Ryan, however, has found her. “You like them?” he asks.

“Sure,” Lulu says. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

He holds something out to her. It’s small, gold, gleaming. A key.

“What?” Lulu asks.

“Look,” Ryan says. “See for yourself.” He gestures toward a door.

Three is part of a suite, it turns out: It opens right onto Four. Lulu fits the key into the lock and presses the door open. The walls in here are a pale seashell pink: the ones she and Cass and Ryan painted by hand. The only piece of this place she helped make real.

You can barely see the color, though, because of all of the bodies.

There’s a moment before the rest of the crowd pushes in behind her when Lulu is alone with them: probably a hundred photographs framed and hung on the wall. All of them are pictures of women, women, women.

There are so many of them that at first she can’t make out any details. She’s rushed over by the repeating pattern of lips, teeth, eyes, hair, arms, legs, breasts, waists. The photographs are black and white or warm with color. The sheer number makes them impossible to parse. It’s just a silent stack of slender limbs and disembodied smiles and deep, generous cleavage.

Then certain faces start to resolve themselves into something familiar. There’s Constance Wilmott, captured on set and in stills from Bluebeard. Press photos of her, young and glamorous, are contrasted with later snapshots: Constance still alive in the ’50s and ’60s, no longer a star but still unmistakably, shockingly beautiful. Lulu recognizes Ryan’s mother, who modeled before she met his father, posing in advertisements for cigarettes and cheap beer. Roman Jr. must have loaned out the use of some photos from Flash: There’s the girl Lulu just saw downstairs, pictured taking a selfie in a mirrored hallway, her body multiplied endlessly out around her.

The movement of the crowd moves Lulu. She sees pictures of women she can’t identify. There’s so much. There’s so many.

What is Ryan doing?

A flash of color on a far wall blinks at her. Lulu would know the flame of Cass’s hair anywhere. She pushes through until she sees the picture.

The picture of Cass, and of herself.

All of the walls in the room are crowded, but mostly the images are diverse, scattered: like a collage clipped from fashion and art and social media and a few things Lulu suspects originated in soft-core porn. This wall is all Ryan’s work, and the models are the same in every photograph: just Cass and Lulu, over and over and over again.