During the long, slow hours of the afternoon, Ritchie realized she had forgotten another aspect of life on a warm planet: the siesta. On Oymyakon, sunlight was too precious to waste on napping. But on Buennagel, the sun was only occasionally lost behind clouds, and even when it was, the humidity in the prairie air kept things warm and comfortable. Almost too comfortable. That warmth plus the monotonous drone of the insects made dozing off almost impossible to avoid.
She might"ve enjoyed a warm afternoon"s nap, if only she weren"t desperate to get out of that room and solve a murder.
"Can you all hear me?" said a voice. She sat up and looked around the room, but neither Moreau stretched out on her own bed nor Rodin sitting by the door had spoken.
She reached for her tablet, pretending to
