The heat of Madrid beat like a hot tongue against Clare’s bare back. The beige linen dress clung to her damp skin, sticking to her breasts and thighs as if the city wanted to peel away every layer of protection. Sweat trickled between her breasts as she dragged her suitcases up the stairs, muttering in English a string of muffled curses.

The building was old, with yellowed walls, encaustic tiles on the staircase, and a scent of lemon and dust. On the second floor, the narrow hallway was ...