.12

She had a laptop. It was on the desk by the stationery and her unmarked travel book. She hadn’t planned on going very far.

It was a Mac. A G3 and pristine. It appeared as if she had never touched the keyboard. The letters on the keys were glossy black. The white mouse pad was ungreased by the passing of her thumb. It was closed but the light showing that it was asleep was glowing. He sat at the desk. On her desktop were two files: one was the photograph of her as a five-year-old, big grin and red flower bikini. The other was a word document. He opened it.

There was one sentence on the top of the page in Baskerville, 11 point:

“She is born in India.”

.11

He stood over her in the bathroom.

He nudged her shin with his toe. Her head responded with a slight reverb.

He untied her left wrist.

It fell to her chest. A hollow sound. Knuckle hit the tile floor.

He dragged her by the heels to the bedroom.

There was a certain gratification to treating her body like this. It was the remainder. The leftovers. Her decoy.

He removed the gold shoes, the pink underwear. She was just a cadaver. He photographed her feet.

He stepped over her. She wasn’t there. She was a hard wall and a barrier. A moat. The alligator. He knew he was not going to win by direct force. She was Goliath and Gulliver.