Blue. As far as the eye could see, everything was blue. And quiet. So very quiet.
A wheelchair lay at the bottom of the still, clear waters of the infinity pool, coloured by the azure ceramic tiles and the intense, uninterrupted Mediterranean sky.
Inside the villa on the Portuguese Algarve, silence seeped into the cool, white walls and marble floors. No one stirred. Her room was empty, the bed already made - or not slept in. The tan, buck-leather satchel, acquired earlier that week during a shopping trip to Lisbon, hung casually from the white chair in the corner.
Beneath the bed, a suspicious puddle of red stained the shiny, marble surface.
The village bells pealed, breaking the tranquillity to announce the start of Sunday mass at 10:30 AM.
But where was Fern Mortimer?
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