That moment would have been a good time to admit that my reception was weak and I hadn’t heard from Dee, but I didn’t want Yegina to worry about me. She had a wealthy cousin to impress, and I would finally learn more about Janis’s summons. I’d come back to the Rocque in time to see Still Lives close. I’d stood at the edge of the galleries as Dee and her crew maneuvered the paintings off the walls, silently, without their usual chatter and ribbing. The still life, the largest canvas, was last. It was also the only artwork without Kim Lord’s face in it, and I could regard it without losing my breath. I let my eyes ride over the painted notebook, the bloodstained screwdriver, and the split white apple, promising myself not to forget Kim’s fearlessness and generosity.

I’d also returned to a map on my office desk. From Janis. The map advertised a Joshua Tree art festival the third weekend in October, with Brenae Brasil’s screening circled on it. Dee and I are going to this, said a note beside it. Could you meet us there? We’ll get you a room at the Major Motel. I want you to see it, and then we’ll talk in detail. Janis was away on a collecting vacation in China and Japan, but she’d be back the next month. The festival would give me a chance to see dozens of new art installations on remote desert properties, and the Major Motel was an exorbitant desert getaway, the kind that rock stars stayed in. The invitation flattered me, but my gut squeezed at what I had really committed myself to. I knew who Brenae Brasil was: an LAAC student who’d shot herself in her studio early last spring, right around the time we were planning the Still Lives gala.

Brenae Brasil’s name, underlined by Janis in heavy black pen, clanged like a warning now. Don’t get involved in this.

But I was already involved. Without Janis’s promise of a story for me, I wouldn’t be back in L.A. I’d be home, adding a wool hat and gloves to my warm autumn jacket. I’d be applying for a communications job at the local university. Janis had told me just enough to hook me: she had inside knowledge that Brenae’s death was more complicated than it seemed, and that the culture of the school needed investigating. I know what happened on my property, and what secret you kept, she wrote to me. This situation is very delicate, and whoever looks into it must (1) know the art world and (2) use discretion about when to go public. You’d be paid well. I can tell you more when we meet.