By Deborah Lawrenson

Combining the ambience of Jess Walters’ Beautiful Ruins with the interesting historic backstory of Christina Baker Kline’s The Orphan educate, Deborah Lawrenson’s enchanting novel transports readers to a sunny Portuguese city with a shadowy past—where ladies, many years aside, are drawn right into a darkish video game of fact and lies that also haunts the transferring sea marshes.

Traveling to Faro, Portugal, journalist Joanna Millard hopes to flee an unsatisfying dating and a stalled profession. Faro is a fascinating city, and the beach perspectives are stronger through the corporate of Nathan Emberlin, a charismatic more youthful guy. yet at the back of the crumbling facades of Moorish structures, Joanna quickly realizes, Faro has a seedy underbelly, its financial system compromised by way of corruption and wartime spoils. And Nathan has an ulterior cause for looking her corporation: he's made up our minds to find the reality concerning a child’s kidnapping that could have taken position in this dramatic beach over twenty years ago.

Joanna’s next seek leads her to Ian Rylands, an English expat who cryptically insists she's going to locate solutions in The Alliance, a unique written by way of American Esta Hartford. The ebook recounts an American couple’s event in Portugal in the course of global struggle II, and their entanglements either own with their German enemies. in basic terms Rylands insists the ebook isn’t fiction, and as Joanna reads deeper into The Alliance, she starts off to suspect that Esta Hartford’s tale and Nathan Emberlin’s may perhaps certainly converge in Faro—where the earlier not just casts an extended shadow yet nonetheless exerts a really current probability.

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Additional info for 300 Days of Sun: A Novel

Sample text

He paused, switched on the flashlight, and searched among the vertical posts, along the horizontal supports. On the catwalk, I ducked my head behind the storage chest. A moment later the probing light swept over me, east to west, back again, and then away. Although Boo had moved past me and stood with his head through a gap in the railing, watching the giant, he remained visible only to me. When the searcher had moved out of sight into the labyrinth of posts and purlins and struts, I rose to my feet.

I propped the flashlight on his chest. Because his head was raised on a mound of sand, the bright beam bathed him from chin to hairline. If something like Godzilla woke in a Pacific abyss and decided to come ashore to flatten our picturesque community, this guy’s face would dissuade it from a rampage, and the scaly beast would return meekly to the peace of the deeps. With the fog-diffused lights of town to guide me, I slogged across the wide beach. I did not proceed directly east. Perhaps Flashlight Guy had told the pier crew that he was on the shore due west of some landmark, by which they could find him.

Eye of newt. Wool-of-bat hair. Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips. A lolling tongue like a fillet of fenny snake. He was not exactly Odd Hours 51 ugly, but he looked peculiar, as if he’d been conjured in a cauldron by Macbeth’s coven of witches. When he had fallen, a slim cell phone had slid half out of his shirt pocket. If he was in league with the trio at the pier, he might have called them when he heard me swimming ashore. After rolling him onto his side, I took the wallet from his hip pocket. Supposing he had summoned help moments before I had come ashore, I needed to move on quickly and could not pore through his ID there on the beach.

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