THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO LIKE CHANGE. THERE ARE EVEN A FEW WHO THRIVE ON IT. THATʼS NOT ME.

The Seattle that J.P. Beaumont knew as a young policeman is disappearing. The city is awash in the aromas emanating from a glut of coffee bars; the neighborhood outside his condo building has sprouted gallery upon gallery; and even his long cherished diner has evolved into a trendy eatery for local hipsters. But the glam is strictly surface, for the grit under the city’s fingernails is caked with blood. Beau and his new partner Sue Danielson, a struggling single parent, are assigned the murder of an elderly woman torched to death in her bed. As their investigation proceeds, Beau and Sue become embroiled in a perilous series of events that will leave them and their case shattered–and for Beau nothing will ever be the same again.

It’s easy to think that just because Native Americans have largely disappeared from view that their customs and beliefs have disappeared as well. My five years of teaching on the Tohono O’odam reservation west of Tucson convinced me otherwise. J.P. Beaumont learns that same lesson here.

When I was preparing to write this book, I was asked to participate in a Silent Witnesses event. Supporters made cardboard cutouts of all the people (over two hundred) who had died as a result of domestic violence in the state of Washington the previous year. The figures of women and children were first painted red, then their names, dates of birth and dates of death were stenciled onto the red.

The event I attended was held at the Bellevue Art Museum. There, in a room hung with beautiful art, the entire perimeter was lined with those red figures, the Silent Witnesses. At that event I spoke to the mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers of murdered women; to the grandmothers and grandfathers and aunts and uncles of murdered children. The seeds for Breach of Duty were sown in my participation in that event.

JAJ