1934. Competing factions wage a cold war in the streets and marketplaces, vying for dominance of Mexico City. When a series of murders threatens to turn the cold war hot, only Helen Young, drawn to Mexico to complete her late husband’s archaeological work, can put the pieces together and avert disaster…

Helen walked back to the apartment, laden with fruit. Juggling the melon and bananas, she let her self back into the apartment, set the fruit on the kitchen counter, and hunted for a knife to cut the melon. Finding only regular table knives and no cutting board, she decided to cut the melon directly on the counter. With a dull knife and nothing beneath the melon, Helen quickly made a mess of it; juice from the melon squirted everywhere. The poor quality of the cutting implement resulted in her breakfast more closely resembling a six year old’s art project than anything at all appetizing. Abandoning all pretenses, Helen ate the meat of the melon directly off of the rinds. While not aesthetically pleasing, she did find the melon to be incredibly flavorful. Helen pealed a banana to supplement the juicy melon. Looking down at her repast, she realized she had not assembled the most balanced breakfast and would likely be craving lunch before too long. 
            After cleaning up, she returned to her inspection of Harold’s journals. Most of Harold’s writing detailed the location of discoveries in a dig site. He precisely described the location, including depth below the surface, angle, and distance from other discoveries, in which he found a broken clay cup. And the cup had been one of the more interesting discoveries; the level of detail made Helen’s eyes glaze over. Helen flipped through the pages, looking for anything of interest. Every once in a while, she stopped to look at one of Harold’s drawings.

Helen loved Harold’s sketches; he always made them so life-like. One of her most valued treasures was a portrait he had quickly sketched of her when they first dated. His hands had moved so effortlessly with the pencil in his hands, all the while he never paused during their conversation. She thought it likely he had forgotten even drawing the picture, but she saved it, folded and pressed in one of her journals at home. The portrait was doubly sentimental to Helen, when he presented it to her it had been the first moment she knew he was the man she would marry. 

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