David Vidardal felt that if he was not careful he could go quite mad here, surrounded by the ghosts of a bygone age and a breeze whispering in the enveloping trees. His musings were disturbed by a movement at the entrance to his studio, a brief blink of the intense, African sunlight as someone crossed the threshold. Michaela appeared as quietly as though she had been carried to the room by a mist. Her hair was in a pony tail, she wore a plain T-shirt, and was so blonde it seemed she had no eyebrows or eyelashes. She stared at him with intense, green eyes while she made a vague gesture to her right, "I live in the house next door, with my aunt Julia, and my cousin." The meeting was the beginning of a journey into obsession and dangerous friendship where reality mixed with illusion, passion and murder.