“We need the shoes,” grumbled Pearson, dredging a skein of wire from beneath a heap. “I wonder whose bright idea it was to send them to LAAC.”

“It was Hal’s idea,” said Layla. “And I’m expecting Lynne Feldman at my open studio, okay? I told her myself, and she sounded really thrilled to be reminded. She said she loves the open studios.”

Lynne Feldman sounding “really thrilled” about anything but her own museum shows and her cats was laughable to me, but I was impressed with Layla’s pulling power. From the way my LAAC friends had painted it, the open studios were less a chance for unknown students to get discovered than a big, raucous party celebrating the common tragedy of their anonymity. But Layla would never be anonymous. Not to a Rocque chief curator. Because of her father, she was a potential future donor.

Pearson studied the wire as if something important was written in its loops.

“Sorry, Layla,” he said. His voice was gruff but penitent. “You should use any connections you’ve got. I hope it’s a great visit.”

“I wish I was back in my second year, prepping for open studios,” Erik said, “and actually graduating on time.”

“You will,” Layla said with a force that verged on fury—only it wasn’t against Erik; it was for him. “And you’ve already got two major collectors and a curator sniffing around. You just have to get it done.”

Erik hung his head, sheepish, as if he had been chastised instead of praised, and gestured at the pile of shoes. “This is what we need to get done.”

Another text from Kaye: Bad news. Call me ASAP.

“I know,” said Layla. “We should work late,” she added. “We should call off those interviews.”

I didn’t want to phone Kaye. It was obvious that the actress was canceling on me.

“Okay?” Layla said when neither of the men responded. “We shouldn’t be doing them anyway.”

“Okay, okay,” interrupted Pearson, surveying a column. “That one’s crooked.”

Layla threw a blue sneaker toward Erik. “Okay?” she said in a despairing tone.

My phone started buzzing. I turned it off.

Erik didn’t answer, just crouched low and shoved at a sandal sticking awkwardly from one side of the column. Now the three crew members made a triangle, Layla the tallest point, Pearson bending, Erik low to the ground. A close silence rose between them, and suddenly they all seemed so young to me, clean and smooth as new candles.

“It’s not going to bring her back,” said Layla, her voice full of emotion.

Erik shrugged, stood. He walked over to another column and examined it from all sides, pushing, adjusting. His hands were so strong that their sinews popped when he squeezed. “It’s not about bringing her back,” he said, flushing.