He descended the steps outside her stained weatherboard house. He looked up and down the street whilst shrugging on his pure wool coat; a new purchase, never worn until today. Only when he saw the street empty, did he remember to turn around and offer her a smile. She still stood in the doorway, hugging her loose dressing gown to herself, neck tinged red from his slight stubble.

She was a contrast to her surroundings, dark hair, dark complexion, flattering against the off white of the house. It really was filthy, he thought to himself. Cracks in the plaster and dead grass on the lawn. She sipped the coffee he made her, even that movement was smooth and sensual, enough for him to almost turn back.

Instead, he briskly crossed the street and slid into his car. The familiar smell of leather and purr of the engine were enough to make him feel at home.

The next day he drove by on a whim, and found police cars outside her house. He parked around the corner and slowly walked down the path to a young officer rolling out yellow tape.

“What’s happened here?” he asked.

The officer looked up, wide eyed.

“Not sure yet,” he answered, his voice uncertain.

The older man slid his hands into his coat pockets and continued to stare down. An ambulance silently drove up to the gutter, the drivers hopping out and dashing up to the door.

“Probably just an accident of some sort,” the young officer said.

He waited there, for confirmation, and when he saw it, he left.