Almost a whisper.

Puzzled by his interest, Laura explained. "His friend, his amico, from Tunisia."

Salvo hooked his index fingers together: "Amico intimo?"

Laura resisted the urge to look up the word, trusting her interpretation of the gesture. "Yes. Close friends. From when they were . . . bambini. Why? Erm, perchè?"

He shook his head, dismissing her question. "Niente." He smiled at her. "Non importa," he added. But his gaze avoided hers, and Laura noticed his eyes weren't smiling with his lips. He's hiding something, she thought.

Laura returned her focus to Fahrid. "Are you okay for now? Can you sleep?"

A look of slight panic crossed his young face. "You won't leave me here alone with him, will you? Please don't leave me!"

Recognizing what she was taking on, but reluctant to betray his trust, Laura shook her head. "No, I promise I won't leave you. I'll stay with you until we figure out what's happening, okay? Promise." She glanced at the Sicilian. "Okay? I stay here, too?" She pointed to herself and then gestured to indicate 'here'.

Salvo nodded quickly. It was clear the young man would close up completely if Laura wasn't there, maybe even would run off, and that was something Salvo did not want at all.

Relieved, Fahrid allowed his true level of fatigue to show. He was totally drained of energy and emotion, and they helped him into the bed and left him to his rest.

As Laura turned from the bed, she realized suddenly she was in the home of a stranger, a man who bore himself with confidence. Her mind went on full alert, and it showed in her eyes.

He rapidly clicked his tongue in a classic, reassuring manner, brushed his hand through her hair to soothe her, and then stopped, frozen. He blinked in disbelief at his lack of good manners, and pointed to himself: "Salvo, sono. Salvo. E Lei?" Smiling apologetically, he waved his hand at her.

He was handsome, compactly muscular, with what was either a minimal beard or a few days' worth of not shaving. His head was bald but with a shadow that led her to conclude he shaved that, too, and hadn't for a day or two. With coarser features, he could have given the impression that he was a hard, cruel man, but instead his face was finely sculpted and his eyes betrayed an honest and gentle nature. They were large and expressive, medium brown, running to hazel or amber, depending on the light and his mood. They sparkled now, and his smile was so warm, she couldn't help but smile in response. "Laura. I'm Laura."

He took her hands in his, all four hands held together in one cluster. "Laura," he repeated, making it sound like Lowra. "You here at Vigàta . . . solo? You non telephone-ar-ray?" He held an imaginary phone to his ear.

She shook her head. "No, not solo. I am here with . . . mi amo?" She didn't think that was quite the right phrasing but he understood.

"'Amore'. Con il tuo amore." His relieved expression registered clearly: Of course. Then he pointed in turn to himself, to her, and to the empty space next to her: "Sono Salvo, sei Laura, e . . . amore?" His shift to a more informal manner of speaking was unnoticed by her.

"Robbie."

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and several seconds passed before he continued.

"Luìs?" He put the accent on the second syllable.

She nodded, surprised. "Yes, Robbie Lewis . . . but how . . . ?"

He held up both hands in surrender. "Anch'io sono detective, sono polizia. Po-leez. Sorry." Pointing to himself, looking as apologetic as anyone could.

Her brain connected. "Salvo? The commissario here?"

He smiled modestly, almost bemusedly. "Sì. Io sono."

They burst out laughing together. Laura knew personally how a detective was always a detective, always curious about people and what made them tick and how they were related to the circumstances at hand. No wonder he took such an interest in his unexpected guests.

With a puzzled expression, he asked, "You come also to take Cornish?" He couldn't believe English policemen were allowed to take their girlfriends on work-related trips.

Suppressing laughter, she shook her head. "No, no, no. We are here on vacation." Her eyebrows rose, questioning whether he understood.

"In vacanza, ho capito." Then he frowned. "He must come here? In vacanza but must come here?"

She grinned ruefully. "Police always work, yes? Even in vacanza."

That drew a knowing chuckle from him.

Then Salvo became serious. "What . . . Fahrid . . . say?"

She explained to him a simplified version, with simplified English, gestures, and the help of her pocket dictionary. By the end, Salvo had grown very thoughtful, almost grim.

"What is it?" She corrected herself as best she could—"Che cosa è?"

He drew in a breath, still looking past her. When his eyes snapped to hers, they were steel-hard. Startled, she drew back a little, and his focus shifted to her face. At once, his features softened, and his eyes became like melted chocolate. He looked at the floor, smiling gently, and shook his head. "Niente di niente. Non ti preoccupare." He brushed his hand against her jaw and under her chin soothingly.

Salvo's gestures and expressions were so familiar; apparently, detectives the world over had the ability to shove their cases to the back of their minds and reassure a person that there was nothing to worry about. But she didn't buy his answer for a moment. Then it dawned on her. Fahrid is useful to him in his case against Jack. No wonder Fahrid instinctively felt on his guard.

