.9

He was beginning to understand her.

She had placed herself there for him—or someone like him. She had known that he would come, that he would be here, surveying her. And she had staged it.

She taunted him with her late girlhood—the rosebud and shoes. Presented her sophistication—the white towel. And then, she ingeniously put up the ultimate electric fence. She completely removed herself. She made herself permanently unavailable while leaving her passport open on the bed.

It was a challenge. He had to admit.

She had made it difficult. He could, after the forensics left him in charge and the porter slinked off, slip down the pink undies to her knees. He could, but she would be absent. And he wanted conquest.

He put the journal down. Crossed into the bathroom. Looked at the closed eyelids. No mascara. No shadow.

The forensics finishing up with their brushes and papers and inks.

Vacating.

She had to give in.