I don’t know how long I waited, staring at the print, before I remembered where I was. It might have been mere seconds, but it felt like ages, the act of seeing Brenae here, mounted in Nelson’s collection. Of course the two of them would have crossed paths, and Brenae would have been just the type of rising star to interest him. But nowhere, in anything I’d read or heard since her death, had I learned that she had ever signed with his gallery.

I calmed myself by observing the rest of the room. The desk had no papers on it. The computer was off. The bookshelves held a predictable arrangement of monographs on major artists like Kandinsky, Matta, O’Keeffe. There appeared to be a number of books on antiquities as well: cuneiform tablets, Babylonian sculpture, cities from the Old Testament.

If I stayed away from the cases, I could remain off camera. I had a clear line to the trash can. It had a mess of papers in it.

I hesitated. I was running out of time.

I wrapped my towel around my head, obscuring my face and shoulders, and slunk to the wire receptacle, sifting silently through it. British chocolate bar wrappers. A W-9 form. A crumpled, printed page from the web, the URL etched on the top margin. It was a petition for a police order of protection against stalking and/or harassment. I believe I am a victim of and then there were checkboxes for stalking and harassment. Some of it had been filled in, but a dark hand had slashed all over the words, making the letters impossible to read.

I felt Brenae’s gaze on me again. I was too close now not to look. I stepped over to her photo, a glossy print. Underneath was a typeset list of student names, including Brenae’s, for a semester show at LAAC. It was a gallery guide, Brenae’s artwork chosen for the honor of visually representing all the rest. Over the names, she had scribbled a message: Thank you for coming! Can’t wait to meet.

Heart slamming, I shoved the papers back in the trash and retreated, my head still encased in terrycloth, only the eyes showing. I twisted the knob, opened the door a crack. The hall was still empty. Thank God. I reorganized my towel situation and crept toward the stairs. The carpet was so soft it tickled. I had almost reached the steps when the bathroom door opened and Pearson walked out. He was dressed in a T-shirt and cargo shorts again. The chlorine had roughened his pale cheeks, and his size once again struck me. His arms were like cudgels.

“Oops,” he said, staring at me.

“Oops,” I repeated hoarsely.

“Were you waiting to change?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “But I can go downstairs.”

“No, please,” he said. “I’m all done.”

I took a step back to let him out.