The clothes were gone. Obviously the clothes were gone. The clothes had been shredded across the chest, soaked in enough blood to fail every biohazard regulation in California, and then presumably incinerated by someone who'd taken one look and made a decision.
What waited for me instead, folded precisely on the chair where Naomi's jacket used to be, was a stack of clothing that had never been within a hundred yards of a Vault outlet store. These were the kinds of clothes people wore when they had actual money and someone else to carry their bags.
