Page 100 of Over Her Dead Body

“No.”

“Did you ask him to name your hotel?”

“He said it was the one in Chiado.”

“Chiado is a neighborhood.”

“I know.”

“So he did not name your hotel.”

“No.”

His English is excellent. His opinion of me requires no translation.

My palms sting where the pavement took the skin. Blood has dried beneath the torn knee of my pants, and the left side of my face has begun to swell. My phone lies on the desk between us, still functional beneath a web of fractured glass.

The officer glances at it.

“What did he take?”

“My phone.”

“You have your phone.”

“I took it back.”

“Your purse?”

“No.”

“Money?”

“No.”

“My suitcase is still in the trunk.”

“So he took your luggage.”

“He took me.”

The officer looks across the desk. “You are here.”

“Because I stabbed him in the eye.”

“With what?”

“A pen.”

“What kind of pen?”

“Are you looking for the brand name?”

His expression does not change.

“Metal?” I say. “It was expensive. A gift.”

“Do you have it?”