The man who will kill her is standing there in the rain when Salma gets out of the taxi, in his white coat and shiny black shoes. His face is crosshatched with shadows, but the knife in his hand sparkles. “Well,” she says, using an old newspaper as an umbrella, “you might as well come in.”
She throws her coat wherever and gets out the bottle of wine she’s been saving, pours them both a glass and sits on the couch. The man who will kill her stands just on the other side of the coffee table.
“Listen,” he says.