Seven years ago, FBI Agent Avery Carver killed her husband. Nobody knows.
On their honeymoon, in a villa on a cliff in Thailand, Gregory showed her what he really was. She fought back. He went over the balcony railing into the dark water forty feet below, and the sea never gave him back. She told the police he was drunk. She has been telling herself the same thing ever since.
Now she runs a task force hunting a poisoner who serves women an exquisite home-cooked meal and watches them eat it. He doesn’t have a type — he picks the women who leave him waiting. Six victims. Three cities. Nearly five years, and not one clean look at his face.
Then her phone lights up with a number she doesn’t recognize.
A photograph of a white stone railing above dark water. Bougainvillea on the posts. The exact balcony.
Nobody alive knows what that balcony means to her — because the only other person who stood on it went over the side.
Avery has spent seven years making sure no one could ever reach her. Someone just did.