{"product_id":"the-fallen-isbn-9781616952174","title":"The Fallen","description":"When P.I. Jade de Jong invites Superintendent David Patel on a scuba diving holiday in St. Lucia, she hopes the time away will rebuild their conflicted relationship. Jade’s dreams are soon shattered when David calls off their affair, forcing her into the arms of environmentalist Craig Niewoudt. But the next morning, romantic issues are put aside when a scuba diving instructor, Amanda Bolton, is found brutally stabbed to death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmanda is a most unlikely candidate for murder—a quiet and intelligent woman who until a few months ago pursued a high-powered career as an air traffic controller. She had few acquaintances and no lovers. The only loose end is a postcard in her room from Jo’burg-based Themba Msamaya, asking how she is doing “after 813 and The Fallen.” Jade and David put their differences aside and start the deadly hunt.“Searing… Mackenzie’s blend of contemporary South African issues with Jade’s inner turmoil is pitch perfect, and the true cliffhanger will leave fans eager for more.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e STARRED REVIEW\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A white-knuckle thriller with an utterly chilling finale.”—Tess Gerritsen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"[H]igh suspense, complex story, and almost non-stop action.\" —Gumshoe Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for the Jade de Jong series:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Remarkable.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003eJassy Mackenzie was born in Rhodesia and moved to South Africa when she was eight years old. She lives in Kyalami near Johannesburg and edits and writes for the annual publication Best of South Africa. She is the author of three novels in the Jade de Jong series.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThemba Msamaya didn’t suspect a thing on the morning he\u003cbr\u003eopened his door to death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was halfway through his first cup of tea when the knock\u003cbr\u003ecame. Over the past few months, he’d developed something of a\u003cbr\u003eritual. He’d get up early, boil the kettle and dunk a bag of cheap,\u003cbr\u003eShoprite own-brand tea into a chipped South African Airways\u003cbr\u003emug. He’d learned to do without milk, but a teaspoon of sugar\u003cbr\u003ewas an essential he couldn’t forego. Black tea didn’t have to be so\u003cbr\u003estrong—it tasted better weak, in fact—and he had discovered\u003cbr\u003eone teabag could easily stretch to two mugs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe would drink the steaming, reddish brew while sitting at\u003cbr\u003ethe desk in his tiny Yeoville bedsit, yesterday’s papers open at\u003cbr\u003ethe Classifieds, his elderly laptop ready to browse the Jobsearch\u003cbr\u003ewebsites.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOver the last few days, his searching had become more stressful,\u003cbr\u003ebecause his useless Internet connection, slow at best and\u003cbr\u003eunreliable at worst, was close to reaching its cap. He’d nearly\u003cbr\u003egot through the five hundred megabytes that his low-spec package\u003cbr\u003eallowed him, God knew how, seeing it was only the twentysecond\u003cbr\u003eof the month, and all he’d been using it for was trying to\u003cbr\u003efind work. But once the threshold was reached, he would be cut\u003cbr\u003eoff. Rudely, instantly and without any warning. It had happened\u003cbr\u003ea couple of times recently, once while he was right in the middle\u003cbr\u003eof sending off his cv.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eToday, JobSA was slow to load and Workopolis had no new\u003cbr\u003elistings, but his favourite site, nats Careers, was advertising a\u003cbr\u003eposition that looked promising.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEmail us your application and cv, the advert read. All companies\u003cbr\u003erequired candidates to do that these days. Phone calls appeared\u003cbr\u003eto have become redundant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA quick read through the well-worded cv that he’d paid a\u003cbr\u003especialist company to put together for him five months ago. Now\u003cbr\u003ehe wished he hadn’t wasted the money on it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDid he need to change anything in the accompanying letter?\u003cbr\u003eHe scanned the document once more, slowly, even though he\u003cbr\u003eknew the damn thing off by heart. He thought it sounded fine.