Layla didn’t react right away. She sorted a couple of shoes, then let her head fall forward, her red hair tumbling over her face. “Right,” she muttered.

Pearson watched the exchange, his eyes gleaming as the tension rose.

“Look,” said Erik, “the guy said he has something to show us, and I want to see it.”

“Help me out, Pearson,” said Layla, still kneeling, looking up. “You didn’t want to do it, either.”

Pearson straightened to his full height. “I don’t recall having a personal reaction,” he said coolly. “I just questioned the merits.”

“Fine. Question the merits now. What can they possibly be?” Layla said.

Neither man answered.

“Are you asking me?” Pearson said after a moment. “Perhaps some of us would like closure.” He inflected the last word with his usual mocking tone, but he pegged a shoe across the room with extra force.

A shadow appeared at the door, knocking, then clinking—the sound of rings on a fist hitting the glass. I spotted a thin, unsmiling face framed by a black, chin-length bob. Zania de Wilde, the last of the foursome. I let her in. She mumbled a thank-you and scurried past me.

Zania was slim and olive-skinned, with a high waist and small breasts, but her most noticeable feature was her expression. She wore the regal, overly patient face of someone who ruled a tiny, misunderstood country. As soon as she entered the gallery space, the men scrambled and shifted as if they’d been caught slacking, and Layla stood up, dusted her hands, and went to her friend.

Whatever distancing effect Zania had on the others, she drew Layla to her instantly. They spoke in low, intense tones, Layla slouching and gathering herself like dough around Zania’s upright frame. According to Ray, Zania was Nelson’s daughter from his former and only marriage. At eighteen, she’d trained as an anarchist and then disappeared into a maw of global protesting for three years before emerging to get her undergraduate degree at LAAC. Like Layla, Zania exuded wealth even though her jeans were deliberately ratty, her tank top tight and plain. She had the ripped abs that only a personal trainer can summon, and her bob looked expensive.

“The shoes,” said Zania, her voice high and soft, “will be here any minute.”

As the crew burst into talk about what they’d built so far and what they needed, I took a sip of Layla’s latte. It had finally cooled and it tasted delicious, with caramel and hints of smoke.

I needed to call Kaye, but I didn’t want to face the truth.