Seventh.  Prague.

The photograph belongs on the society pages: people in formal clothing, standing ever-so-politely next to each other, fingers making foggy spots on the champagne glasses as they smile. She stands off to one side, just behind them, in profile.  The photographer must have been standing off-center, or perhaps he was caught by the woman standing on the perimeter.  Wouldn't be the first time. 

She wears a dress of deep crimson, cinched at the waist and cut deep down the center, skirt skimming her calves.  High heels, light laces around the ankles, in a color that matches the dress exactly.  A glittering bracelet, a simple, matching earring on her visible ear.  Her hair, done in waves and curls, falls halfway down her back.  She holds one hand partially up, fingers clamped tight around the matching clutch.  A snatch of black and white protrudes from the top, caught in the latch. 

Her eyes study the scene before her, something outside the camera's range.  Her bottom lip is caught up below her top one, pressed in her teeth.  Look closely, and you will see the delicate lines of veins winding at her temples, just above her eyes.  They bulge slightly, as if she's worried or pressured, as if she's thinking of something far removed from the glowing candles and bubbling champagne. 

Outside the frame:  A man, a dark figure, a cellphone.  Her daughter, he told her, is dead. 

She did not believe him.  She pressed her dress and curled her hair and stepped out in front of the flashing cameras and the hundreds of pairs of eyes.  She disregarded the risk, ignored the danger, as she's become so good at doing.  This is her only message, the only attempt she will make to contact him.  Because she believes he will find her, believes he will help her, believes they will search together. 

She steps out into the dark street, picking her way back home under flickering streetlamps and dim stars.  A glint of silver light picks out the moisture on her cheek, the darkness in her eyes.  Her stomach winds tight, but she holds onto her hope, her reason for coming out into the light. 

He will come.  Together, they will find her. 

Eighth and Ninth.  Hotel Room. 

The picture reminds him of another, from long ago, washed-out and grainy.  The black-and-white edges seem fuzzy; they are bathed in a tint of modern blue.  Even so, the man's face is unmistakable.  He walks toward the camera down an indistinct taupe hall, eyes angled down, lips pressed thin together.  He wears a suit, jacket buttoned, and a straight tie.  His right hand, fingers dipping down out of the snapshot's range, grips the stiff black handle of a briefcase.  If the frame stretched further, you would see it is a shining patent black, not the dull muddy brown of the case he carries to work. 

This, too, is a still, frozen from a long digitized file surveilling that hallway.  This, too, they paperclip to the outside of a file, banging it down on the table before him, so loudly it reverbrates off his shackles.  "Confess," they say.  "We know."

He presses his lips tight, tighter than in the picture, but does not speak.  They can only conjecture at what lies outside the frame; he knows for certain.  He does not speak, and for this they frame him in her glass cage. 

This is what he sees:

A hotel room, a dark night, he enters four hours after she arrives.  He wears the same dark suit, pressed neatly, carries the same shining leather case.  She places one hand over the handle, his hand still on it.  He does not flinch. 

He sets the case down on the table, flicks the latches open.  Hand movements are small, precise.  She stands back, understanding the need for this little ceremony.   He pulls the papers from inside, originals remaining in a sealed pouch in the center.  One copy for her, one for him, everything in triplicate. 

She sits at the table across from him, working her way through the records with two highlighters, a pen, and a thick black marker.  He sits in the other chair, knees angled toward her, bent low over his work.  She tucks her hair behind one ear.  They discuss. 

When he kisses her, it is neither hesitant nor soft.  This is need: dragging her body to him, pushing, pulling, breathing.  Distraction in her soft hair, diversion in her cool skin.  She does not recoil: she needs to forget as much as he does.  The passionate desperation is a pattern between the two of them. 

She straightens his tie; he snaps the latches shut on the briefcase.  She retains one copy of the records, and of the notes they made together.  She smiles when she passes his copies back to him, reminds him they work well together.  Together, they will find her.  They have to.

The camera snaps his photo again as he exits, early morning sun blotted out in the long, windowless hall.  He wears the same suit, carries the same case, leaving them with a photograph that is, at first glance, merely the inverse of the other.  Only a practiced eye will notice the wrinkles in his suit, the bouncing angle at which he carries the case, the tight press of his lips which is not a frown.  It is something else entirely. 

And so they lock him away, in her glass cage.