A simple line of photos circled the studio, most of them close-ups: of hands, of bent heads, of crumpled gloves, of pans full of cotton swabs. At first it looked medical—nurses and patients—but this was Layla’s series on nail salon workers. Accompanying the images was a timeline of a single worker getting her job, getting paid low wages for long hours, getting pregnant, getting sick, losing her baby. Nothing shouted outrage or injustice—but the chronology and its visual juxtaposition were painful to read. Layla didn’t have the flair of Erik or Brenae, but she could drive home a point, and she had.

A small sign read, DUE TO PERSONAL CIRCUMSTANCES THE ARTIST CANNOT BE IN ATTENDANCE TONIGHT, BUT PLEASE USE THIS PHONE TO ASK HER QUESTIONS. A flip phone sat beside it. I related the scene to Ray.

“Do you think anyone’s called?” I said.

“Doesn’t seem too popular a spot,” said Ray. “But you’re there.”

I was there, and I felt like I needed to do something, to confront something.

“Stay on the line.” I took in a breath, and then picked up the phone, holding it to my other ear, dialing the only number in Contacts.

Layla answered on the third ring. The sound of her voice made my cheek go cold, as if the phone was made of ice.

“This is the artist speaking,” she said after a moment.

“Hi, I’m a visitor in your studio, and I just wanted to say how moving your show is.” My heart was pounding and my throat almost choked, but I forced the words to come out. “Really.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That means a lot.”

She didn’t recognize me. I lowered her phone. My thumb drifted over the end button, but I didn’t hang up.

“Do you have any questions about it?” came her voice.

I raised the phone again. Hearing Layla brought me back to her scorn in the car to the Westing, back to the dead look in her face when she dragged me into Nelson’s office. Maybe she had called the police that night. But it had been to save her life, not mine or Ray’s. And yet I felt I owed her something. Not forgiveness. Not pity, either. I steeled myself to talk without hesitation or emotion.

“Who or what inspired your work?” I said.

“Great question,” she said. “I like to see what’s invisible. Nail artisans wait on people all day, all over L.A., literally at our feet, breathing toxic chemicals, and we don’t think about them at all, or what we’re doing to them—”

I interrupted her: “I mean, was there one person or moment that made you want to be an artist?”

“My father,” she said automatically. “He loves art more than anything.”