Back in the foyer, I found Oliver in my place on the floor, carefully inpainting the weedy grass of the Mill Village. I held out my hand for the brush.

“I’ll keep helping,” he said, holding the brush away from me. “You know you can’t make the deadline on your own, right?”

I looked at the abraded grass, the disintegrating signature. He was right. Adam and Wyatt would have to stretch and hang the mural in the morning with the right-hand corner unfinished or poorly restored. How savvy was Andrea Fuller about art? Would she notice slipshod work in one tiny bit of the mural? Probably not, and yet it pained me to think of making a mess of that corner when I’d been so meticulous all along.

I motioned once more for him to give me the brush. “It’s my job,” I said, but he didn’t hand the brush to me.

“My work is pretty well finished,” he said. “Let me help you. I can work on the grass here.” He pointed. “You can work on the signature.”

Reluctantly, I sat down next to him and picked up my own brush. We worked together until five, when we stopped to order and devour Hunan chicken and egg rolls. Then we were back at it, and I began to feel hopeful. I thought Oliver’s brushstrokes were not quite as clean as mine, but I kept my mouth shut. No one was going to notice, and we were getting the work done.

Oliver was talkative as we painted after dinner. “So, were you really in love with Trey?” he asked.

I was surprised by the question, and I had to think about it. “I was in love with the Trey I wanted him to be,” I said. “Not the Trey he really was. And he didn’t love me, either. He said he did, but he doesn’t have a clue what it means to love. You don’t treat someone you love the way he treated me.” I touched my brush to the paint on my palette. “Same with my parents.”

“Do you really believe they didn’t love you?”