"You use Fahrid as witness? As—" she rapidly consulted her dictionary "—as testimone?"

His eyes turned sad and he looked away. He shrugged gently, shaking his head. "Non so." At last, he looked directly into her eyes, and said again, "Non so. E' complicato . . ." He took her dictionary from her hand and thumbed through, then pointed to the English meaning of the word he had used: Complicated. He continued: "Fahrid, he . . ." Then two more words from the dictionary. He pointed to ferito: injured, wounded; and dolore: ache, sorrow. She understood that Salvo did not want to cause Fahrid any more pain than he had already suffered and had not yet decided whether to use him.

"What will happen to him?" But Salvo could not get enough of her words to understand. She tried again. "Where he go now?"

He again shrugged sadly, and she saw his dark eyes were glistening. "He go home, Tunisia." He took her hand and said for the second time, "Non ti preoccupare. You, me . . . we . . ." then he nodded toward where Fahrid slept peacefully. He identified one last word from the dictionary, badare: to tend, to take care of. "Okay?"

She nodded, sensing she could trust him, and finding sudden relaxation in this conclusion. His tenderness for the young Tunisian was genuine, and his demeanor was gentle, though guarded. She realized he was a very private person, not used to letting strangers into his home but unable to refuse to give help where it was so clearly needed.

She gazed one last time at the sleeping Fahrid, then turned from the bedroom. As she did, she realized there wasn't anywhere else to sleep in the place, and almost nowhere else comfortable to sit, even. She looked around, dismayed. Salvo grasped her hands, shushed her with a rapid sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh, and led her, walking backwards, to the doorway looking out onto his expansive terrace overlooking the beach and the sea. He pointed to himself and then to the deck chair there; then he pointed to Laura and to the sofa in the living room. "Me here. You there." He scowled a bit, trying to look stern, and trying to see if he was being understood.

Laura broke into a friendly and amused smile. "Me . . . awake. Stay up. Walk around. We talk?" Her waving hands and scissoring fingers showed him how she would pace, unable to sleep, and then how the words would run from her mouth and from his, touching their lips in turn. She jerked her hand back when she realized how her fingers on his lips suddenly seemed so very intimate. He focused on her, reading her face, and he produced a broad smile that lit up his entire face. "Okay," he said simply.

He offered to refill her wineglass, and she accepted, but held her finger to the low level she wanted. They sat side-by-side on the sofa, and he watched her with interest as she sipped, his eyes alight with curiosity and kindness. His face is so beautiful, she found herself thinking, to her own surprise.

Laura smiled at him a bit nervously; it had been a long time since any man beside Robbie had made her heart flutter. Not that she was very tempted, when she really thought about it. But her attraction to him was a new experience, and although she forced herself to set a guard on her reactions, she could feel her tension ebbing away.

Well, Laura, here you are spending the night in the house of a man you've just barely met. But remembering her manners, she turned to look him in the eyes. "Thank you. For the food and for helping us."

He smiled, graciously accepting her gratitude. "Piacere mio."

Laura's few Italian words included this last, My pleasure. She couldn't stop her response, "Mine, too. You are amazingly charming." She said the last with the confidence of one who knows the statement will not be understood. But Salvo's eyes broke contact and rolled to avoid hers, a bit embarrassed. "I am sorry, my English is not good . . . 'Sharming'? I not know this." Indicating by omission that he did understand "amazing."

They bubbled into laughter at the same time. Laura sensed that, despite the popular reputation of Italian men and despite her vulnerability in this situation, she was utterly safe with Salvo. He was so careful with her he seemed almost nervous, and she knew he would not violate the trust she put in him, even if she wanted him to. And indeed for an instant she thought that, if not for Robbie, she might not mind very much if he did. After all, he was not only charming, he was fit and good-looking, regardless of being what she guessed must be close to fifty years old. She firmly pushed that idea out of her head, knowing that under the circumstances, of course she would mind if he tried to take advantage of her.

Laura realized she was dead tired, and stifled a yawn. Salvo smiled beautifully, showing his straight teeth. "E adesso, dormiamo." He placed his two hands, palm-to-palm, against the side of his face: sleep. She felt a sudden exhaustion flood her body, and her eyelids drooped. She took off her shoes and set her watch and cell phone on the table.

As Salvo arched one arm around her shoulders, "Ma, prima . . ." he pointed to her cell phone. "Luìs?"

She drowsily shook her head. "No. He phone me. Erm . . . Capisce?"

This softened him completely, and he drew her all the way within his arms. "Capisco." He gazed down at her as a parent might gaze down on a sleepy child. "Buonanotte, Laura. Dolci dormire."

He was warm, and his body exuded a faint scent of sea salt and nutmeg. Secure in his protective embrace, her cares washed away. In moments, she fell into a deep, serene sleep.