She painted the portrait that Jay should have painted. It took all night.

It was a J. H. Hennessy by way of Jordan Hennessy. It was another day after that before her mother came to get her, and by then Hennessy was fitful and burning up with a fever that had come on during the second night. Bill Dower had gone again.

“This turned out better than I thought,” Jay said, looking at the canvas, hovering her fingers over her signature in the corner, painted by Hennessy hours before. “Oh, Jordan. Stop complaining. I’ve got some paracetamol downstairs. Come on, what a trial. Next time don’t hide so long and you won’t feel as awful.”

Hennessy’s first forgery was of herself.

Sitting in the basement of Aldana-Leon’s house, crisscross applesauce on the roll-up mattress, Hennessy took out her dreamt phone and held it in her lap. She looked around the dim basement. It was stacked densely with cardboard boxes, a family that had either not yet unpacked from a move or was packing for one. One corner had been reserved for a small desk covered with tubes of poster paints and cheap brushes. There were a few pieces of rippled paper there that had been painted on, and some child had painted the top of the desk instead. Hennessy respected that child.

With a shiver, Hennessy told her dreamt phone to call Jordan.

It rang for nearly a minute, and then:

“Jordan Hennessy,” Jordan said politely, not recognizing the caller ID. “Hello?”

Jordan’s voice hit her like a sack of stones.

Hennessy’s best forgery. Jordan, by way of Hennessy. All those years together. All the other girls, dead. Why hadn’t Hennessy called her before now? How had she forgotten how Jordan was the only thing that ever made this feeling inside Hennessy go away? This awful dread, this feeling of the Lace, even when she was awake.

Hennessy hadn’t spoken yet. She didn’t know what to say.

On the other side of the line, a bland voice sounded in the background. “I’m getting it to go—it’s faster that way, even with the walk. Do you want baba ghanoush or no?”

Declan Lynch.

Declan Lynch.

Why was she surprised to hear his voice? She’d known Jordan had left in his car, weeks and weeks before.

Jordan’s words were slightly muffled as she turned from the phone. “If you’re paying, yes. Get me every side dish they have.” Then, back to the phone, “Sorry, who’s this? I don’t know you’re coming through very well. I can’t hear you.”