She wakes to the all-pervading shudder of thunder. The night air hangs heavy, her clothes smell of a melange of gunpowder and tequila, and Alejandro is gone. Shedding last night’s skirt, she eyes the tangled bedding and contemplates its owners absence. Then, she pauses. Placed carefully on the pillow; an envelope, with her name scrawled in lazy loops of navy.

Her skirt lying, forgotten, on the floor, Sara paces over to the desk. Weighing the envelope in her hands, she pauses. It feels light; fragile. Carefully, she rips across the top, and unfolds the sheet of thin manilla contained within.

((Right, that’s me done. Who’s next? Shaun? Why don’t you wrap up?))

Why? Did Alejandro kill him?

“I feel kind of bad about Jules,” she says.

Alejandro rubs a sleepy palm over his face. His hair is flattened on one side, damp with sweat. He reaches out to her and takes her hand. He strokes her knuckes with his thumb.

“You don’t have to worry about him any more,” he says.