The cemetery gate. The path toward the estate's secondary exit. His bare feet on the wet grass and then the gravel, silent, unhurried.
Marga fell in behind him.
She was watching the two women's bodies on his shoulders — the way Veronica's breasts moved slightly with each of his steps, the jiggle of the flesh at her hip and thigh, Elena's hair hanging down his back in a wet dark curtain. She was watching and she was thinking and the thinking was doing the thing it always did when it was in proximity to something that rewrote available categories.
She nearly walked into his shoulder when he stopped.
Victor's body.
In the mud where it had fallen. Still and open-eyed, the blood dried at his nose, the ruined expensive suit absorbing the rain.
Marga looked at it.
Then looked at Raven, who was also looking at it, with the expression of a man reviewing something he'd set down and deciding whether it needs tidying.
He didn't do anything.
The ground did.
