Ray held out a hand to me and then let it drop, his expression cloudy. There was something else he needed to tell, or was hiding. I waited. He owed me the whole truth, and as the quiet dragged on and he didn’t leave, I hoped he might stay. But then a parking cop came up and told us we had to pay or move on, and the chance was lost. While the cop watched, we gave each other a businesslike hug good-bye and got in our separate cars and drove off. I told myself not to, but I looked back for Ray. The night had sealed his face away, and all I saw were two bright headlights falling behind me as the traffic thickened and the exits came.

21

THE NEXT MORNING, I IGNORED my phone’s silence and plunged into Rocque business, checking proofs, copyediting, attending a planning meeting. Janis was not there, but our director, Bas Terrant, shared the happy announcement that our curators’ efforts to bring a show of new Cuban artists had finally paid off. A familiar buzz filled the room as everyone chimed in with ideas—this was the Rocque at its best—and beyond us, the building seemed to expand with our plans, from the carpentry room to the galleries, to the office tower where we typed and talked. After a while, Bas cleared his throat, flashed a shiny, uncomfortable smile, and got to the bad news. Our latest box office numbers were still high, courtesy of the notoriety of Kim Lord’s murder, but not high enough to get the museum out of debt. We might have to face layoffs down the road. This year. A ten percent reduction in staff. No one looked surprised, but many looked frustrated and resistant, including our chief curator, Lynne Feldman. I cornered her afterward and relayed my pleasure at seeing her in Wonder Valley.

“It was quite the weekend,” she said, tucking in her chair. “But Packing was the highlight.”

I asked her to clarify what she’d said that night, about LAAC brushing Brenae under the rug, and what that might do to her legacy.

“I don’t know if a twenty-two-year-old has a legacy,” said Lynne, frowning at my choice of words. “But I’m surprised by Hal’s response. When I contacted him about the work I’d heard Brenae had done at school, he said most of it was destroyed by her, and good riddance. He acted like she’d suddenly started making rubbish.”

Today was the meeting between Hal and his bosses at LAAC. I wondered how he would talk to them about Brenae now. I bet he would be singing a different tune.

Lynne gathered up her notes from the meeting with her red-painted nails. “Why the interest?”

“Just a fan,” I said.