Her left eye flickered and she didn’t move for several seconds. Then she made an effort at the professional smile and sort of cocked her head to one side. Confused. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

I took out the 8 × 10 of nineteen-year-old Karen Shipley made up like a waitress, unfolded it, and put it on her desk. I said, “Karen Shipley.”

She leaned forward and looked at the 8 × 10 without touching it. “I’m sorry. My name is Karen Lloyd. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your ex-husband, Peter Alan Nelsen, hired me to find you.”

She shook her head, smiled patiently, then used a pencil to push the picture back toward me and stood up. “I don’t know anyone named Peter Alan Nelsen and I’ve never been to Los Angeles.”

I said, “Karen. Come on.”

“I’m sorry. But if you’re not here to discuss business with the bank, I think you should leave.” She came around the desk and opened the door and stood there, right hand on the knob. Outside, Joyce Steuben glanced at us from her desk and a woman with blue hair took money from the teller.

I picked up the 8 × 10 and looked at it and looked at the woman with her hand on the knob. They were one and the same. I had not lost my mind. “Ten years ago you and Peter Alan Nelsen were divorced. Your theatrical agent was a guy named Oscar Curtiss. You lived in an apartment house on Beechwood Drive owned by a woman named Miriam Dichester for almost a year, and then you skipped out on three months’ back rent. Twenty-two months after that, you mailed a U.S. postal money order for four hundred fifty-two dollars and eighteen cents to Ms. Dichester. It was postmarked Chelam. This is you in the picture. Your maiden name was Shipley. Then you were Karen Nelsen. And now you’re Karen Lloyd.”

She was gripping the door knob so hard that the tendons in the back of her right hand were standing out like bow strings, as if the force of the grip was not so much to hold on to the knob as it was to hold together something that had been carefully constructed over many years and was now in danger of being pulled apart. Her eye gave the flicker again. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t know.”

She made the professional smile, but it didn’t quite work this time. “I’m sorry.”

I held up the picture. “This isn’t you?”

The little smile again. “No. We do look alike, though, so I can understand your confusion.”