\u003cbr\u003eAs fine as was possible, at any rate. He attached it and pressed\u003cbr\u003e‘Send’, willing the email to go through the first time, praying\u003cbr\u003ethat the connection would not drop, as it often did, forcing him\u003cbr\u003eto repeat the task and gobbling up even more of his precious\u003cbr\u003ebandwidth allocation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA series of clanging sounds and shouts from outside disturbed\u003cbr\u003ehis concentration, and he looked up, frowning. Was this his\u003cbr\u003eneighbour causing trouble again? Themba didn’t know him by\u003cbr\u003ename, but he was convinced the guy was a drug dealer. People\u003cbr\u003ewere in and out of that room at all hours, talking, partying,\u003cbr\u003ebanging on his door late into the night, and occasionally on\u003cbr\u003eThemba’s door by mistake; and just last week he had overheard\u003cbr\u003ean argument that had ended in a gunshot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, it couldn’t have been his drug-dealing neighbour. The\u003cbr\u003emorning after the gunshot, he’d been on his way to the shops\u003cbr\u003ewhen he’d seen the man hurrying down to the garage, carrying\u003cbr\u003ewhat looked like a hastily packed gym bag, half zipped up, in one\u003cbr\u003ehand, and his firearm in the other. A few minutes later, Themba\u003cbr\u003ehad heard the unmistakable roar of his black, souped-up, spoilerdecorated\u003cbr\u003ebmw. The man had left and, as far as he knew, he hadn’t\u003cbr\u003ebeen back since.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen Themba realised what the sound was. It was the dustbins\u003cbr\u003ebeing emptied. There had been a municipal strike for weeks,\u003cbr\u003eand the bins lined up on the uneven paving outside the building\u003cbr\u003ehad quickly gone from full to overflowing. Black bags had split\u003cbr\u003eopen and vomited their contents onto the pavement and into the\u003cbr\u003eroad. Those that hadn’t split had been torn apart—by stray dogs\u003cbr\u003eor vagrants or both, he guessed. Crumpled plastic now littered\u003cbr\u003ethe sidewalks, mushy piles of leftover food had swiftly started\u003cbr\u003estinking in the heat, and dirty nappies disgorged their foul\u003cbr\u003econtents, which were soon blanketed by flies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow he could hear the loud drone of the garbage truck and the\u003cbr\u003eclanking of its crushing mechanism. Above this, the shouts of the\u003cbr\u003eworkers, more clanging as empty metal dustbins were flung on\u003cbr\u003etheir sides, and the clatter of the plastic wheelie bins being upended.\u003cbr\u003eAnd then a second, closer sound, only just audible above the\u003cbr\u003eracket. A quick, polite-sounding rat-tat-tat on his door.\u003cbr\u003eThemba glanced at the email. It looked like it was going through.\u003cbr\u003eThen he got up from his wooden chair and squeezed past his bed.\u003cbr\u003eAs he wasn’t expecting anyone, he was sure that whoever was\u003cbr\u003eoutside the door was yet another customer looking for his drugdealer\u003cbr\u003eneighbour.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe twisted the Yale latch open with his right hand, pulled the\u003cbr\u003edoor handle down with his left, and opened the door a crack,\u003cbr\u003esnapping out a rather irritated ‘Yes?’ before squinting out into\u003cbr\u003ethe shady corridor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat one word was all he had time for. The door exploded\u003cbr\u003eopen, its handle wrenched out of his hand, its edge smashing\u003cbr\u003eagainst his temple as he staggered backwards and a sharp, stabbing\u003cbr\u003epain lanced through his gut.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThemba slammed against the rickety desk and sprawled down\u003cbr\u003eonto the floor, blinking as hot rivulets of spilled tea splashed\u003cbr\u003edown onto his face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then a black-clad figure wearing a dark mask was inside,\u003cbr\u003estanding over him. The pain in his stomach was dreadful; he\u003cbr\u003ecould taste blood in his mouth, but in his shock he hadn’t begun\u003cbr\u003eto associate any of this with the slim black handle that now jutted\u003cbr\u003efrom his midriff.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUntil his assailant leaned forward, grasped the handle with a\u003cbr\u003egloved hand, and pulled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pain was sickening. Themba screamed, a shrill, breathy\u003cbr\u003esound, and clamped his hands over the deep gash, now pouring\u003cbr\u003eblood. He glanced up, only to see the knife coming at him again.\u003cbr\u003e‘Don’t . . .’ he begged, but his voice had reduced to a whisper.\u003cbr\u003eHe mouthed the words, ‘Please don’t.