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Informationen zum Autor Nekesa Afia Klappentext Louise Lloyd’s time away in Paris is everything she was hoping it would be until a shocking murder turns her entire world upside down. Louise Lloyd is finally living the quiet life she’d longed for, working in a parfumerie by day and spending time with her new friends every night at the Aquarius club in Paris. When a desperate mother asks for help locating her artist daughter, Louise initially refuses to keep her hard-won but fragile peace intact. But the woman comes with a letter of introduction from an old friend in Harlem, and Louise realizes she has no choice but to do what she can to find the missing young woman. The woman’s daughter, Iris Wright, is part of an elite social circle. Louise soon finds herself drawn into a world of privilege and ice-cold ambition—a young group of artists who will do anything to get ahead—but would they murder one of their own? With the help of some friends from home, Louise must untangle a web of lies, jealousy, and betrayal to find out what really happened to Iris while fighting to keep her new life from crashing down around her. Leseprobe 1 May 1928 It turned out that dancing was the same everywhere. It wasn't something Louise Lloyd took for granted, but after ten months in Paris, it was something she was grateful for. Aquarius, the club closest to her apartment in the 18th arrondissement, was much like her beloved Zodiac in many ways: sweeping dance floor, big band, tables and the bar placed in as an afterthought. Every time she went, it made her homesick for something she once had. She had spent all of the time, from club opening to club closing, on the dance floor. Her body hurt. She had been passed from blandly handsome Frenchman to blandly handsome Frenchman, not once caring that they were using her as an object, not seeing her as a person. Louise was doing the same thing to them. She carried her shoes, gravel and stones scratching at her stockings. It was three in the morning, and Aquarius had just closed. Rather than call a cab, it was nice enough for her to walk. She wasn't that drunk; she'd never let herself drink too much again, and the night had a hazy, dewy feeling to it. If she were back in New York, if Gilbert, then his sister, had never happened, she would have piled into a cab with Rosa Maria and Rafael, laughed at nothing, and let it whisk her back to the apartment. Ten months on her own. She had the stack of correspondence on her desk to prove it. She was bad at letters, something she learned when her boat docked. The past months had been quiet, in a good way. Louise had learned she liked normal hobbies, fostering a love of photography. She learned that she could survive on her own, something she thought she couldn't do. If the past two years had taught her anything, it was that she was stronger than she realized. The room she rented was at the top of the building, maid's quarters. To access the apartment, she had to go up five flights of stairs, exit into the warm night air, and climb another set of stairs. It usually wasn't awful, but after a night of being on her feet, the last thing she wanted to do was climb them. So, she sank down to the stairs, feeling the cool cement through the thin fabric of her dress and her stockings. She put her shoes back on, letting relief flood through her. From here, she could wait and rest, and muster the energy to take these stairs. No one looked at her, no one cared. Paris was a lot like New York in that way. No one cared about anyone else. She was in her own little bubble, and she liked it like that. She had work the next day; in fact, she had work in mere hours. Louise dug into her tiny purse, pulling out a cigarette and her book of matches. Compared to everything else she had done, it was a job she could do half asleep or with her head in the clouds. A...
