.3

They took multiple photographs of the hand. The flash popped. Her fingernails like little beacons throwing off the glint like mirrors.

The towel forced the fingers—the thumb especially—into a gesture. It seemed like she might be at lunch with her hand resting against the table or that she might be about to present a cup of tea. It was locked in place but only the wrist, slightly twisted away from her body, showed the strain.

He drifted away from the forensics to let them do their business—skin-under-nails. He already knew that they would not find anything. Maybe his thumbprint on her ankle. There was no reason to suspect that the play had been foul. The towel was a decoy.

He looked around the bathroom for a subject to keep him preoccupied. There was the bathing suit. It had already been photographed. She’d recently taken it off. It was hanging from the bar next to the toilet. It was still moist.

He smelled it.

It hadn’t been rinsed.

Still had the lake on it.

He smelled the crotch.

Still had her on it.

She was ovulating.

He bawled it up in his fist. It was damp. He was hot. It was ninety degrees outside even with the sun down—hours now. The forensics looked up at him disapprovingly.

What kind of woman owned this bikini? The plastic white rings on the hips. The bright daisies, small and naïve—the bright blue and orange of a fifteen-year-old.

Later, on her hard drive, he would find a photograph of her when she was five standing on top of a slide with a large smile and a red flower bikini with white plastic rings on the hips. Her hair was wet. She had bangs. She didn’t have bangs now. The bikini was bright blue.

He circled his finger around the inside of the plastic ring. Between her breasts there was a corresponding circle, like a large bruise. The forensics came over and bagged the top. He put the bottoms in his back pocket.