No poisons hidden away in secret compartments, no threatening correspondence or incriminating photographs. There was, as far as Eve could see—as far as she could feel —only the lives of two everyday people whose marriage had still been shiny and new. The shared work area held his professional debris, and hers, as well as silly, sexy e-mails they sent to each other. Signs, Eve thought, of that first rush of love and belonging where nothing was more important or immediate as the two of you. There were ’link transmissions to and from Lissy and her mother, one from Mirri Hallywell who’d talked to both the Fosters—confirming a study date with Craig and chatting with Lissy about a date with someone called Ben. The night before he died, Craig Foster had outlined the pop quiz he would never spring on his students, and had put nearly an hour into a paper on the economic and social developments post–Urban Wars. The screen saver on the comp unit was a wedding portrait—Lissette in flowing white, Craig in formal black, sharing what Eve assumed was their first kiss as husband and wife.
