James
I was sitting out on the second-floor terrace with Jane enjoying a cold martini. It was late afternoon. We would sit and watch the sunset most afternoons. It was late summer, cool and relaxing on the terrace after it started to cool down. A car pulled up and parked across the street. A familiar face got out and started across the street, headed for my front gate.
“Why, it’s Jim,” Jane said. “It has been a year since we have last seen him, Joe.”
“It’s been longer than a year, Jane. Closer to eighteen months.”
Jim and I are writers. He writes nonfiction, and I write fiction. We met two years ago. He was researching the murder of an artist, and I was investigating the murder of a friend that I was the prime suspect. The artist and my friend had mutual friends and acquaintances, and