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe wanted to plead for his life, to explain that this wasn’t fair,\u003cbr\u003ethat this was the wrong room, that he was not the right man.\u003cbr\u003eThat he didn’t deal in drugs and never had. That this was all a\u003cbr\u003eterrible mistake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut there was no time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe tried to stop the blade, tried to grab it with his right hand,\u003cbr\u003ebut it sliced cleanly through his palm and buried itself in his\u003cbr\u003echest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then his attacker was gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThemba found he couldn’t move. He wanted to cough, but he\u003cbr\u003ecouldn’t do that either. All he could do was lie in his own blood,\u003cbr\u003ewatching as a dark mist rushed to cover the smeary ceiling.\u003cbr\u003eOutside, the clanging of the garbage truck faded into silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJade de Jong was fighting to convince herself she wasn’t going to\u003cbr\u003edrown.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was six and a half metres under the surface of the sea and\u003cbr\u003esinking, with tons upon tons of water forcing her downwards.\u003cbr\u003eShe was burying herself in a pale-blue grave, every movement of\u003cbr\u003eher fins taking her closer to the ocean’s sandy floor and further\u003cbr\u003efrom the sky and sun above.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe reached out in front of her, striking forward, pushing just\u003cbr\u003ea tiny fraction of all that water aside, noticing that her cupped\u003cbr\u003ehand looked sickly white in the dim light. Like a sea spectre. Or\u003cbr\u003eperhaps more like a corpse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thought paralysed her with fear—she was unable to keep\u003cbr\u003egoing down, unable now even to breathe. Just as she had been on\u003cbr\u003ethe dive before. And the dive before that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGod, get me out of here, she thought frantically. She knew\u003cbr\u003ehow easy it would be to escape. A few kicks with her flippers and\u003cbr\u003eshe could be hurtling up out of the depths, shooting to the\u003cbr\u003esurface, ripping the mask off her face. The next big breath she\u003cbr\u003etook could be real air. Proper air, not the dry-tasting canned\u003cbr\u003estuff in the tanks on her back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith her heart banging so hard she was sure it must be sending\u003cbr\u003ea subsonic message of panic to all sea life within a two-kilometre\u003cbr\u003eradius, Jade forced herself to stay put. She did what\u003cbr\u003eAmanda Bolton, her personal scuba-diving trainer, had told her\u003cbr\u003eto do. Gently exhale and send a rush of bubbles upwards. Then\u003cbr\u003ebreathe in again. Slowly and easily. She had to force herself to\u003cbr\u003erelax, a command that Jade had realised on her first dive was\u003cbr\u003ephysically impossible. This time, though, she managed to keep\u003cbr\u003eher fear at bay. She took a long, relieved gulp of air and then\u003cbr\u003esignalled to the wet-suited figure who was a few metres in front\u003cbr\u003eof her and looking at her enquiringly, waiting for her to communicate\u003cbr\u003ewhat she wanted to do next.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClosing her fist with her thumb towards the surface, Jade\u003cbr\u003egestured upwards.\u003cbr\u003eGet me out of here.\u003cbr\u003eAmanda signalled back ‘ok’. Escaping locks of her dark hair\u003cbr\u003eswirled, mermaid-like, around her face. Then she made another\u003cbr\u003esign that Jade knew meant: slow. Take it slow going up. No\u003cbr\u003epanicking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Jade kicked towards the surface, she saw a shoal of fish\u003cbr\u003eswimming past. Small silvery-looking fish that seemed almost\u003cbr\u003eimpossibly bright in the clear water—a scattering of marquisecut\u003cbr\u003ediamonds on an aquamarine backdrop. They swam fast and\u003cbr\u003epurposefully, as if they were late for an important appointment.\u003cbr\u003ePretty, yes. But worth the dive? Jade didn’t think so. And as\u003cbr\u003efor the rest of the sea life she’d heard so much about but hadn’t\u003cbr\u003eseen yet, like the huge leatherback and loggerhead turtles that\u003cbr\u003ethe St Lucia estuary was famous for—well, she was sure there’d\u003cbr\u003ebe some in a glass tank, ready for viewing, at uShaka Marine\u003cbr\u003eWorld in Durban.