He wakes mid-afternoon. Miller rises, groggy, picks up the tumbler, sniffing the pink stain and proud he feels no urge to lick. Taking the glass over to Joanne’s bungalow he knocks: no answer. Pushing the kitchen door open he listens but hears nothing except the ticking of a clock. Her bedroom door is slightly ajar: she’s lying on her stomach, snoring. Her dress is hiked up, white lace on show. Miller puts down the glass on her dresser and goes to the kitchen, writes a note, then he takes her car keys, gets in the Holden and drives.