About the book: 1955 / It rained in the canyon at night. The world sparkled with the fresh and bright colors of a butterfly that had just emerged from a cocoon, its wings fluttering in the clear sunny air. Real butterflies danced between the tree branches, as if playing tag. Only giant sequoias and eucalyptus trees stretched to this height. I parked my car as usual, in the shadow of a stone building at the gate of the old estate. Just between the pillars, the gate itself had long since fallen from its rusty hinges. The owner of the country house died in Europe, and no one has lived here since the war. That's why I sometimes come here on Sundays when I'm tired of this Hollywood pandemonium. There is not a single living soul here within a radius of two miles. Or rather, there hasn’t been until now...