“Yeah, it would be nice,” he replied. We walked across the road, sat down at a table on the pavement, and ordered coffee. There was a warm breeze and I could hear music playing somewhere in the distance.

“Did you see what that graffiti artist did to that cross on the side of the road?” he asked suddenly, and I stiffened. Did he know it was me?

“Yes? What about it?” I couldn’t hide the anxiety in my voice.

“I thought you’d like it, since you’re an artist.”

Not according to Imogen, a small voice in my head said.

“So you think it’s cool what she’s doing? The art. Not bad, like the police say?”

“How do you know it’s a she?”

“Just a guess.” I looked away quickly, trying to hide everything that was going on inside me.

He was thoughtful for a moment and looked at me. I sat up straight in my chair now, waiting for him to speak again and deliver his verdict.

“I think it’s cool,” he finally said. “That guy who killed Rose should have gotten a longer sentence, everyone is saying that. And I read that it’s putting pressure on the justice system and the government to take a closer look at gender-based violence. Whoever they are, they’re really doing something important.”

“What are they doing?” The words were right on the tip of my tongue, and I pursed my lips together to stop them from tumbling out. But they were building up inside me at such a speed that I didn’t know if I would be able to hold them back much longer.

“Well, they clearly have a purpose. They’re trying to make a statement with their work. Get people thinking and talking, and maybe even change the way things are done.”

I nodded. “I guess.”

“Definitely!” he quickly added. “I wonder who it is?” He looked thoughtful. The words were now dancing on my tongue. Fast. Frantic. As if they were desperate to come out. Banging on the inside of my lips, trying to force them open.

“I wish we could contact them,” he said.

“Why?”

“They should come here and paint something on the wall for Natasha. So she’s not forgotten. Like Rose.”

“It’s me!” I blurted out, and then slapped my hands over my mouth and looked around.

“What’s you?” he asked, leaning across the table.

“It’s me. The person. The art. I did it.” I whispered this time.

“Seriously?”

“Yes!”

He stared at me for a while, and then a small smile twitched in the corners of his eyes. “Of course it’s you. The card you painted for Lisa, same flowers, I should have seen it!”

“It’s a flowering echeveria. Most people don’t know that succulents bloom, but they do.”