Then they were on the sidewalk. The late afternoon sun cast slanting shadows. As they stood there the black tip of the Civil War veteran’s bayonet grazed Lila’s throat. ‘Want to come back to my place?’ Sam suggested. The girl shook her head. ‘The hotel?’ ‘No.’ ‘Where would you like to go, then?’ ‘I don’t know about you,’ Lila said. ‘But I’m going out to that motel.’ She raised her face defiantly, and the sharp shadow line slashed across her neck. For a moment, it looked as though somebody had just cut off Lila’s head . . .
