That’s when I broke—five days in—on the last step, only two lattices in, my arms so tired and my back throbbing and my quads burning and I hate pencils, I hate them, only Agnes Martin made pencils tolerable, in my hands they are crude and worthless. I cracked one in half, locked the doors, and left.

*  *  *

When I returned to the resort, Jack Wells sat on the deck of the Mission, reading, so I threw the truck in park to say hello to the only member of Pine City I’d yet to meet.

He was alone, sprawled in an Adirondack chair, pajama pants and an Academy sweatshirt, nose in a book of short stories titled Faces at the Bottom of the Well by Derrick Bell.

“Hi,” I said, introducing myself. “You must be Jack.”

“The one and only,” he said, smiling a genuinely nice smile. “Welcome to Pine City. I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet at the party. Max said you weren’t feeling well.”

“Ketamine is not my strong suit.”

“Totally fair.” He pointed to the Mission. “I made a pot of coffee inside if you want some.”

“I’d love that, actually,” I said. “I haven’t spoken to anyone in days. Refill?”

He nodded, drained his mug, and handed it to me. “Thank you,” he said.

I ducked into the mess hall and behind the bar, filling the heavy, rounded ceramic mugs from an old Mr. Coffee flecked with orange paint. I stirred packets of sugar and powdered creamer into my own cup, and as the coffee swirled and mixed, I stared through the windows at the lake. In the corner of my eye, I saw a black-suited man, surrounded by people from the party, the ones who had spoken so carelessly in front of Tyler. Charlie. He was pointing at the lake, at the buildings, one by one, explaining something, and then he brought them over to the east again, toward the path that led to Carey’s studio.

“Do you see Charles Eliot a lot?” I asked Jack as I settled into the Adirondack chair beside him.

He looked surprised. “No. Why?”

“Oh, he was there, on the hill, with some curators from the party.”

“That’s weird. What were they doing?”

“Pointing, taking pictures.”

“Where’d they go?”

I pointed to the east. “Over toward their dock.”

“The Carey Logan tour,” he said, annoyed. “See where she lived! See where she died! Bathe in the water!”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not it,” I said. I felt badly. “It’s such an extraordinary property. I’m sure he likes to show you guys off. This place is crazy,” I insisted. “I can’t believe it, almost.”

“It’s nuts,” he agreed. “It’s such a liability. But it still works for me, even after all these years.”

“Tyler filled me in a little, on the history. It must have been so much work.”

“Oh. It was.”