The woman would probably not have believed her, but there were days when Zoë didn’t believe it herself. She had recently read—in a novel review that private detectives were unconvincing, and couldn’t help feeling that the critic had a point. Not that she felt unreal, exactly; was, in fact, more aware of her physical self than she’d been in years—of

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When she’d rounded the corner on to the path, he’d been making the sign of the cross, his luggage forming a Calvary at his feet. But at Zoë’s approach he’d stopped abruptly, gathered his stuff, moved on. He’d spent the night, probably, under an open sky, but couldn’t carve a private zone out of all that space. And now Zoë Boehm sat in a crowded

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