How? Cass told me the story about that one. How Avedon spent all night photographing her, in his studio, with props and backdrops and costumes, in motion and standing still, hundreds of exposures as he tried to get at the truth of her. Country girl Norma Jeane, who created a fictional creature to hide behind, and made her into the most famous woman in the world. He couldn’t break through that facade. Finally, he told her he was all finished with the shoot. She relaxed. Let her guard down. All the exhaustion she’d been hiding flowed into her face. In that instant, he took a photograph. And that’s the one.

On the one hand, it’s kind of a dick move. To trick a woman into revealing something she tried her hardest to keep hidden. To steal her secret, and tell everyone. On the other hand, there’s a truth here, a story Hollywood didn’t want to hear, about a lonely person who was tired of being exploited and crying out for help. If more people had heard that story, maybe she wouldn’t have taken her own life at thirty-six.

Being an artist sometimes means breaking the rules of civilized human behavior.

I shut my laptop. I counted to ten.

That evening, I’d gotten a call from Solomon’s aunt. His mother’s sister; his legal guardian. A sweet woman, overwhelmed by everything the world had thrown at her. She’d been crying. And when I hung up, so was I.

I had to, she said, and I had no choice, and They would have charged me with neglect.

She’d reported Solomon missing, to the Hudson Department of Child Protective Services. She’d spent weeks trying not to. Reaching out to him, trying to get him to come home. She’d covered for him for as long as she could. But now they’d be looking for him. They might even send cops.

Once I stopped crying, I went online and started staring at photographs. It helped, for a little while. And then it didn’t.

I tried my hardest not to call Connor. I hated myself when I did it: for exploiting him, for resorting to sex with no strings attached as a way of feeling better. Especially since he’d been so upset by seeing Solomon, the last time we were about to hook up. But the darkness was getting stronger. The hole in my chest was getting wider. I needed contact, distraction.

I went over to his house.

“What happened?” he asked, opening the door. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” I said. “Why?”

“You only come by when you’re stressed out about something. Or upset, or sad, or whatever.”

“That’s not true,” I said.

Connor shrugged, and bit his lower lip. His body had definitely become a man’s, even if he still seemed so much like a boy sometimes.

He was right, of course.