The heavy curtains of the master bedroom did a poor job of holding back the persistent Indian sun. A blade of bright, dust-mote filled light sliced across the room, illuminating the wreckage of the night before.

The air was stagnant, thick with the smell of musk, dried sweat, and the distinct, metallic tang of sex. On the floor, the Red Banarasi Saree lay in a crumpled heap like a pool of spilled blood.