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJade had thought learning to scuba dive would be easy, but it\u003cbr\u003ewas proving to be the opposite. She’d managed her training\u003cbr\u003edives—eventually—but open water terrified her, and she had\u003cbr\u003enever thought it would.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’d expected that she’d take after her mother in this regard,\u003cbr\u003eas she did in so many other ways. Her late father had been a\u003cbr\u003ereluctant swimmer, a man much more comfortable out of the\u003cbr\u003esea than in it. Although he’d never spoken much about her\u003cbr\u003emother, Jade was certain that she remembered him saying once\u003cbr\u003ehow much she had loved scuba diving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow she realised she must have inherited her father’s dislike\u003cbr\u003eof the ocean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt last she broke the surface and pulled off her claustrophobic\u003cbr\u003emask. Treading water, she looked up gratefully at the cloudless\u003cbr\u003esky and felt the coolness of the air against her face. It wouldn’t\u003cbr\u003ehave this effect for long—not in this heat, with the humidity\u003cbr\u003esmothering the estuary like a pillow, but the first few minutes\u003cbr\u003eout of the water always felt refreshing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMiles of sea all around her in every direction, stretching all\u003cbr\u003ethe way to the horizon on the seaward side, and the faraway rolling\u003cbr\u003eoutline of the forested dunes on the shoreward side. The\u003cbr\u003evastness of that distance didn’t worry Jade too much. It was the\u003cbr\u003edepths below her that gave her the shivers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen Amanda surfaced beside her.\u003cbr\u003e‘Short break?’ she suggested.\u003cbr\u003eJade nodded and they swam over to the dive boat waiting\u003cbr\u003enearby and clambered on board.\u003cbr\u003e‘Well, that seemed to go better,’ Amanda said in an accent\u003cbr\u003ethat Jade had originally thought was from southern England, but\u003cbr\u003ewhich she had laughingly confessed was pure East End. ‘Fifteen\u003cbr\u003eminutes under, this time. That’s two minutes longer than on the\u003cbr\u003elast dive, and you went further, too. Quite an improvement, I\u003cbr\u003ethink. How do you feel?’\u003cbr\u003eJade frowned.\u003cbr\u003e‘It still doesn’t feel like my environment. I’m just not comfortable\u003cbr\u003egoing so deep, although I know by scuba standards six\u003cbr\u003emetres is barely underwater.’\u003cbr\u003eBending over, she eased her fins\u003cbr\u003eoff, then unzipped the wetsuit, which was already feeling too\u003cbr\u003ewarm, and pulled it down off her shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e‘You’ll get there, don’t you worry. Most people take to it like\u003cbr\u003ea fish to water, ’scuse the pun, but some never get the hang of it.\u003cbr\u003eOthers learn how to do it, but just don’t like it.’\u003cbr\u003e‘Does that ever change?’ Jade asked, glancing longingly at her\u003cbr\u003eT-shirt and shorts that were folded up on the bench.\u003cbr\u003e‘Oh, it often does.’\u003cbr\u003eAmanda sounded so chirpy that Jade had no idea whether she\u003cbr\u003ewas humouring her or not.\u003cbr\u003e‘Just you wait. In a couple more days, we’ll have you out on\u003cbr\u003ethe big boat, diving in a group with your boyfriend. That’s where\u003cbr\u003eyou really want to be, isn’t it?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJade didn’t miss the sympathy in her voice. But she couldn’t\u003cbr\u003eargue with her, because the scuba instructor was spot on. One\u003cbr\u003ehundred per cent correct. She didn’t want to be here, taking\u003cbr\u003eprivate lessons that were being offered at no extra charge, thanks\u003cbr\u003eto Amanda’s kind-heartedness. She did want to be out on the big\u003cbr\u003eboat with police Superintendent David Patel, who might or\u003cbr\u003emight not be her boyfriend, but who was most definitely going\u003cbr\u003eto be her partner on this trip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDavid already knew how to scuba dive, so Jade’s plan had been\u003cbr\u003efor her to complete the diving course with a couple of other\u003cbr\u003ebeginners at the resort, which rejoiced in the name of Scuba\u003cbr\u003eSands, and then to join David in exploring the rich coral reefs\u003cbr\u003ethat lined the estuary in the iSimangaliso Wetland Park—reefs\u003cbr\u003ethat Jade had been interested to learn were the southernmost in\u003cbr\u003ethe world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut nothing had gone as planned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJade’s own fear of open water had held her back. The other\u003cbr\u003ebeginners had completed the course without trouble and had left\u003cbr\u003ethat morning for a full-day’s diving out on the reef with Monique\u003cbr\u003edu Preez, the other instructor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd David wasn’t even at the resort yet. He’d been supposed\u003cbr\u003eto drive down with Jade at the start of the week, but he had\u003cbr\u003ebeen delayed in Jo’burg after a drug-smuggling case he was\u003cbr\u003eworking on had, in his own words, ‘hit the bloody fan harder\u003cbr\u003ethan a shit-bomb’.