By now, Louis has other details to hold in his palm. They fit neatly into the picture Lestat paints, adding vivid detail rather than acting as missing pieces.

Louis exhales a stream of smoke.

"He wasn't where you left him."

Clearly.

And then rises, treading to the well appointed little minibar beneath the television to fetch a chilly can of soda. Lestat is offered this, Louis' off hand gesturing wordlessly to his own face with his cigarette held between two fingers. Trailing smoke. Proposing a hilariously human remedy to the riot of bruises on Lestat's face.