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grayish blue. She was staring at him with glistening brown eyes, eyes that would never again catch his from across a room. Dan heard a throaty cry, low-timbered, like a lion’s roar of intense pain, and as he struggled to heft Selena’s streaming body up onto the cement, he realized that the primitive sound came from him.

Two
    Darby Farr jumped into her red Karmann Ghia cabriolet and started the engine. Nearly nine a.m. on a Friday and she was in her characteristic morning rush. Impatient to be at the office and doing the work she loved, she first grabbed her smart phone and checked quickly for messages and e-mails.
    Some were predictable: clients wanting to see property; clients wanting to sell property. As one of the busiest brokers in southern California, Darby was never without a long list of people to contact, and she scrolled through the myriad e-mails with practiced speed. A few messages were personal. Her friend in Florida, Helen Near, had written several chatty paragraphs describing a particularly challenging golf game; her friend in Maine, Tina Ames, announced in two terse lines that she and her long-time boyfriend were finally “getting hitched.” Darby smiled and continued scrolling, vowing silently to respond later in the day.
    The last message from an unfamiliar Japanese name puzzled her. Kenji Miyazaki. She clicked open the e-mail and checked the signature. Mr. Miyazaki was a senior vice-president of the mega-company Genkei Pharmaceuticals, headquartered in Tokyo.
    Darby skimmed the e-mail, her stomach tight. Finally she shoved her phone in her pocketbook and backed out of the driveway.
    Cruising through the laid-back community of Mission Beach, Darby hardly noticed the throngs of skateboarders, runners, and mothers pushing strollers. Instead, she thought back to her earlier dealings with the drug company’s president, Mr. Kobayashi, and the shocking family secret he had helped her uncover.
    It all stemmed from a book that described Japanese atrocities in China during the Second World War. Darby’s maternal grandfather, Tokutaro Sugiyama, had been mentioned in the book. Mentioned? Heck, Darby thought, he’d been named a war criminal.
    It was a secret Darby’s mother had discovered as well.
    And now someone else—Kenji Miyazaki—wanted to meet with Darby to discuss the “incident.” She had never heard his name. Who was he, and why was he contacting her?
    Her stomach clenched once more and the taste of acid rose in her mouth. Whether it was from the Red Rooibus or her anxiety, she wasn’t sure. She took a deep breath, fighting the feeling of nausea, and accelerated toward the freeway exit.
    It happened in Japan, more than fifty years ago, she told herself. My grandfather is dead. My mother is dead. What does a mystery from the past have to do with me?
    Out of what seemed like nowhere, flashing blue lights appeared in Darby’s rear view mirror. She slowed her Karmann Ghia to a crawl, looked back in the mirror, and groaned.
    It was a car from the San Diego Police Department. The officer inside motioned, and Darby pulled over as soon as it was safe. A beefy, dark haired man in uniform emerged from the black-and-white vehicle and ambled slowly toward her car.
    “Thought that was you, Darby.” He had an affable grin, this young police officer, and Darby recognized him as a client she’d helped purchase his first home just the year before.
    “Eric … it’s good to see you.” Embarrassed, she gave a small smile. “I guess I’m in too much of a hurry this morning, is that right Officer Sanchez?”
    “Going twenty-five miles over the speed limit, so you might say that.” Eric Sanchez’s voice turned serious. “Wish I could give you a warning, but I’ve got you on the radar. What are you in such a hurry for? You late for a big closing or hoping to get a jump on the weekend?”
    She shook her head. “No excuses—I’m just on my way to work.”
    “You’re lucky you weren’t a half mile