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’d messaged her last night to say that he was getting an afternoon\u003cbr\u003eflight from Jo’burg today and would be landing at King\u003cbr\u003eShaka International Airport in Durban at four-thirty. As soon as\u003cbr\u003eshe and Amanda got back to shore, Jade would set off to fetch him.\u003cbr\u003eBut before that, she had one more dive still to get through.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stepped over to the prow of the boat and grasped the\u003cbr\u003emetal railing. Just a few minutes out of the water and she was\u003cbr\u003ealready starting to feel sweaty in the oppressive humidity. The\u003cbr\u003esea was as flat and still as a pond, and the sun burned down from\u003cbr\u003ea metallic sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I’m not used to failing,’ she admitted. It was easier to say the\u003cbr\u003ewords when she wasn’t looking at the other woman. ‘Up till now,\u003cbr\u003eI’ve always managed to do everything I’ve wanted to do. Some\u003cbr\u003ethings have been easy, like . . .’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stopped herself. She’d been going to say: like shooting.\u003cbr\u003eThat had come naturally to Jade. The first gun she had fired at\u003cbr\u003ethe age of twelve had been a rifle almost as tall as she was, and\u003cbr\u003eshe’d hit her target—a Coke can—at a distance of more than a\u003cbr\u003ehundred metres.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdmittedly, that gun had had telescopic sights. But the handguns\u003cbr\u003eshe’d fired since then had not. Guns felt like an extension of\u003cbr\u003eher own body; shooting was almost as instinctive as breathing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe had made a promise, though, that she wasn’t going to talk\u003cbr\u003eabout her work activities on this holiday. Not with David there.\u003cbr\u003eHer ability to shoot, and what she had used it for, had caused\u003cbr\u003eproblems between them that, at one stage, Jade had feared were\u003cbr\u003epermanent and would never be resolved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmanda laughed, obviously misinterpreting Jade’s sudden\u003cbr\u003esilence. ‘Yeah, I know. You can never remember all the things you\u003cbr\u003ecan do easily when you’re thinking about the one thing you can’t.’\u003cbr\u003e‘Cycling,’ Jade said, picking a safer subject. ‘I love to cycle. I\u003cbr\u003ebought a mountain bike a while ago and I try to get out on it at\u003cbr\u003eleast three times a week. I’m good with uphills. They don’t bother\u003cbr\u003eme at all. Not when I’m cycling or when I’m running. I do that\u003cbr\u003eas well, and I’ve been training myself to run barefoot.’\u003cbr\u003e‘Well, that’s incredible. Hills just about kill me, whether I’m on\u003cbr\u003ea bike or my own two feet. But I can see you keep yourself fit.’\u003cbr\u003e‘I’d like to do the long cycle races one day. The 94.7 kilometre\u003cbr\u003eone up in Jo’burg and the Cape Argus.’\u003cbr\u003e‘Ah,’ Amanda said. ‘And have you done the L’Eroica Chianti\u003cbr\u003ecycling race in Italy? I was wondering when I saw your shirt.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJade glanced across at her faded T-shirt that had, indeed, been\u003cbr\u003ea free gift to all entrants from the race organisers a few years\u003cbr\u003eback. She hadn’t completed the ride, though. She’d been assigned\u003cbr\u003eas security detail to a wealthy British businessman’s wife who’d\u003cbr\u003egone there hoping to cycle the medium-distance route. But the\u003cbr\u003ewoman hadn’t put in nearly enough training for the tough,\u003cbr\u003e135-kilometre course over rough, hilly terrain, and she’d been\u003cbr\u003eforced to retire before she’d even reached the halfway point.\u003cbr\u003eThat meant that, as her bodyguard, Jade had had to swallow her\u003cbr\u003edisappointment and put her own bicycle in the back of the pickup\u003cbr\u003evan together with her client’s when it came round to collect\u003cbr\u003ethe stragglers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I didn’t finish it,’ she said. ‘I was there with a client who pulled\u003cbr\u003eout before the halfway mark. I was disappointed, but there was\u003cbr\u003enothing I could do. It felt like a failure, too, even though it wasn’t\u003cbr\u003emy fault.’