Thirty-two stories up, Voss stands at the rain-streaked floor-to-ceiling window. The city breathes below, indifferent. The case wasn't about the body — it never was. It was about what the dead man knew. And now she knows it too.

The interrogation room smells like cigarettes and broken alibis. A single incandescent bulb swings slowly overhead. Voss sits across from a man who says he was in Monaco — but his shoes are still muddy from the alley where it happened. He's been lying so long he's forgotten what the truth looks like.

Rain hammers an empty city street. Detective Dara Voss crouches beneath a flickering streetlamp, examining chalk marks where a body was found. Police tape drifts in the wet wind. Something about this scene doesn't add up — the victim was supposed to be three thousand miles away.