I stood there on the third-floor balcony, with my wildly unnecessary bottle of wine in hand, and counted their money. There were smaller works, the coins of the realm: A Stella by Sturtevant. Francesca Woodman, her own face blurred out. An embroidery by Louise Bourgeois that read SO I THINK I LOVE YOU. Sarah Lucas’s Chicken Knickers. Ana Mendieta covered in blood. Then—huge ones, the big bills: a fecund, fermenting mass of paint from Wangechi Mutu. An architectural mass of scribbles and topography by Julie Mehretu. Resin cylinders from Eva Hesse. A running slide projection of The Ballad of Sexual Dependency by Nan Goldin. Vines, green, real ones, grew from the ground-floor courtyard, flowering clematis and morning glory and other varieties I didn’t recognize, and they trailed their way around the paintings and over railings. I was shocked to see one of my own pieces, 7,067 (Tampons and Ruined Underwear Money), on the second floor facing the courtyard. People hovered in drug-induced rapture in front of it, holding their hands up to the glowing panels of plastic and oil.

It went on, millions of dollars’ worth of artwork. Eliot&Sprain famously only sold works made by women, though the conditions of the market—buyers rarely paid top dollar for living female artists—meant their most lucrative artists were long dead.

A group of people wearing fragile, nineteenth-century summer whites entered and paused a few feet away. They gaped at the scene in front of them and turned excitedly to each other.

“The Carey House,” said one of the women in a singsong voice, pulling and pushing against the balustrade.

“I can’t believe Max lives here.”

“She did buy new furniture. Still. There’s not much you can do. I mean, the design is the design is the design. You know—all the hooks and knobs and stuff are fingers.”

“Isn’t this where Carey Logan died?” My skin went hot. I held my breath and listened.

“Yes…she…” The voice went quiet. “Tyler pulled her out.”

“I bet he did. I bet he took her organs.” Someone laughed meanly. I thought about his black house, and felt sorry for him, suddenly, that nobody else seemed to be able to see his grief.

“Did you know her?” the singsong woman asked.

“No. I mean, I knew her work, obviously,” one of the men answered. “It was spooky. All those dead bodies. All that…rot.” I felt anger rise up again. Carey’s work wasn’t “spooky”—it was—it was—I wanted to turn and tell him—those are women’s bodies—we are so afraid—we are so easy to hurt and nobody ever cares—it’s not a joke—but the sound of the party rushed into my hot ears and reminded me that this was not a place I could speak freely.

“Well,” one of the women said, “lucky for Max, anyway.”