.10

She wore pearls in her ears. She was a Cancer.

The flash reproduced them as a glowing orb embedded in her ear lobe.

Her ears had probably been pierced at birth with a grandmother needle and very little blood and tears. He’d heard of these barbaric customs from the islands, and she was from the islands.

She wore the pearls like an extremity, like a benign tumor. She hardly noticed them. Like her teeth. She’d probably worn them all her life.

The forensics were moving in the hallway. He was alone with her.

The first thing he did was remove the pearls. Straightened her head to look forward at him (the fine hairs in the back still damp), and removed the pearls. He placed them in his shirt pocket.

Around her neck was a silver chain—two hearts dangling from it. A soft terra cotta color. The chain was purposeful. She’d probably put it on just after brushing her teeth and just before tying the towel around her left wrist. The way they fell on the floor, clinking in her ear, was the last sound she’d heard.

He undid the clasp and lifted her head (put his nose to her neck) and removed the necklace as well. He placed the necklace in his shirt pocket.

He would remake her.

He went to the porter, still shaken in the hallway, and gave him 300 euros and said, “Leave me alone with her. I will take care of the rest. Let no one come this way. When your manager arrives in the morning, I will be gone. The last thing you saw was the woman and the forensics.”

The porter bowed, took his euros and closed the door, “Si, Signore.”