“Premeditated murder. Plus conspiracy. Twenty-five years, at least, to life.” Robert took Martha’s hands, unclasped them, and stood up.

“I need to get refreshed.”

When he entered the bathroom, he sprinkled cold water on his face and took some deep breaths in and out. The dizzy spell seemed to have passed.

He tried to imagine that Martha had not just told him anything about her attempts to get rid of her husband. She didn’t say anything. They entered the hotel today, as usual, giving the doorman a tip. According to tradition, they ordered chocolate and champagne to the room. Tipsy from champagne, Martha got used to first lamenting about her ruined life, and then arranged a fashion show, modeling underwear, to Robert’s laughter and applause. Are his heavenly days behind him?

All this time his gaze did not leave the plastic jar with the label “Ahava” standing on the shelf next to other bottles.

The famous salt of the Dead Sea! It relieves stress. Relaxes muscles. Softens the skin. The label recommended dissolving three caps in hot water, then taking a bath for twenty minutes. Store in a cool, dry place.

Robert shook the jar, and the contents jumped with a noise. Unscrewing the lid, he poured a handful of salt onto the palm of his hand. He put a few crystals on the tongue—it tasted like ordinary salt, a bit bitter.

He came out of the bathroom with a jar in his hand.

Martha was putting on her pantyhose. She put her leg on the chair, smoothing out the folds, visible only to her, on the transparent fabric.

“Are you leaving already?” He asked.