Actually there’s nothing slight about it, I decide. I look like hell, and I take off my damp suit jacket and drape it over a chair. My bra has soaked through my white blouse, and I turn on the hand dryer and blast hot air inside my collar, doing what I can so I don’t sit around in wet underwear. Then I dig out powder, lipstick, a toothbrush. I contemplate my appearance and what else I intend to do about it. Not much.

I can’t reverse the effects of lousy sleep, of running myself ragged and walking in the extreme heat. I feel a touch light-headed, and I’m weary and hopelessly clammy. I need food and drink badly. I need a shower most of all, and I take off my ruined panty hose and toss them in the trash. I douse a hand towel with cold water, cleaning up, but there’s no quick remedy for rumpled sweatiness.

It’s as if I were soaked and agitated in a washing machine, and I notice I’ve gotten a bit thinner in recent weeks. That usually happens when I neglect to exercise, and I haven’t been jogging for a while, certainly not during the heat wave. I haven’t touched my TRX bands, and Lucy’s been after me to go with her to the gym.

I powder my face, and shadows in the low light of a crystal chandelier accentuate my prominent cheekbones and nose, and the angle of my strong jaw. I’m reminded of what journalists say, almost none of it relevant or kind. I’m masculine and off-putting. Or my favorite unflattering line that’s been recycled excessively in stories: Dr. Kay Scarpetta is compelling in appearance with an inaccessible, secretive and domineering face.

I wet my fingers and muss my hair. I give it a once-over with a volumizing spray. I brush my teeth, and dust my forehead and cheeks with a mineral powder that blocks ultraviolet light and doesn’t cause cancer. I don’t care that it’s about to be pitch dark out. I do it anyway. Then I dab on an olive oil lip balm and find the Visine and a small tube of shea butter.

I feel much improved but as I survey my wilted suit and blouse, I can hear Dorothy’s voice in my head as clearly as if she’s inside the ladies’ room with me. She’d say the same thing she’ll probably say when Benton and I pick her up in a few hours. I have a terrible sense of style. I’m boring and sloppy. I get dirty and dress in stuffy suits like a frump or a man. She can’t understand why I don’t wear stilt-like heels, heavy makeup or acrylic nails and gaudy polish.