\u003cbr\u003eAmanda gave a small nod and a shadow crossed her face.\u003cbr\u003e‘Failure’s never easy to cope with,’ she said in a soft voice.\u003cbr\u003e‘Especially when it’s not your fault.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer hand strayed to the small gold airplane pendant that she\u003cbr\u003ewore on a chain around her neck, and she slid it from side to\u003cbr\u003eside; an instinctive gesture that Jade had seen her make before,\u003cbr\u003ebut thought Amanda herself was unaware of.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTaking comfort from the familiar action, perhaps.\u003cbr\u003eJade wondered what failure Amanda had experienced. Whatever\u003cbr\u003eit was, she clearly didn’t want to talk about it, and Jade wasn’t\u003cbr\u003egoing to ask.\u003cbr\u003eChanging the topic, she said, ‘That’s a pretty piece of jewellery.’\u003cbr\u003eThe dark-haired woman smiled.\u003cbr\u003e‘My mother gave it to me when I started work at Heathrow.’\u003cbr\u003e‘Flight attendant?’\u003cbr\u003eNow Amanda’s smile widened. ‘No. Actually, I’m an air-traffic\u003cbr\u003econtroller. I started out in England and then travelled around\u003cbr\u003ethe world. That’s what I’m qualified to do; what I’ve always\u003cbr\u003edone. The scuba diving is just a hobby, really.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJade nodded, hoping her surprise didn’t show on her face.\u003cbr\u003eShe’d never have imagined that the woman who had been so\u003cbr\u003epatiently teaching her to dive had held down one of the toughest\u003cbr\u003eand most responsible jobs in the world—co-ordinating the\u003cbr\u003eapproach and departure of airplanes at what must be one of the\u003cbr\u003eworld’s busiest commercial airports.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I see,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’\u003cbr\u003e‘For what?’\u003cbr\u003e‘Underestimating your abilities.’\u003cbr\u003e‘You wouldn’t be the first one to do that. People see a dive\u003cbr\u003einstructor in her thirties, working in a little resort like this, and\u003cbr\u003ethey assume she’s a drifter who never had any ambitions in life.\u003cbr\u003eAt least you asked.’\u003cbr\u003eJade smiled.\u003cbr\u003e‘That was my old life,’ Amanda continued. ‘Up until last year.\u003cbr\u003eI’ve been here almost six months now.’\u003cbr\u003e‘Are you enjoying the change? It must be far less stressful.’\u003cbr\u003eJade had thought Amanda would agree, but instead she looked\u003cbr\u003eaway.\u003cbr\u003e‘Not really,’ she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer words struck a chord with Jade. Made her reflect on her\u003cbr\u003eown situation. She was qualified as a bodyguard and had years of\u003cbr\u003eexperience as a private investigator, working on her own and\u003cbr\u003ewith big firms. But that might well have to change now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe knew David didn’t approve of the work she did, because\u003cbr\u003eof the danger to which it exposed her. Not to mention the fact\u003cbr\u003ethat in solving her cases she often chose to go beyond the law, or\u003cbr\u003ethat some of the cases she handled were not legal at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCould she do what Amanda had done? Turn her back on her\u003cbr\u003eprevious life and start afresh doing something else? And if so,\u003cbr\u003ewhat on earth would that new career involve? Would it be too\u003cbr\u003elate to finish the law degree she’d started long ago, before she\u003cbr\u003ehad decided that her heart and her talent lay elsewhere?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne thing was for sure—becoming a scuba-diving instructor\u003cbr\u003ewas definitely out of the question.\u003cbr\u003e‘Shall we go under again? Aim for sixteen minutes this time?’\u003cbr\u003eAmanda asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJade dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. One\u003cbr\u003emore dive. Another visit to the depths. The time stretched ahead\u003cbr\u003eof her, endless as a prison sentence, but she had to do it. The\u003cbr\u003eonly thing she feared more than being under the water was\u003cbr\u003egiving up on trying.\u003cbr\u003e‘Ok. Let’s give it a go,’ she said.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301451485413,"sku":"NP9781616952174","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616952174.jpg?v=1767739282","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-fallen-isbn-9781616952174","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}