![]() The photograph showed her from the waist up. Her lips were sealed beneath a silvery strip of duct tape, but her eyes were open and aware, the retinas reflecting bloodred in the camera’s flash. The woman had curly hair, splayed out like corkscrews on the pillow. She forced herself to focus on the photograph. He pulled up another chair and they both sat down in front of the computer. Any other man’s touch would have seemed like an invasion, but Moore’s was genuinely comforting. He was standing close enough for her to feel his breath warm her hair, yet she did not feel threatened. His fingers tightened on her shoulder, and she was suddenly aware that he’d called her by her first name. “You need to talk to me about this photo.” What had she been thinking? That she could go back to being like everyone else? That she could be whole again? The whole idea of stepping out on the town now struck her as pitiful. She had not changed clothes and was still dressed up, glossied up for the evening. She felt his hand on her shoulder, his warmth penetrating the green silk. She asked: “Who is the woman in the picture?” I could never bring myself to tell him.” Rape is a subject too intimate, too shameful, to talk about. ![]() “You haven’t told him about Savannah?” asked Moore. Only when the door closed did she know Peter had left. She heard the hurt in his voice, but she did not turn to look at him. ![]() Falco,” said Moore, “it really would be better if you left now.” “But you will talk about it with the police?” “You mean you don’t want to discuss it with me.”
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