Iordana Ceausescu, an impossibly privileged member of the Romanian Nomenclatura, hides here in Maine in the aftermath of the bloody revolution.

Prologue

Portland, Maine, USA
Truth lies at the bottom of the well

TIRES SCREECHED on the usually quiet street. A car door slammed. I pushed myself away from my desk and wheeled to the library window. An intruder with a knitted cap pulled low blew past the gate and started up the brick walkway. I headed toward the stairwell and leaned over the banister, trying to gauge if I could duck this fresh hell. He rattled the door knob and with cupped hands peered into the sidelight. As he banged the glass, a Rolex flashed on his wrist. Late forties, roughly five-ten, dark curls brushing the collar of his fitted leather jacket like a 1960s movie star. His jawline was vaguely familiar, the extravagant watch a dead giveaway. The former race driver Catalin Tutunaru wasn’t going to be put off. 

“Colin. I know you’re in there. Your car is in the driveway.” 

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