I told Janis that I thought there was a real story in Brenae’s death about the American dream gone sour and that I was going to quit my job in order to tell it. But not in the ordinary way. I wanted to record people talking about Brenae, and to piece together a tale from their impressions—her family’s, her crewmates’, her instructors’. Radio was probing into American life this way, and web versions of audio stories couldn’t be far behind. I wouldn’t be a Gay Talese or a Tom Wolfe, a man with crisp lapels and elegant manner, revealing America to Americans in language that was glossy, witty, discerning, and entirely his own. Instead, I wanted to organize a conversation, one that might be raw and inconclusive, but more authentically Brenae’s. And all of ours.

Janis watched me with a closed expression, her eyes glinting from time to time. “And you want me to pay you to do this,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I want permission to interview you, too.”

“Me.” She hitched backward in her chair.

“If you hadn’t asked me to look, I wouldn’t have seen,” I said. “If Brenae hadn’t written to you, we wouldn’t have the video. You’re part of this story.” I was having a difficult time not choking up again. Fortunately, a friendly woman with choppy auburn hair arrived then with lemonade in frosty glasses and a plate of blond, sugary discs.

“Thank you, Gigi,” said Janis. “Please.” She gestured to the drinks.

I took a glass, a cold, sour, sweet swallow. A lemon taste. “You’re essential to it. To leave you out would mean leaving out one of the greatest champions of art this city has ever had—”

I broke off because, over the years, I had seen Janis tired, angry, and even vengeful, but I had never seen this expression on her face: her right hand rising to cover her mouth and her eyes blinking fast. It was remorse. At my silence, she slowly lowered her hand to her lap and faced me, her chin set. Then the pieces clicked into place—why Janis had never confronted Hal directly, why she’d rigged this entire covert investigation before acting on Brenae’s behalf, and then only in the most tactical way.

“You watched Lesson in Red before she died,” I said. “The whole story about the assistant you fired and the closet full of mail, it wasn’t true. You got the video before she died, and you didn’t believe it, either.”